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AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM.

Alexander pope..

This eminent English poet was born in London, May 21, 1688. His parents were Roman Catholics, and to this faith the poet adhered, thus debarring himself from public office and employment. His father, a linen merchant, having saved a moderate competency, withdrew from business, and settled on a small estate he had purchased in Windsor Forest. He died at Chiswick, in 1717. His son shortly afterwards took a long lease of a house and five acres of land at Twickenham, on the banks of the Thames, whither he retired with his widowed mother, to whom he was tenderly attached and where he resided till death, cultivating his little domain with exquisite taste and skill, and embellishing it with a grotto, temple, wilderness, and other adjuncts poetical and picturesque. In this famous villa Pope was visited by the most celebrated wits, statesmen and beauties of the day, himself being the most popular and successful poet of his age. His early years were spent at Binfield, within the range of the Royal Forest. He received some education at little Catholic schools, but was his own instructor after his twelfth year. He never was a profound or accurate scholar, but he read Latin poets with ease and delight, and acquired some Greek, French, and Italian. He was a poet almost from infancy, he "lisped in numbers," and when a mere youth surpassed all his contemporaries in metrical harmony and correctness. His pastorals and some translations appeared in 1709, but were written three or four years earlier. These were followed by the Essay on Criticism , 1711; Rape of the Lock (when completed, the most graceful, airy, and imaginative of his works), 1712-1714; Windsor Forest , 1713; Temple of Fame , 1715. In a collection of his works printed in 1717 he included the Epistle of Eloisa and Elegy on an Unfortunate Lady , two poems inimitable for pathetic beauty and finished melodious versification.

From 1715 till 1726 Pope was chiefly engaged on his translations of the Iliad and Odyssey , which, though wanting in time Homeric simplicity, naturalness, and grandeur, are splendid poems. In 1728-29 he published his greatest satire—the Dunciad , an attack on all poetasters and pretended wits, and on all other persons against whom the sensitive poet had conceived any enmity. In 1737 he gave to the world a volume of his Literary Correspondence , containing some pleasant gossip and observations, with choice passages of description but it appears that the correspondence was manufactured for publication not composed of actual letters addressed to the parties whose names are given, and the collection was introduced to the public by means of an elaborate stratagem on the part of the scheming poet. Between the years 1731 and 1739 he issued a series of poetical essays moral and philosophical, with satires and imitations of Horace, all admirable for sense, wit, spirit and brilliancy of these delightful productions, the most celebrated is the Essay on Man to which Bolingbroke is believed to have contributed the spurious philosophy and false sentiment, but its merit consists in detached passages, descriptions, and pictures. A fourth book to the Dunciad , containing many beautiful and striking lines and a general revision of his works, closed the poet's literary cares and toils. He died on the 30th of May, 1744, and was buried in the church at Twickenham.

Pope was of very diminutive stature and deformed from his birth. His physical infirmity, susceptible temperament, and incessant study rendered his life one long disease. He was, as his friend Lord Chesterfield said, "the most irritable of all the genus irritabile vatum , offended with trifles and never forgetting or forgiving them." His literary stratagems, disguises, assertions, denials, and (we must add) misrepresentations would fill volumes. Yet when no disturbing jealousy vanity, or rivalry intervened was generous and affectionate, and he had a manly, independent spirit. As a poet he was deficient in originality and creative power, and thus was inferior to his prototype, Dryden, but as a literary artist, and brilliant declaimer satirist and moralizer in verse he is still unrivaled. He is the English Horace, and will as surely descend with honors to the latest posterity.

AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM,

Written in the year 1709.

[The title, An Essay on Criticism hardly indicates all that is included in the poem. It would have been impossible to give a full and exact idea of the art of poetical criticism without entering into the consideration of the art of poetry. Accordingly Pope has interwoven the precepts of both throughout the poem which might more properly have been styled an essay on the Art of Criticism and of Poetry.]

'Tis hard to say if greater want of skill Appear in writing or in judging ill, But of the two less dangerous is the offense 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 poets as true genius is but rare True taste as seldom is the critic share Both must alike from Heaven 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 [ 17 ] 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 glimmering light The lines though touched but faintly are drawn right, But as the slightest sketch if justly traced Is by ill coloring but the more disgraced So by false learning is good sense defaced Some are bewildered in the maze of schools [ 26 ] And some made coxcombs nature meant but fools In search of wit these lose their common sense And then turn critics in their own defense 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 Maevius scribble in Apollo's spite [ 34 ] There are who judge still worse than he can write.

Some have at first for wits then poets passed Turned critics next and proved plain fools at last Some neither can for wits nor critics pass As heavy mules are neither horse nor ass. Those half-learned witlings, numerous in our isle, As half-formed insects on the banks of Nile Unfinished things one knows not what to call Their generation is so equivocal To tell them would a hundred tongues require, Or one vain wits that might a hundred tire.

But you who seek to give and merit fame, And justly bear a critic's noble name, Be sure yourself 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 dullness meet.

Nature to all things fixed the limits fit And wisely curbed proud man's pretending wit. As on the land while here the ocean gains. In other parts it leaves wide sandy plains Thus in the soul while memory prevails, The solid power of understanding fails Where beams of warm imagination play, The memory's soft figures melt away One science only will one genius fit, So vast is art, so narrow human wit Not only bounded to peculiar arts, But oft in those confined to single parts Like kings, we lose the conquests gained before, By vain ambition still to make them more Each might his several province well command, Would all but stoop to what they understand.

First follow nature and your judgment frame By her just standard, which is still the same. Unerring nature still divinely bright, One clear, unchanged and universal light, Life force and beauty, must to all impart, At once the source and end and test of art Art from that fund each just supply provides, Works without show and without pomp presides In some fair body thus the informing soul With spirits feeds, with vigor fills the whole, Each motion guides and every nerve sustains, Itself unseen, but in the effects remains. Some, to whom Heaven in wit has been profuse, [ 80 ] Want as much more, to turn it to its use; For wit and judgment often are at strife, Though meant each other's aid, like man and wife. 'Tis more to guide, than spur the muse's steed, Restrain his fury, than provoke his speed, The winged courser, like a generous horse, [ 86 ] Shows most true mettle when you check his course.

