42
EPISTLES.
Her merry sister still pursu'd the game;
Her garb was alter'd, but her gifts the same.
She first reform'd the muscles of her face, 70
And learn'd the solemn screw for signs of grace;
Then circumcis'd her locks, and form'd her tone,
By humming to a tabor and a drone;
Her eyes she disciplin'd precisely right,
Both when to wink, and how to turn the white: 75
Thus, banish'd from the stage, she gravely next
Assum'd a cloak, and quibbled o'er a text.
But when, by miracles of mercy shown,
Much-suffering Charles regain'd his father's throne;
When peace and plenty overflow'd the land, 80
She straight pull'd off her satin cap and band,
Bade Wycherley be bold in her defence,
With pointed wit and energy of sense;
Eth'rege and Sedley join'd him in her cause,
And all deserv'd, and all receiv'd, applause. 85
Restor'd with less success, the Tragic Muse
Had quite forgot her style by long disuse:
She taught her Maximins to rant in rhyme,
Mistaking rattling nonsense for sublime,
Till witty Buckingham reform'd her taste, 90
And sneering sham'd her into sense at last:
But now relaps'd, the dwindles to a song,
And weakly warbles on an eunuch's tongue,
And with her minstrelsy may still remain
Till Southerne court her to be great again. 95
Her garb was alter'd, but her gifts the same.
She first reform'd the muscles of her face, 70
And learn'd the solemn screw for signs of grace;
Then circumcis'd her locks, and form'd her tone,
By humming to a tabor and a drone;
Her eyes she disciplin'd precisely right,
Both when to wink, and how to turn the white: 75
Thus, banish'd from the stage, she gravely next
Assum'd a cloak, and quibbled o'er a text.
But when, by miracles of mercy shown,
Much-suffering Charles regain'd his father's throne;
When peace and plenty overflow'd the land, 80
She straight pull'd off her satin cap and band,
Bade Wycherley be bold in her defence,
With pointed wit and energy of sense;
Eth'rege and Sedley join'd him in her cause,
And all deserv'd, and all receiv'd, applause. 85
Restor'd with less success, the Tragic Muse
Had quite forgot her style by long disuse:
She taught her Maximins to rant in rhyme,
Mistaking rattling nonsense for sublime,
Till witty Buckingham reform'd her taste, 90
And sneering sham'd her into sense at last:
But now relaps'd, the dwindles to a song,
And weakly warbles on an eunuch's tongue,
And with her minstrelsy may still remain
Till Southerne court her to be great again. 95
