BLUNDRELLA
: OR, THE IMPERTINENT. A TALE.
Hunc neque dira venena, nec hosticus auferat ensis:
Nec laterum dolor, aut tussis nec tarda podagra:
Garulus hunc quando consumet cumque loquaces,
Si sapiat, vitet simulatque adoleverit aetas.
Hor. Ser. Lib. 1. Sat. 9.
To which is Added The
BEAU MONDE,
OR, THE Pleasures of St. JAMES'S. A NEW BALLAD.
To the Tune of,
Oh!
London,
is a fine Town,
&c.
The SECOND EDITION.
LONDON
: Printed for A. DODD, at the
Peacock,
without
Temple-Bar,
and Sold by the Booksellers of
London
and
Westminster.
Price 6
d.
MDCCXXX.
BLUNDRELLA:
OR, THE IMPERTINENT. A TALE.
T HE Tea was drank and ta'en away,
No Soul had any thing to say;
The Weather, and the usual din
A fresh were going to begin;
Fashion and Scandal, drain'd before,
On Carpet had been brought once more,
But for
Blundrella,
common Pest,
Of the Polite, the standing Jest.
BLUNDRELLA
Idol of the Vain,
And first in the Loquacious Train;
In all things ignorant and weak,
Yet on all Subjects would she speak;
And of her own Perfections vaunted,
Still daunting all, herself undaunted;
Of a most contradicting Spirit,
And envious of another's Merit.
This Creature thus, with saucy Air,
Addrest
Belinda,
blooming Fair.
MADAM! I'm told you sing; I long
To have the honour of a Song:
Much better bred than to refuse,
Belinda
pleads the old Excuse;
She's caught a Cold, and feigns a Cough,
But that, alas! won't bring her off;
Blundrella
urges her Request,
Now seconded by all the rest.
AT length, unwilling to appear
Affected, peevish, or severe,
The lovely Virgin tun'd her Voice,
More out of Complaisance than Choice:
While all were with her Musick pleas'd,
But she who had the Charmer teaz'd;
Who, rude, unmanner'd, and abrupt!
Did thus
Belinda
interrupt:
MADAM, (said the affected Thing)
Did you ne'er hear
Squallinda
sing?
I've heard her sing that very Song,
Would charm the whole Seraphic Throng;
Of all the Singers her for me,
She sings so sweet, so clear, so free!
But, Madam! can't you sing another?
That Song, I hope, has got a Brother:
Let us have that which the
Fustina
Sings when she hangs on
Senisino
;
Its Name I have forgot, no matter,
'Tis that which makes the Boxes clatter:
Or, Madam! but I beg your Pardon,
There is a Song, that in the Garden
Cuzzoni
sings unto her Son;
That, or another, 'tis all one.
BELINDA
blush'd with Shame and Rage;
But yet, unwilling to engage
So bold a Foe in such a Fray,
She let the Creature have her Way:
And, tho' at sight she sung her Part,
And was a Mistress in the Art,
Pleaded her want of Voice and Skill;
Which made
Blundrella
prouder still.
Who grew insufferably vain,
And alter'd both her Voice and Strain.
SHE talk'd of Singers and Composers,
Of their Admirers and Opposers,
Of the
Cuzzoni
and
Faustini,
Of
Handel
and of
Bononcini
;
One was to rough, t'other to smooth,
Artillo
only hit her Tooth;
And
Tamo Tanto
was a Song
Would give her Pleasure all day long.
FULL loftily she gave her Vote,
This had no Voice, and that no Throat;
That
Heideigger
had receiv'd a Letter,
And we should shortly have a better;
A Messenger was sent to
Dover
To wait the Lady's coming over,
Who should no sooner hither come,
But she would strike all others dumb.
SHE likewise grew exceeding witty
Upon the Consorts in the City;
'Tis true, she lik'd the
Castle
best,
But yet she made 'em both a Jest:
Nor did she much admire the
Crown,
But as 'twas t'other End o' the Town.
SHE next of Masters 'gan to preach;
The
English
were not fit to teach,
Italians
were the only Men,
And ev'n of those not one in ten;
For she had heard a Lady say,
Scarce two in Town could sing or play.
WHAT with Composers, Players, Singers,
Performance, Gusto, Voices, Fingers,
She ran herself quite out of breath,
And talk'd the Company to Death.
WHEN haply, with engaging Air,
Eugenio,
darling of the Fair,
Who touches charmingly the Flute,
Enter'd, and struck
Blundrella
mute;
And kept her Clack-eternal under
For near a Minute, There's a wonder!
EUGENIO
must expect his Share;
For scarce he had assum'd a Chair,
But she, impatient, Silence broke,
And thus th' Eternal Teazer spoke.
NOW for a Tune, my pretty Man!
