Blundrella: [sic]: or, the impertinent. A tale. To which is added The beau monde, or, the pleasures of St. James's. A new ballad. ...

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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.

1. BLUNDRELLA: OR, THE IMPERTINENT. A TALE.

[Page] [Page]
THE 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;
[Page 4] 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:
[Page 5] 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;
[Page 6] 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;
[Page 7] 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;
[Page 8] 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.

2. THE BEAU MONDE, OR THE Pleaſures of St. JAMES'S. A BALLAD.

[Page 9]

To the Tune of, Oh! LONDON is a fine-Town, &c.

OH! 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.
[Page 10]
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.
[Page 11]
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.
[Page 12]
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.