WIT AND BEAUTY. A PASTORAL. Elizabeth Hands (née Herbert) Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T141063 Hands, Elizabeth, 1746-1815. The death of Amnon. A poem. With an appendix: containing pastorals, and other poetical pieces. By Elizabeth Hands. [Coventry] Printed for the author, by N. Rollason, Coventry, M,DCCLXXXIX. 1789 pp. 56-58. [40],127,[1]p.; 8⁰.

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WIT AND BEAUTY . A PASTORAL . Celia . Our shepherds are gone o'er the hill , To sport on the neighbouring plain ; Let's sit by this murmuring rill , And sing till they come back again . Sylvia . We'll sing of our favourite swains , By whom our fond hearts are possest ; And Daphne shall judge of the strains , Which sings of her shepherd the best . Daphne . Come sing then , and Daphne will hear , Nor linger the time to prolong ; And this wreath of roses I wear , Shall crown the fair victor in song . Celia . My Thirsis is airy and gay , His pride is in pleasing the fair ; He sings and drives sorrow away , His humour will banish all care . Sylvia . To Daphnis the pride of my lay , The merits of beauty belong ; His smiles will chase sorrow away , As well as your shepherd's sine song . Celia . When piping my Thirsis is seen , The virgins assemble around ; And all the blithe swains of the green , Approve , while they envy the sound . Sylvia . When Daphnis approaches the plains , The virgins all blush with surprise ; With negligence treating their swains , And fix on my Daphnis their eyes . Celia . If e'er I am pensive and sad , Or sigh to the evening gale ; I'm cheer'd by the voice of my lad , Who tells me a humorous tale . Sylvia . When I am perplexed with fears , And nothing can give me delight ; As soon as my Daphnis appears , I languish away at the sight . Daphne . Now cease to contend , my dear lasses , My wreath I'll acknowledge your due ; Nor yet can I tell which surpasses , Your merits you equally shew . 'Twas Strephon that gave me the treasure , Which now I to you shall impart ; ( That name ! O , I speak it with pleasure ! It ever enraptures my heart . ) Nor Sylvia , nor Celia , shall have it , I'll justly divide it in two ; Believe me , my Strephon , that gave it , Is beautiful , witty , and — true .