Poem by Edmund Waller

On a Girdle

That which her slender waist confin'd,
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 ribbon bound,
Take all the rest the sun goes round. 

1. The Self Banished
2. To a Lady Singing a Song of His Composing
3. Of My Lady Isabella Playing on the Lute
4. To One Married to an Old Man
5. At Penshurst

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