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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. 



Edmund Waller


Edmund Waller's other poems:
  1. To A Lady Singing A Song Of His Composing
  2. Upon the Late Storm
  3. To One Married to an Old Man
  4. At Penshurst
  5. The Story Of Phœbus And Daphne, Applied


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