ON A GIRDLE. BY EDMUND WALLER.
Reading edition
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 hath 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.