Alexander Pope: From “Essay on Criticism”

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'Tis hard to say, if greater want of skill Appear in writing or in judging ill; But, of the two, less dang'rous is th' offence To tire our patience, than mislead our sense Some few in that, but numbers err in this Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss; A fool might once himself alone expose Now one in verse makes many more in prose 'Tis with our judgments as our watches, none Go just alike, yet each believes his own In poеts as true genius is but rare Truе taste as seldom is the critic's share; Both must alike from Heav'n derive their light These born to judge, as well as those to write Let such teach others who themselves excel And censure freely who have written well Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true But are not critics to their judgment too? Yet if we look more closely we shall find Most have the seeds of judgment in their mind; Nature affords at least a glimm'ring light; The lines, tho' touch'd but faintly, are drawn right But as the slightest sketch, if justly trac'd Is by ill colouring but the more disgrac'd So by false learning is good sense defac'd; Some are bewilder'd in the maze of schools And some made coxcombs Nature meant but fools In search of wit these lose their common sense And then turn critics in their own defence: Each burns alike, who can, or cannot write Or with a rival's, or an eunuch's spite All fools have still an itching to deride And fain would be upon the laughing side If Mævius scribble in Apollo's spite There are, who judge still worse than he can write Some have at first for wits, then poets pass'd Turn'd critics next, and prov'd plain fools at last; Some neither can for wits nor critics pass As heavy mules are neither horse nor ass Those half-learn'd witlings, num'rous in our isle As half-form'd insects on the banks of Nile; Unfinish'd things, one knows not what to call Their generation's so equivocal: To tell 'em, would a hundred tongues require Or one vain wit's, that might a hundred tire But you who seek to give and merit fame And justly bear a critic's noble name Be sure your self and your own reach to know How far your genius, taste, and learning go; Launch not beyond your depth, but be discreet And mark that point where sense and dulness meet