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 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 ribbon bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round!