Those rules, of old discovered, not devised, Are nature still, but nature methodized; Nature, like liberty, is but restrained By the same laws which first herself ordained.

Hear how learned Greece her useful rules indites, When to repress and when indulge our flights. High on Parnassus' top her sons she showed, [ 94 ] And pointed out those arduous paths they trod; Held from afar, aloft, the immortal prize, And urged the rest by equal steps to rise. [ 97 ] Just precepts thus from great examples given, She drew from them what they derived from Heaven. The generous critic fanned the poet's fire, And taught the world with reason to admire. Then criticism the muse's handmaid proved, To dress her charms, and make her more beloved: But following wits from that intention strayed Who could not win the mistress, wooed the maid Against the poets their own arms they turned Sure to hate most the men from whom they learned So modern pothecaries taught the art By doctors bills to play the doctor's part. Bold in the practice of mistaken rules Prescribe, apply, and call their masters fools. Some on the leaves of ancient authors prey, Nor time nor moths e'er spoil so much as they. Some dryly plain, without invention's aid, Write dull receipts how poems may be made These leave the sense their learning to display, And those explain the meaning quite away.

You then, whose judgment the right course would steer, Know well each ancient's proper character, His fable subject scope in every page, Religion, country, genius of his age Without all these at once before your eyes, Cavil you may, but never criticise. Be Homers works your study and delight, Read them by day and meditate by night, Thence form your judgment thence your maxims bring And trace the muses upward to their spring. Still with itself compared, his text peruse, And let your comment be the Mantuan Muse. [ 129 ]

When first young Maro in his boundless mind, [ 130 ] A work to outlast immortal Rome designed, Perhaps he seemed above the critic's law And but from nature's fountain scorned to draw But when to examine every part he came Nature and Homer were he found the same Convinced, amazed, he checks the bold design And rules as strict his labored work confine As if the Stagirite o'erlooked each line [ 138 ] Learn hence for ancient rules a just esteem, To copy nature is to copy them.

Some beauties yet no precepts can declare, For there's a happiness as well as care. Music resembles poetry—in each Are nameless graces which no methods teach, And which a master hand alone can reach If, where the rules not far enough extend (Since rules were made but to promote their end), Some lucky license answer to the full The intent proposed that license is a rule. Thus Pegasus a nearer way to take May boldly deviate from the common track Great wits sometimes may gloriously offend, And rise to faults true critics dare not mend, From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part, And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art, Which without passing through the judgment gains The heart and all its end at once attains. In prospects, thus, some objects please our eyes, Which out of nature's common order rise, The shapeless rock or hanging precipice. But though the ancients thus their rules invade (As kings dispense with laws themselves have made), Moderns beware! or if you must offend Against the precept, ne'er transgress its end, Let it be seldom, and compelled by need, And have, at least, their precedent to plead. The critic else proceeds without remorse, Seizes your fame, and puts his laws in force.

I know there are, to whose presumptuous thoughts Those freer beauties, even in them, seem faults Some figures monstrous and misshaped appear, Considered singly, or beheld too near, Which, but proportioned to their light, or place, Due distance reconciles to form and grace. A prudent chief not always must display His powers in equal ranks and fair array, But with the occasion and the place comply. Conceal his force, nay, seem sometimes to fly. Those oft are stratagems which errors seem, Nor is it Homer nods, but we that dream. [ 180 ]

Still green with bays each ancient altar stands, Above the reach of sacrilegious hands, Secure from flames, from envy's fiercer rage, [ 183 ] Destructive war, and all-involving age. See, from each clime the learned their incense bring; Hear, in all tongues consenting Paeans ring! In praise so just let every voice be joined, And fill the general chorus of mankind. Hail! bards triumphant! born in happier days; Immortal heirs of universal praise! Whose honors with increase of ages grow, As streams roll down, enlarging as they flow; Nations unborn your mighty names shall sound, [ 193 ] And worlds applaud that must not yet be found! Oh may some spark of your celestial fire, The last, the meanest of your sons inspire, (That, on weak wings, from far pursues your flights, Glows while he reads, but trembles as he writes), To teach vain wits a science little known, To admire superior sense, and doubt their own!

Of all the causes which conspire to blind Man's erring judgment and misguide the mind, What the weak head with strongest bias rules, Is pride, the never-failing vice of fools. Whatever nature has in worth denied, She gives in large recruits of needful pride; For as in bodies, thus in souls, we find What wants in blood and spirits, swelled with wind: Pride where wit fails steps in to our defense, And fills up all the mighty void of sense. If once right reason drives that cloud away, Truth breaks upon us with resistless day Trust not yourself, but your defects to know, Make use of every friend—and every foe.

A little learning is a dangerous thing Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring [ 216 ] There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain, And drinking largely sobers us again. Fired at first sight with what the muse imparts, In fearless youth we tempt the heights of arts While from the bounded level of our mind Short views we take nor see the lengths behind But more advanced behold with strange surprise, New distant scenes of endless science rise! So pleased at first the towering Alps we try, Mount o'er the vales and seem to tread the sky, The eternal snows appear already passed And the first clouds and mountains seem the last. But those attained we tremble to survey The growing labors of the lengthened way The increasing prospect tires our wandering eyes, Hills peep o'er hills and Alps on Alps arise!

A perfect judge will read each work of wit With the same spirit that its author writ Survey the whole nor seek slight faults to find Where nature moves and rapture warms the mind, Nor lose for that malignant dull delight The generous pleasure to be charmed with wit But in such lays as neither ebb nor flow, Correctly cold and regularly low That, shunning faults, one quiet tenor keep; We cannot blame indeed—but we may sleep. In wit, as nature, what affects our hearts Is not the exactness of peculiar parts, 'Tis not a lip, or eye, we beauty call, But the joint force and full result of all. Thus, when we view some well proportioned dome (The worlds just wonder, and even thine, O Rome!), [ 248 ] No single parts unequally surprise, All comes united to the admiring eyes; No monstrous height or breadth, or length, appear; The whole at once is bold, and regular.

Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see. Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be. In every work regard the writer's end, Since none can compass more than they intend; And if the means be just, the conduct true, Applause, in spite of trivial faults, is due. As men of breeding, sometimes men of wit, To avoid great errors, must the less commit: Neglect the rules each verbal critic lays, For not to know some trifles is a praise. Most critics, fond of some subservient art, Still make the whole depend upon a part: They talk of principles, but notions prize, And all to one loved folly sacrifice.

