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

Table of contents

- [titlepage]

- BLUNDRELLA: OR, THE IMPERTINENT. A TALE.

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

- ERRATA.

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.

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;

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.

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.

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.

Information about this book

Title statement

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

Carey, Henry, 1687?-1743.

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University of Oxford Text Archive
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ID [ota]

http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/3452

ID [isbn10]

1106004515

ID [isbn13]

9781106004512

ID [TCP]

K009637.000

ID [BIBNO]

CW3310431453

ID [ECLL]

0149503300

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Source

— Blundrella: [sic]: or, the impertinent. A tale. To which is added The beau monde, or, the pleasures of St. James's. A new ballad. ..., Carey, Henry, 1687?-1743.. The second edition.. 12p. ; 2⁰. London :: printed for A. Dodd and sold by the booksellers of London and Westminster,. 1730.. [Anonymous. By Henry Carey.] [Reproduction of original from the Harvard University Houghton Library.] [Foxon, C40] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCN15293.] [Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).]

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