The FAVOURITE SWAIN. 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. 82-84. [40],127,[1]p.; 8⁰.

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The FAVOURITE SWAIN . My generous muse , assistance lend ; Ye simple village-swains attend ; I mean not to complain : I'll tell you what the youth must be , That hopes to gain the love of me , And be my Fav'rite Swain . I ne'er can love the silly swain , That quits the village and the plain , To flutter round the state ; Nor fool that leaves the woodbine bower , To fix on that uncertain flower , The favour of the great : But I some artless youth must find , That knows not how to veil his mind , But speaks without disguise ; His count'nance cheering as the dawn , That smiles upon the flowery lawn , And bids the sky-lark rise : His eyes like dew-drops on the thorn , When daisies opening to the morn , Bespeak that morning fair ; His breath as sweet as western breeze , That sweeps the sweetest smelling trees , To scent the evening air . And when he pipes upon the plain , He must all approbation gain , In spite of envious pride ; And force his rival swains to say , His matchless skill must bear the sway , It cannot be denied . No passions like the northern wind , Must discompose his steady mind , By seriousness possest ; Yet sadness be as far away , As darkest midnight from noon-day , Or point of east from west . His temper mild as April rain , Whose gentle shower bedews the plain , And gems the budding spray ; In manners like the lowly rill , That creeps beneath the grassy hill , Where shining fishes play . No headstrong passion must incline Him to my arms , or make him mine , But reason must approve ; To nicest honour be consign'd , While virtue rules his generous mind , And friendship crowns his love . Methinks the envious youths around , Say such a one was never found , And all my search is vain : Mistaken swains know this my song , Does to my Thirsis all belong , For he's my Fav'rite Swain .