Once on a time La Mancha's knight, they say, [ 267 ] A certain bard encountering on the way, Discoursed in terms as just, with looks as sage, As e'er could Dennis, of the Grecian stage; [ 270 ] Concluding all were desperate sots and fools, Who durst depart from Aristotle's rules Our author, happy in a judge so nice, Produced his play, and begged the knight's advice; Made him observe the subject, and the plot, The manners, passions, unities, what not? All which, exact to rule, were brought about, Were but a combat in the lists left out "What! leave the combat out?" exclaims the knight. "Yes, or we must renounce the Stagirite." "Not so, by heaven!" (he answers in a rage) "Knights, squires, and steeds must enter on the stage." "So vast a throng the stage can ne'er contain." "Then build a new, or act it in a plain."

Thus critics of less judgment than caprice, Curious, not knowing, not exact, but nice, Form short ideas, and offend in arts (As most in manners) by a love to parts.

Some to conceit alone their taste confine, And glittering thoughts struck out at every line; Pleased with a work where nothing's just or fit; One glaring chaos and wild heap of wit. Poets, like painters, thus, unskilled to trace The naked nature and the living grace, With gold and jewels cover every part, And hide with ornaments their want of art. True wit is nature to advantage dressed; What oft was thought, but ne'er so well expressed; Something, whose truth convinced at sight we find That gives us back the image of our mind. As shades more sweetly recommend the light, So modest plainness sets off sprightly wit For works may have more wit than does them good, As bodies perish through excess of blood.

Others for language all their care express, And value books, as women men, for dress. Their praise is still—"the style is excellent," The sense they humbly take upon content [ 308 ] Words are like leaves, and where they most abound Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found. False eloquence, like the prismatic glass. [ 311 ] Its gaudy colors spreads on every place, The face of nature we no more survey. All glares alike without distinction gay: But true expression, like the unchanging sun, Clears and improves whate'er it shines upon; It gilds all objects, but it alters none. Expression is the dress of thought, and still Appears more decent, as more suitable, A vile conceit in pompous words expressed, Is like a clown in regal purple dressed For different styles with different subjects sort, As several garbs with country town and court Some by old words to fame have made pretense, Ancients in phrase, mere moderns in their sense; Such labored nothings, in so strange a style, Amaze the unlearned, and make the learned smile. Unlucky, as Fungoso in the play, [ 328 ] These sparks with awkward vanity display What the fine gentleman wore yesterday; And but so mimic ancient wits at best, As apes our grandsires in their doublets dressed. In words as fashions the same rule will hold, Alike fantastic if too new or old. Be not the first by whom the new are tried, Nor yet the last to lay the old aside

But most by numbers judge a poet's song And smooth or rough, with them is right or wrong. In the bright muse though thousand charms conspire, Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire, Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear, Not mend their minds, as some to church repair, Not for the doctrine but the music there These equal syllables alone require, Though oft the ear the open vowels tire; While expletives their feeble aid do join; And ten low words oft creep in one dull line, While they ring round the same unvaried chimes, With sure returns of still expected rhymes, Where'er you find "the cooling western breeze," In the next line it "whispers through the trees" If crystal streams "with pleasing murmurs creep" The reader's threatened (not in vain) with "sleep" Then, at the last and only couplet fraught With some unmeaning thing they call a thought, A needless Alexandrine ends the song [ 356 ] That, like a wounded snake drags its slow length along.

Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, and know What's roundly smooth or languishingly slow; And praise the easy vigor of a line, Where Denham's strength, and Waller's sweetness join. [ 361 ] True ease in writing comes from art, not chance, As those move easiest who have learned to dance 'Tis not enough no harshness gives offense, The sound must seem an echo to the sense. Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows, [ 366 ] And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows, But when loud surges lash the sounding shore, The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar, When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, The line too labors, and the words move slow; Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain, Flies o'er the unbending corn, and skims along the main. [ 373 ] Hear how Timotheus' varied lays surprise, [ 374 ] And bid alternate passions fall and rise! While, at each change, the son of Libyan Jove [ 376 ] Now burns with glory, and then melts with love; Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow, Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow: Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found, And the world's victor stood subdued by sound? [ 381 ] The power of music all our hearts allow, And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now.

Avoid extremes, and shun the fault of such, Who still are pleased too little or too much. At every trifle scorn to take offense, That always shows great pride, or little sense: Those heads, as stomachs, are not sure the best, Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest. Yet let not each gay turn thy rapture move; For fools admire, but men of sense approve: As things seem large which we through mist descry, Dullness is ever apt to magnify. [ 393 ]

Some foreign writers, some our own despise, The ancients only, or the moderns prize. Thus wit, like faith, by each man is applied To one small sect, and all are damned beside. Meanly they seek the blessing to confine, And force that sun but on a part to shine, Which not alone the southern wit sublimes, But ripens spirits in cold northern climes. Which from the first has shone on ages past, Enlights the present, and shall warm the last, Though each may feel increases and decays, And see now clearer and now darker days. Regard not then if wit be old or new, But blame the false, and value still the true.

Some ne'er advance a judgment of their own, But catch the spreading notion of the town, They reason and conclude by precedent, And own stale nonsense which they ne'er invent. Some judge of authors names not works, and then Nor praise nor blame the writing, but the men. Of all this servile herd the worst is he That in proud dullness joins with quality A constant critic at the great man's board, To fetch and carry nonsense for my lord What woful stuff this madrigal would be, In some starved hackney sonnetteer, or me! But let a lord once own the happy lines, How the wit brightens! how the style refines! Before his sacred name flies every fault, And each exalted stanza teems with thought!

The vulgar thus through imitation err; As oft the learned by being singular. So much they scorn the crowd that if the throng By chance go right they purposely go wrong: So schismatics the plain believers quit, And are but damned for having too much wit. Some praise at morning what they blame at night, But always think the last opinion right. A muse by these is like a mistress used, This hour she's idolized, the next abused; While their weak heads, like towns unfortified, 'Twixt sense and nonsense daily change their side. Ask them the cause, they're wiser still they say; And still to-morrow's wiser than to-day. We think our fathers fools, so wise we grow; Our wiser sons, no doubt, will think us so. Once school-divines this zealous isle o'erspread. Who knew most sentences was deepest read, [ 441 ] Faith, Gospel, all, seemed made to be disputed, And none had sense enough to be confuted: Scotists and Thomists now in peace remain, [ 444 ] Amidst their kindred cobwebs in Duck Lane. [ 445 ] If faith itself has different dresses worn, What wonder modes in wit should take their turn? Oft, leaving what is natural and fit, The current folly proves the ready wit; And authors think their reputation safe, Which lives as long as fools are pleased to laugh.

