On a Girdle

THAT which her slender waist confined

Shall now my joyful temples bind;

No monarch but would give his crown

His arms might do what this has done.

It was my Heaven’s extremest sphere,

The pale which held that lovely deer:

My joy, my grief, my hope, my love,

Did all within this circle move.

A narrow compass! and yet there

Dwelt all that’s good, and all that’s fair!

Give me but what this ribband bound,

Take all the rest the sun goes round!