Waller

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.

 


The Self Banished

It is not that I love you less
Than when before your feet I lay,
But to prevent the sad increase
Of hopeless love, I keep away. In vain (alas!) for everything
Which I have known belong to you,
Your form does to my fancy bring,
And makes my old wounds bleed anew. Who in the spring from the new sun
Already has a fever got,
Too late begins those shafts to shun,
Which Phoebus through his veins has shot. Too late he would the pain assuage,
And to thick shadows does retire;
About with him he bears the rage,
And in his tainted blood the fire. But vowed I have, and never must
Your banished servant trouble you;
For if I break, you may distrust
The vow I made to love you, too. –Edmund Waller