Some valuing those of their own side or mind, Still make themselves the measure of mankind: Fondly we think we honor merit then, When we but praise ourselves in other men. Parties in wit attend on those of state, And public faction doubles private hate. Pride, malice, folly against Dryden rose, In various shapes of parsons, critics, beaux; [ 459 ] But sense survived, when merry jests were past; For rising merit will buoy up at last. Might he return, and bless once more our eyes, New Blackmores and new Millbourns must arise: [ 463 ] Nay, should great Homer lift his awful head, Zoilus again would start up from the dead [ 465 ] Envy will merit, as its shade, pursue, But like a shadow, proves the substance true: For envied wit, like Sol eclipsed, makes known The opposing body's grossness, not its own. When first that sun too powerful beams displays, It draws up vapors which obscure its rays, But even those clouds at last adorn its way Reflect new glories and augment the day

Be thou the first true merit to befriend His praise is lost who stays till all commend Short is the date alas! of modern rhymes And 'tis but just to let them live betimes No longer now that golden age appears When patriarch wits survived a thousand years [ 479 ] Now length of fame (our second life) is lost And bare threescore is all even that can boast, Our sons their fathers failing language see And such as Chaucer is shall Dryden be So when the faithful pencil has designed Some bright idea of the master's mind Where a new world leaps out at his command And ready nature waits upon his hand When the ripe colors soften and unite And sweetly melt into just shade and light When mellowing years their full perfection give And each bold figure just begins to live The treacherous colors the fair art betray And all the bright creation fades away!

Unhappy wit, like most mistaken things Atones not for that envy which it brings In youth alone its empty praise we boast But soon the short lived vanity is lost. Like some fair flower the early spring supplies That gayly blooms but even in blooming dies What is this wit, which must our cares employ? The owner's wife that other men enjoy Then most our trouble still when most admired And still the more we give the more required Whose fame with pains we guard, but lose with ease, Sure some to vex, but never all to please, 'Tis what the vicious fear, the virtuous shun, By fools 'tis hated, and by knaves undone!

If wit so much from ignorance undergo, Ah! let not learning too commence its foe! Of old, those met rewards who could excel, And such were praised who but endeavored well: Though triumphs were to generals only due, Crowns were reserved to grace the soldiers too. Now they who reach Parnassus' lofty crown, Employ their pains to spurn some others down; And, while self-love each jealous writer rules, Contending wits become the sport of fools: But still the worst with most regret commend, For each ill author is as bad a friend To what base ends, and by what abject ways, Are mortals urged, through sacred lust of praise! Ah, ne'er so dire a thirst of glory boast, Nor in the critic let the man be lost Good-nature and good sense must ever join; To err is human, to forgive, divine.

But if in noble minds some dregs remain, Not yet purged off, of spleen and sour disdain; Discharge that rage on more provoking crimes, Nor fear a dearth in these flagitious times. No pardon vile obscenity should find, Though wit and art conspire to move your mind; But dullness with obscenity must prove As shameful sure as impotence in love. In the fat age of pleasure, wealth, and ease, Sprung the rank weed, and thrived with large increase: When love was all an easy monarch's care, [ 536 ] Seldom at council, never in a war Jilts ruled the state, and statesmen farces writ; Nay, wits had pensions, and young lords had wit: The fair sat panting at a courtier's play, And not a mask went unimproved away: [ 541 ] The modest fan was lifted up no more, And virgins smiled at what they blushed before. The following license of a foreign reign, [ 544 ] Did all the dregs of bold Socinus drain, [ 545 ] Then unbelieving priests reformed the nation. And taught more pleasant methods of salvation; Where Heaven's free subjects might their rights dispute, Lest God himself should seem too absolute: Pulpits their sacred satire learned to spare, And vice admired to find a flatterer there! Encouraged thus, wit's Titans braved the skies, [ 552 ] And the press groaned with licensed blasphemies. These monsters, critics! with your darts engage, Here point your thunder, and exhaust your rage! Yet shun their fault, who, scandalously nice, Will needs mistake an author into vice; All seems infected that the infected spy, As all looks yellow to the jaundiced eye.

Learn, then, what morals critics ought to show, For 'tis but half a judge's task to know. 'Tis not enough, taste, judgment, learning, join; In all you speak, let truth and candor shine: That not alone what to your sense is due All may allow, but seek your friendship too.

Be silent always, when you doubt your sense; And speak, though sure, with seeming diffidence: Some positive persisting fops we know, Who, if once wrong will needs be always so; But you, with pleasure, own your errors past, And make each day a critique on the last.

'Tis not enough your counsel still be true; Blunt truths more mischief than nice falsehoods do; Men must be taught as if you taught them not, And things unknown proposed as things forgot. Without good breeding truth is disapproved; That only makes superior sense beloved.

Be niggards of advice on no pretense; For the worst avarice is that of sense With mean complacence, ne'er betray your trust, Nor be so civil as to prove unjust Fear not the anger of the wise to raise, Those best can bear reproof who merit praise.

'Twere well might critics still this freedom take, But Appius reddens at each word you speak, [ 585 ] And stares, tremendous with a threatening eye, Like some fierce tyrant in old tapestry Fear most to tax an honorable fool Whose right it is uncensured to be dull Such, without wit are poets when they please, As without learning they can take degrees Leave dangerous truths to unsuccessful satires, And flattery to fulsome dedicators Whom, when they praise, the world believes no more, Than when they promise to give scribbling o'er.

'Tis best sometimes your censure to restrain, And charitably let the dull be vain Your silence there is better than your spite, For who can rail so long as they can write? Still humming on, their drowsy course they keep, And lashed so long like tops are lashed asleep. False steps but help them to renew the race, As after stumbling, jades will mend their pace. What crowds of these, impenitently bold, In sounds and jingling syllables grown old, Still run on poets in a raging vein, Even to the dregs and squeezing of the brain; Strain out the last dull droppings of their sense, And rhyme with all the rage of impotence!