Nay, you shall play, say what you can:
Ladies! he's the delightful'st Creature
You never knew, no Soul play sweeter:
Nay, prithee now don't make a Rout,
Here 'tis Egad, come — pull it out.
WHAT mortal Man could stand the Tryal!
He must consent, there's no denial,
So, for meer quiet Sake, he plays,
While she e'en stifles him with Praise,
And worries the poor Man to death,
Nor suffers him to take his breath;
But calls for Tune on Tune so fast,
Eugenio
is quite tir'd at last,
And begs a Truce upon Parole,
He'll play anon with all his soul.
NOW you must know
Belinda
's Charms
Had giv'n his Heart no small Alarms;
He was her Servant most avow'd
And happiest of the sighing Crowd.
Sophronia,
being her near Relation,
Haply laid hold on this Cessation;
And, to
Eugenio
drawing near,
She whisper'd softly in his Ear,
Told him
Blundrella
's vile Assurance,
And sweet
Belinda
's mild Endurance.
EUGENIO
instantly was fir'd,
Rage and Revenge his Mind inspir'd:
He re-assum'd his Spech and Flute,
And thus
Blundrella
did salute;
Madam, (said he) before I go,
Your dear Commands I'd gladly know.
BLUNDRELLA
rear'd her Crest aloft,
And begg'd him to play something soft:
What think you, Madam, of
AL OMBRA?
That's poor dull Stuff, do ye like
SGOMBRA?
Si Caro,
if you please, said she:
He play'd the Tune of
Children three.
She was in Raptures, and intreated
The self same Tune might be repeated.
HE chang'd his Airs, and, to her Shame,
She took ten others for the same.
In short,
Eugenio
play'd her off,
And made her all the Circle's Scoff:
While, stupid she! ascrib'd to Wit and Sense
The Laughter rais'd by her Impertinence.
THE BEAU MONDE, OR THE Pleasures of St. JAMES'S. A BALLAD.
To the Tune of,
Oh!
LONDON
is a fine-Town,
&c.
O H! St.
James
's is a lovely Place,
'Tis better than the City;
For there are Balls and Operas,
And ev'ry Thing that's pretty.
There's little Lady
CUZZONI,
And bouncing Dame
FAUSTINA,
The Duce a Bit will either Sing
Unless they're each a
QUEEN—a,
And when we've ek'd out History,
And made them Rival Queens,
They'll warble sweetly on the Stage,
And scold behind the Scenes:
Oh! St.
James's,
&c.
When having fill'd their Pockets full,
No longer can they stay;
But turn their Backs upon the Town,
And scamper all away.
The Belles and Beaux cry after them,
With all their might and main;
And
HEIDEGGER
is sent in haste
To fetch 'em back again.
Oh! St.
James's,
&c.
Then Hey! for a Subscription
To th' Opera, or the Ball;
The Silver Ticket walks about
Untill there comes a Call.
This puts them into doleful Dumps,
Who were both blith and Gay;
There's nothing spoils Diversion more
Than telling what's to pay.
Oh! St.
James's,
&c.
There's
POPE
has made the
witlings
mad,
Who labour all they can;
To pull his Reputation down,
And maul the
Little Man.
But Wit and he so close are link'd,
In vain is all this Pother;
They never can demolish one
Without destroying 'tother.
Oh! St.
James's,
&c.
And there's Miss
POLLY PEACHUM
lugs
Our Nobles by the Ears,
'Till PONDER WELL by far Exceeds
The Musick of the Spheres.
When lo! to show the Wisdom Great
Of
LONDON
's famous Town,
We set her up above her self,
And then we take her down.
Oh! St.
James's,
&c.
And, there's your Beaux, with powder'd Cloaths,
Bedaub'd from Head to Shin;
Their Pocket-holes adorn'd with Gold,
But not a souse within:
And there's your pretty Gentlemen,
All dress'd in Silk and Sattin;
That get a Spice of ev'ry Thing,
Excepting Sense and Latin.
Oh! St.
James's,
&c.
And there's your Cits that have their Tits,
In
Finsbury
so sweet.
But costlier Tits they keep, God wot!
In
Bond
and
Poultney-Street.
And there's your green Nobility,
On Citizens so witty,
Whose Fortune and Gentility,
Arose from
LONDON
's City.
Oh! St.
James
's, &c.
We go to Bed when others rise,
And Dine at Candle-light;
There's nothing mends Complexion more,
Than turning Day to Night.
For what is Title, Wealth, or Wit,
If Folks are not Genteel?
Or how can they be said to live,
Who know not what's
QUADRILLE.
Oh! St.
James's,
&c.
FINIS.
ERRATA.
PAge 1. l. 1. for
Blunderella,
r.
Blundrella.
P. 7. l. 10. for you never knew no Soul play sweeter, r. you ever knew, — no Soul play sweeter. p. 8. l. 7. for Spech, r. Speech.