On a Girdle.

THat which her …lender waste 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 extreamest Sphear,
The Pale which held that lovely Dear;
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 Riban bound,
Take all the rest the Sun goes round.