Such shameless bards we have, and yet, 'tis true, There are as mad abandoned critics, too The bookful blockhead ignorantly read, With loads of learned lumber in his head, With his own tongue still edifies his ears, And always listening to himself appears All books he reads and all he reads assails From Dryden's Fables down to Durfey's Tales [ 617 ] With him most authors steal their works or buy; Garth did not write his own Dispensary [ 619 ] Name a new play, and he's the poets friend Nay, showed his faults—but when would poets mend? No place so sacred from such fops is barred, Nor is Paul's Church more safe than Paul's Churchyard: [ 623 ] Nay, fly to altars; there they'll talk you dead, For fools rush in where angels fear to tread Distrustful sense with modest caution speaks, It still looks home, and short excursions makes; But rattling nonsense in full volleys breaks, And, never shocked, and never turned aside. Bursts out, resistless, with a thundering tide,

But where's the man who counsel can bestow, Still pleased to teach, and yet not proud to know? Unbiased, or by favor, or in spite, Not dully prepossessed, nor blindly right; Though learned, well-bred, and though well bred, sincere, Modestly bold, and humanly severe, Who to a friend his faults can freely show, And gladly praise the merit of a foe? Blessed with a taste exact, yet unconfined; A knowledge both of books and human kind; Generous converse, a soul exempt from pride; And love to praise, with reason on his side?

Such once were critics such the happy few, Athens and Rome in better ages knew. The mighty Stagirite first left the shore, [ 645 ] Spread all his sails, and durst the deeps explore; He steered securely, and discovered far, Led by the light of the Maeonian star. [ 648 ] Poets, a race long unconfined and free, Still fond and proud of savage liberty, Received his laws, and stood convinced 'twas fit, Who conquered nature, should preside o'er wit. [ 652 ]

Horace still charms with graceful negligence, And without method talks us into sense; Will like a friend familiarly convey The truest notions in the easiest way. He who supreme in judgment as in wit, Might boldly censure, as he boldly writ, Yet judged with coolness though he sung with fire; His precepts teach but what his works inspire Our critics take a contrary extreme They judge with fury, but they write with phlegm: Nor suffers Horace more in wrong translations By wits than critics in as wrong quotations.

See Dionysius Homer's thoughts refine, [ 665 ] And call new beauties forth from every line!

Fancy and art in gay Petronius please, [ 667 ] The scholar's learning with the courtier's ease.

In grave Quintilian's copious work we find [ 669 ] The justest rules and clearest method joined: Thus useful arms in magazines we place, All ranged in order, and disposed with grace, But less to please the eye, than arm the hand, Still fit for use, and ready at command.

Thee bold Longinus! all the Nine inspire, [ 675 ] And bless their critic with a poet's fire. An ardent judge, who, zealous in his trust, With warmth gives sentence, yet is always just: Whose own example strengthens all his laws; And is himself that great sublime he draws.

Thus long succeeding critics justly reigned, License repressed, and useful laws ordained. Learning and Rome alike in empire grew; And arts still followed where her eagles flew, From the same foes at last, both felt their doom, And the same age saw learning fall, and Rome. [ 686 ] With tyranny then superstition joined As that the body, this enslaved the mind; Much was believed but little understood, And to be dull was construed to be good; A second deluge learning thus o'errun, And the monks finished what the Goths begun. [ 692 ]

At length Erasmus, that great injured name [ 693 ] (The glory of the priesthood and the shame!) Stemmed the wild torrent of a barbarous age, And drove those holy Vandals off the stage. [ 696 ]

But see! each muse, in Leo's golden days, [ 697 ] Starts from her trance and trims her withered bays, Rome's ancient genius o'er its ruins spread Shakes off the dust, and rears his reverent head Then sculpture and her sister arts revive, Stones leaped to form, and rocks began to live; With sweeter notes each rising temple rung, A Raphael painted, and a Vida sung [ 704 ] Immortal Vida! on whose honored brow The poets bays and critic's ivy grow Cremona now shall ever boast thy name As next in place to Mantua, next in fame!

But soon by impious arms from Latium chased, Their ancient bounds the banished muses passed. Thence arts o'er all the northern world advance, But critic-learning flourished most in France, The rules a nation born to serve, obeys; And Boileau still in right of Horace sways [ 714 ] But we, brave Britons, foreign laws despised, And kept unconquered and uncivilized, Fierce for the liberties of wit and bold, We still defied the Romans as of old. Yet some there were, among the sounder few Of those who less presumed and better knew, Who durst assert the juster ancient cause, And here restored wit's fundamental laws. Such was the muse, whose rule and practice tell "Nature's chief masterpiece is writing well." Such was Roscommon, not more learned than good, With manners generous as his noble blood, To him the wit of Greece and Rome was known, And every author's merit, but his own Such late was Walsh—the muse's judge and friend, Who justly knew to blame or to commend, To failings mild, but zealous for desert, The clearest head, and the sincerest heart, This humble praise, lamented shade! receive, This praise at least a grateful muse may give. The muse whose early voice you taught to sing Prescribed her heights and pruned her tender wing, (Her guide now lost) no more attempts to rise, But in low numbers short excursions tries, Content if hence the unlearned their wants may view, The learned reflect on what before they knew Careless of censure, nor too fond of fame, Still pleased to praise, yet not afraid to blame, Averse alike to flatter, or offend, Not free from faults, nor yet too vain to mend.

[Line 17: Wit is used in the poem in a great variety of meanings (1) Here it seems to mean genius or fancy , (2) in line 36 a man of fancy , (3) in line 53 the understanding or powers of the mind , (4) in line 81 it means judgment .]

[Line 26: Schools —Different systems of doctrine or philosophy as taught by particular teachers.]

[Line 34: Maevius —An insignificant poet of the Augustan age, ridiculed by Virgil in his third Eclogue and by Horace in his tenth Epode.]

[Lines 80, 81: There is here a slight inaccuracy or inconsistency, since "wit" has a different meaning in the two lines: in 80, it means fancy, in 81, judgment .]

