Classic Poem

A Tale

The tea was drunk and ta'en away,
No soul had anything to say;
The weather and the usual din
Were going to begin again;
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, but never daunted;
Of the most contradicting spirit,
And envious of another's merit.
This creature thus with saucy air
Address'd 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 the 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 teas'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 seraphick 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 Faustina
Sings when she hangs on Senesino.
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, all is 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 sang her part,
And was a mistress of 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 too rough, t'other too smooth;
Atillio 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;
Heidegger 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 concerts of the city.
'Tis true, she lik'd the Castle best,
And yet she made 'em both a jest.
Nor did she much admire the Crown,
But as 'twas t'other end of 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 had he assum'd a chair
But she, impatient, silence broke,
And running to him, thus she spoke.

Now for a tune, my pretty man!
Nay, you shall play, say what you can;
Ladies, he's the delightful'st creature
You ever knew. No soul plays sweeter.
Nay, prithee now, don't make a rout;
Here 'tis, egad, come, pull it out.

What mortal man could stand the trial?
He must consent, there's no denial.
So for mere 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 this spark no small alarms;
He was her servant most avow'd,
And happiest of the sighing crowd.
Saphronia, 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 speech 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?
But that's too old; d'ye like Sgombra ?
Si Caro , if you please, said she;
He play'd the tune of Children Three .
She was in raptures, and entreated
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.