WELL-MEANING readers! you that come as friends And catch the precious name this piece pretends, Make not too much haste t’ admire That fair-cheeked fallacy of fire. That is a seraphim, they say, And this the great Teresia. Readers, be ruled by me, and make Here a well-placed and wise mistake; You must transpose the picture quite, And spell it wrong to read it right; Read Him for Her, and Her for Him, And call the saint the seraphim. Painter, what didst thou understand To put her dart into his hand? See, even the years and size of him Shows this the mother seraphim. This is the mistress flame, and duteous he Her happy fireworks, here, comes down to see: O, most poor-spirited of men! Had thy cold pencil kissed her pen, Thou couldst not so unkindly err To show us this faint shade for her. Why, man, this speaks pure mortal frame, And mocks with female frost love’s manly flame; One would suspect thou meant’st to paint Some weak, inferior woman Saint. But, had thy pale-faced purple took Fire from the burning cheeks of that bright book, Thou wouldst on her have heaped up all That could be found seraphical; Whate’er this youth of fire wears fair, Rosy fingers, radiant hair, Glowing cheek, and glist’ring wings, All those fair and flagrant things; But, before all, that fiery dart Had filled the hand of this great heart. Do, then, as equal right requires, Since his the blushes be, and hers the fires, Resume and rectify thy rude design, Undress thy seraphim into mine; Redeem this injury of thy art, Give him the veil, give her the dart. Give him the veil, that he may cover The red cheeks of a rivalled lover, Ashamed that our world now can show Nests of new Seraphims here below. Give her the dart, for it is she, Fair youth, shoots both thy shaft and thee; Say, all ye wise and well-pierced hearts That live and die amidst her darts, What is’t your tasteful spirits do prove In that rare life of her and love? Say and bear witness. Sends she not A seraphim at every shot? What magazines of immortal arms there shine! Heav’n’s great artillery in each love-spun line! Give, then, the dart to her who gives the flame, Give him the veil who gives the shame. But if it be the frequent fate Of worst faults to be fortunate, If all’s prescription, and proud wrong Hearkens not to an humble song, For all the gallantry of him, Give me the suff’ring seraphim. His be the bravery of those bright things, The glowing cheeks, the glistering wings, The rosy hand, the radiant dart; Leave her alone the flaming heart. Leave her that, and thou shalt leave her Not one loose shaft, but Love’s whole quiver. For in Love’s field was never found A nobler weapon than a wound. Love’s passives are his activ’st part, The wounded is the wounding heart.