[Line 86: The winged courser .—Pegasus, a winged horse which sprang from the blood of Medusa when Perseus cut off her head. As soon as born he left the earth and flew up to heaven, or, according to Ovid, took up his abode on Mount Helicon, and was always associated with the Muses.]

[Line 94: Parnassus .—A mountain of Phocis, which received its name from Parnassus, the son of Neptune, and was sacred to the Muses, Apollo and Bacchus.]

[Line 97: Equal steps .—Steps equal to the undertaking.]

[Line 129: The Mantuan Muse —Virgil called Maro in the next line (his full name being, Virgilius Publius Maro) born near Mantua, 70 B.C.]

[Lines 130-136: It is said that Virgil first intended to write a poem on the Alban and Roman affairs which he found beyond his powers, and then he imitated Homer:

   Cum canerem reges et proelia Cynthius aurem    Vellit— Virg. Ecl. VI ]

[Line 138: The Stagirite —Aristotle, born at the Greek town of Stageira on the Strymonic Gulf (Gulf of Contessa, in Turkey) 384 B.C., whose treatises on Rhetoric and the Art of Poetry were the earliest development of a Philosophy of Criticism and still continue to be studied.

The poet contradicts himself with regard to the principle he is here laying down in lines 271-272 where he laughs at Dennis for

   Concluding all were desperate sots and fools    Who durst depart from Aristotle's rules.]

[Line 180: Homer nods — Quandoque bonus dormitat Homerus , 'even the good Homer nods'—Horace, Epistola ad Pisones , 359.]

[Lines 183, 184: Secure from flames .—The poet probably alludes to such fires as those in which the Alexandrine and Palatine Libraries were destroyed. From envy's fiercer rage .—Probably he alludes to the writings of such men as Maevius (see note to line 34) and Zoilus, a sophist and grammarian of Amphipolis, who distinguished himself by his criticism on Isocrates, Plato, and Homer, receiving the nickname of Homeromastic (chastiser of Homer). Destructive war —Probably an allusion to the irruption of the barbarians into the south of Europe. And all-involving age ; that is, time. This is usually explained as an allusion to 'the long reign of ignorance and superstition in the cloisters,' but it is surely far-fetched, and more than the language will bear.]

[Lines 193, 194:

   'Round the whole world this dreaded name shall sound,     And reach to worlds that must not yet be found,"—COWLEY.]

[Line 216: The Pierian spring —A fountain in Pieria, a district round Mount Olympus and the native country of the Muses.]

[Line 248: And even thine, O Rome. —The dome of St Peter's Church, designed by Michael Angelo.]

[Line 267: La Mancha's Knight .—Don Quixote, a fictitious Spanish knight, the hero of a book written (1605) by Cervantes, a Spanish writer.]

[Line 270: Dennis, the son of a saddler in London, born 1657, was a mediocre writer, and rather better critic of the time, with whom Pope came a good deal into collision. Addison's tragedy of Cato , for which Pope had written a prologue, had been attacked by Dennis. Pope, to defend Addison, wrote an imaginary report, pretending to be written by a notorious quack mad-doctor of the day, entitled The Narrative of Dr. Robert Norris on the Frenz of F. D. Dennis replied to it by his Character of Mr. Pope . Ultimately Pope gave him a place in his Dunciad , and wrote a prologue for his benefit.]

[Line 308: On content .—On trust, a common use of the word in Pope's time.]

[Lines 311, 312: Prismatic glass .—A glass prism by which light is refracted, and the component rays, which are of different colors being refracted at different angles show what is called a spectrum or series of colored bars, in the order violet, indigo, blue, green, yellow, orange, red.]

[Line 328: Fungoso —One of the characters in Ben Jonson's Every Man out of his Humor who assumed the dress and tried to pass himself off for another.]

[Line 356: Alexandrine —A line of twelve syllables, so called from a French poem on the Life of Alexander the Great, written in that meter. The poet gives a remarkable example in the next line.]

[Line 361: Sir John Denham, a poet of the time of Charles I. (1615-1668). His verse is characterized by considerable smoothness and ingenuity of rhythm, with here and there a passage of some force—Edmund Waller (1606-1687) is celebrated as one of the refiners of English poetry. His rank among English poets, however, is very subordinate.]

[Line 366: Zephyr .—Zephyrus, the west wind personified by the poets and made the most mild and gentle of the sylvan deities.]

[Lines 366-373: In this passage the poet obviously intended to make "the sound seem an echo to the sense". The success of the attempt has not been very complete except in the second two lines, expressing the dash and roar of the waves, and in the last two, expressing the skimming, continuous motion of Camilla. What he refers to is the onomatopoeia of Homer and Virgil in the passages alluded to. Ajax , the son of Telamon, was, next to Achilles, the bravest of all the Greeks in the Trojan war. When the Greeks were challenged by Hector he was chosen their champion and it was in their encounter that he seized a huge stone and hurled it at Hector.

Thus rendered by Pope himself:

   "Then Ajax seized the fragment of a rock    Applied each nerve, and swinging round on high,    With force tempestuous let the ruin fly    The huge stone thundering through his buckler broke."

Camilla , queen of the Volsci, was brought up in the woods, and, according to Virgil, was swifter than the winds. She led an army to assist Turnus against Aeneas.

   "Dura pan, cursuque pedum praevertere ventos.     Illa vel intactae segetis per summa volaret     Gramina nec teneras cursu laesisset aristas;     Vel mare per medium fluctu suspensa tumenti,     Ferret iter, celeres nec tingeret aequore plantas."                                             Aen . vii 807-811.

Thus rendered by Dryden.

   "Outstripped the winds in speed upon the plain,    Flew o'er the fields, nor hurt the bearded grain;    She swept the seas, and as she skimmed along,    Her flying feet unbathed on billows hung"]

[Lines 374-381: This passage refers to Dryden's ode, Alexander's Feast , or The Power of Music . Timotheus, mentioned in it, was a musician of Boeotia, a favorite of Alexander's, not the great musician Timotheus, who died before Alexander was born, unless, indeed, Dryden have confused the two.]

[Line 376: The son of Libyan Jove .—A title arrogated to himself by Alexander.]

[Line 393: Dullness here 'seems to be incorrectly used. Ignorance is apt to magnify, but dullness reposes in stolid indifference.']

