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.