Fable: Of the Dunghill Cock

A Cock by scraping in a Dungle,
Rak'd up by chance a huge Carbuncle.
To the next Jeweller he met,
Take it says he, thou canst it set:
The Stone they say is true and fine,
Yet for two Barly Corns 'tis thine;
For to what end should it be mine?
A learned Manuscript was once,
By Testament bequeath'd t'a Dunce,
Who to convert it as was fitting,
Strait trudg'd with it to Little-Britain.
Says he t'a Bookseller, pray look,
I've brought to sell thee here a Book.
They say 'tis Learned, very Learned;
But how a plague am I concerned?
Friend, I am one of those damn'd Blockheads,
Who had rather see the Cole in's Pockets.

Moral.

THis Cock we may imagine to be,
Some scraping or some sensual Booby.
Moiling to satisfie in vain,
His Gut, or his desire of gain.
By th' precious Stone may be meant Wit,
Which often is compar'd to it.
For what comparison can be fitter?
They're solid both, and they both glitter:
And when they both are true and fine,
Eternally they last and shine.
They're both of mighty value too,
Altho their worth be known to few.
And they who know them not, contemn
Both equally the Wit and Gm.
And when they find them strait forsake 'um,
For something that's more apt to take 'um.
When I have been at a new Play,
Well worth attention the first day;
Some Fopps with loud insipid raillery,
Have talk'd to Dabs in the first Gallery.
These Fopps now seem'd to me to say,
Why should we Blockheads mind the Play,
Our Talents lye another way?
May not these Beasts now be averr'd
To be more awkward than the Bird,
That its discovery did contemn,
Yet gave a Ieweller the Gem.
But those Brutes acted by the Play,
Iust as the Dog did by the Hay.