[Line 441: Sentences —Passages from the Fathers of the Church who were regarded as decisive authorities on all disputed points of doctrine.]

[Line 444: Scotists —The disciples of Duns Scotus, one of the most famous and influential of the scholastics of the fourteenth century, who was opposed to Thomas Aquinas (1224-1274), another famous scholastic, regarding the doctrines of grace and the freedom of the will, but especially the immaculate conception of the Virgin. The followers of the latter were called Thomists, between whom and the Scotists bitter controversies were carried on.]

[Line 445: Duck Lane .—A place near Smithfield where old books were sold. The cobwebs were kindred to the works of these controversialists, because their arguments were intricate and obscure. Scotus is said to have demolished two hundred objections to the doctrine of the immaculate conception, and established it by a cloud of proofs.]

[Line 459: Parsons .—This is an allusion to Jeremy Collier, the author of A Short View etc, of the English Stage . Critics, beaux .—This to the Duke of Buckingham, the author of The Rehearsal .]

[Line 463: Blackmore , Sir Richard (1652-1729), one of the court physicians and the writer of a great deal of worthless poetry. He attacked the dramatists of the time generally and Dryden individually, and is the Quack Maurus of Dryden's prologue to The Secular Masque . Millbourn , Rev. Luke, who criticised Dryden; which criticism, although sneered at by Pope, is allowed to have been judicious and decisive.]

[Line 465: Zoilus . See note on line 183.]

[Line 479: Patriarch wits —Perhaps an allusion to the great age to which the antediluvian patriarchs of the Bible lived.]

[Line 536: An easy monarch .—Charles II.]

[Line 541: At that time ladies went to the theater in masks.]

[Line 544: A foreign reign .—The reign of the foreigner, William III.]

[Line 545: Socinus .—The reaction from the fanaticism of the Puritans, who held extreme notions of free grace and satisfaction, by resolving all Christianity into morality, led the way to the introduction of Socinianism, the most prominent feature of which is the denial of the existence of the Trinity.]

[Line 552: Wit's Titans .—The Titans, in Greek mythology, were the children of Uranus (heaven) and Gaea (earth), and of gigantic size. They engaged in a conflict with Zeus, the king of heaven, which lasted ten years. They were completely defeated, and hurled down into a dungeon below Tartarus. Very often they are confounded with the Giants, as has apparently been done here by Pope. These were a later progeny of the same parents, and in revenge for what had been done to the Titans, conspired to dethrone Zeus. In order to scale heaven, they piled Mount Ossa upon Pelion, and would have succeeded in their attempt if Zeus had not called in the assistance of his son Hercules.]

[Line 585: Appius .—He refers to Dennis (see note to verse 270) who had published a tragedy called Appius and Virginia . He retaliated for these remarks by coarse personalities upon Pope, in his criticism of this poem.]

[Line 617: Durfey's Tales .—Thomas D'Urfey, the author (in the reign of Charles II.) of a sequel in five acts of The Rehearsal , a series of sonnets entitled Pills to Purge Melancholy , the Tales here alluded to, etc. He was a very inferior poet, although Addison pleaded for him.]

[Line 619: Garth, Dr. , afterwards Sir Samuel (born 1660) an eminent physician and a poet of considerable reputation He is best known as the author of The Dispensary , a poetical satire on the apothecaries and physicians who opposed the project of giving medicine gratuitously to the sick poor. The poet alludes to a slander current at the time with regard to the authorship of the poem.]

[Line 623: St Paul's Churchyard , before the fire of London, was the headquarters of the booksellers.]

[Lines 645, 646: See note on line 138.]

[Line 648: The Maeonian star .—Homer, supposed by some to have been born in Maeonia, a part of Lydia in Asia Minor, and whose poems were the chief subject of Aristotle's criticism.]

[Line 652: Who conquered nature —He wrote, besides his other works, treatises on Astronomy, Mechanics, Physics, and Natural History.]

[Line 665: Dionysius , born at Halicarnassus about 50 B.C., was a learned critic, historian, and rhetorician at Rome in the Augustan age.]

[Line 667: Petronius .—A Roman voluptuary at the court of Nero whose ambition was to shine as a court exquisite. He is generally supposed to be the author of certain fragments of a comic romance called Petronii Arbitri Satyricon .]

[Line 669: Quintilian , born in Spain 40 A.D. was a celebrated teacher of rhetoric and oratory at Rome. His greatwork is De Institutione Oratorica , a complete system of rhetoric, which is here referred to.]

[Line 675: Longinus , a Platonic philosopher and famous rhetorician, born either in Syria or at Athens about 213 A.D., was probably the best critic of antiquity. From his immense knowledge, he was called "a living library" and "walking museum," hence the poet speaks of him as inspired by all the Nine —Muses that is. These were Clio, the muse of History, Euterpe, of Music, Thaleia, of Pastoral and Comic Poetry and Festivals, Melpomene, of Tragedy, Terpsichore, of Dancing, Erato, of Lyric and Amorous Poetry, Polyhymnia, of Rhetoric and Singing, Urania, of Astronomy, Calliope, of Eloquence and Heroic Poetry.]

[Line 686: Rome .—For this pronunciation (to rhyme with doom ) he has Shakespeare's example as precedent.]

[Line 692: Goths .—A powerful nation of the Germanic race, which, originally from the Baltic, first settled near the Black Sea, and then overran and took an important part in the subversion of the Roman empire. They were distinguished as Ostro Goths (Eastern Goths) on the shores of the Black Sea, the Visi Goths (Western Goths) on the Danube, and the Moeso Goths, in Moesia ]

[Line 693: Erasmus .—A Dutchman (1467-1536), and at one time a Roman Catholic priest, who acted as tutor to Alexander Stuart, a natural son of James IV. of Scotland as professor of Greek for a short time at Oxford, and was the most learned man of his time. His best known work is his Colloquia , which contains satirical onslaughts on monks, cloister life, festivals, pilgrimages etc.]

[Line 696: Vandals .—A race of European barbarians, who first appear historically about the second century, south of the Baltic. They overran in succession Gaul, Spain, and Italy. In 455 they took and plundered Rome, and the way they mutilated and destroyed the works of art has become a proverb, hence the monks are compared to them in their ignorance of art and science.]

[Line 697: Leo .—Leo X., or the Great (1513-1521), was a scholar himself, and gave much encouragement to learning and art.]

[Line 704: Raphael (1483-1520), an Italian, is almost universally regarded as the greatest of painters. He received much encouragement from Leo. Vida —A poet patronised by Leo. He was the son of poor parents at Cremona (see line 707), which therefore the poet says, would be next in fame to Mantua, the birthplace of Virgil as it was next to it in place.

   "Mantua vae miserae nimium vicina Cremona."—Virg.]

[Line 714: Boileau .—An illustrious French poet (1636-1711), who wrote a poem on the Art of Poetry, which is copiously imitated by Pope in this poem.]

[Lines 723, 724: Refers to the Duke of Buckingham's Essay on Poetry which had been eulogized also by Dryden and Dr. Garth.]

[Line 725: Roscommon , the Earl of, a poet, who has the honor to be the first critic who praised Milton's Paradise Lost , died 1684.]

[Line 729: Walsh .—An indifferent writer, to whom Pope owed a good deal, died 1710.]

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An Essay on Criticism

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Alexander Pope, a translator, poet, wit, amateur landscape gardener, and satirist, was born in London in 1688. He contracted tuberculosis of the bone when he was young, which disfigured his spine and purportedly only allowed him to grow to 4 feet, 6 inches. Pope grew up on his father’s property at Binfield in Windsor Forest, where he read avidly and gained an appreciation for the natural world. Though he remained in ill health throughout his life, he was able to support himself as a translator and writer. As a Catholic at that time in Britain, he was ineligible for patronage, public office, or a position at a university.   A sharp-penned satirist of public figures and their behavior, Pope had his supporters and detractors. He was friends with Jonathan Swift, Dr. John Arbuthnot, and John Gay. Pope’s poems include the “Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot” and the mock epic “The Rape of the Lock.” To read his work is to be exposed to the order and wit of the 18th century poetry that preceded the Romantic poets. Pope primarily used the heroic couplet, and his lines are immensely quotable; from “An Essay on Criticism” come famous phrases such as “To err is human; to forgive, divine,” “A little learning is a dang’rous thing,” and “For fools rush in where angels fear to tread.”   After 1718 Pope lived on his five-acre property at Twickenham by the Thames. He cultivated a much-visited garden that contained a grotto, and featured the formal characteristics of a French garden and the newer more natural “English” landscape style.   Pope wrote “An Essay on Criticism” when he was 23; he was influenced by Quintillian, Aristotle, Horace’s Ars Poetica , and Nicolas Boileau’s L’Art Poëtique . Written in heroic couplets, the tone is straight-forward and conversational. It is a discussion of what good critics should do; however, in reading it one gleans much wisdom on the qualities poets should strive for in their own work. In Part I of “An Essay on Criticism,” Pope notes the lack of “true taste” in critics, stating: “’Tis with our judgments as our watches, none / Go just alike, yet each believes his own.” Pope advocates knowing one’s own artistic limits: “Launch not beyond your depth, but be discreet, / And mark that point where sense and dullness meet.” He stresses the order in nature and the value of the work of the “Ancients” of Greece, but also states that not all good work can be explained by rules: “Some beauties yet, no precepts can declare, / For there’s a happiness as well as care.”   In Part II, Pope lists the mistakes that critics make, as well as the defects in poems that some critics short-sightedly praise. He advocates looking at a whole piece of work, instead of being swayed by some of its showier or faulty parts: “As men of breeding, sometimes men of wit, / T’ avoid great errors, must the less commit.” He advises against too much ornamentation in writing, and against fancy style that communicates little of merit. In his description of versification, his lines enact the effects of clumsy writing: “And ten low words oft creep in one dull line,” and “A needless Alexandrine ends the song, / That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.” In Part III, Pope discusses what critics should do, holding up the “Ancients” as models, including Aristotle (the “Stagirite”) who was respected by the lawless poets: “Poets, a race long unconfin’d and free, / Still fond and proud of savage liberty, / Receiv’d his laws; and stood convinc’d ‘twas fit, / Who conquer’d nature, should preside o’er wit.”

'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 poets as true genius is but rare, True 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.        Nature to all things fix'd the limits fit, And wisely curb'd proud man's pretending wit: As on the land while here the ocean gains, In other parts it leaves wide sandy plains; Thus in the soul while memory prevails, The solid pow'r of understanding fails; Where beams of warm imagination play, The memory's soft figures melt away. One science only will one genius fit; So vast is art, so narrow human wit: Not only bounded to peculiar arts, But oft in those, confin'd to single parts. Like kings we lose the conquests gain'd before, By vain ambition still to make them more; Each might his sev'ral province well command, Would all but stoop to what they understand.        First follow NATURE, and your judgment frame By her just standard, which is still the same: Unerring Nature, still divinely bright, One clear, unchang'd, and universal light, Life, force, and beauty, must to all impart, At once the source, and end, and test of art. Art from that fund each just supply provides, Works without show, and without pomp presides: In some fair body thus th' informing soul With spirits feeds, with vigour fills the whole, Each motion guides, and ev'ry nerve sustains; Itself unseen, but in th' effects, remains. Some, to whom Heav'n in wit has been profuse, Want as much more, to turn it to its use; For wit and judgment often are at strife, Though meant each other's aid, like man and wife. 'Tis more to guide, than spur the Muse's steed; Restrain his fury, than provoke his speed; The winged courser, like a gen'rous horse, Shows most true mettle when you check his course.        Those RULES of old discover'd, not devis'd, Are Nature still, but Nature methodis'd; Nature, like liberty, is but restrain'd By the same laws which first herself ordain'd.        Hear how learn'd Greece her useful rules indites, When to repress, and when indulge our flights: High on Parnassus' top her sons she show'd, And pointed out those arduous paths they trod; Held from afar, aloft, th' immortal prize, And urg'd the rest by equal steps to rise. Just precepts thus from great examples giv'n, She drew from them what they deriv'd from Heav'n. The gen'rous critic fann'd the poet's fire, And taught the world with reason to admire. Then criticism the Muse's handmaid prov'd, To dress her charms, and make her more belov'd; But following wits from that intention stray'd; Who could not win the mistress, woo'd the maid; Against the poets their own arms they turn'd, Sure to hate most the men from whom they learn'd. So modern 'pothecaries, taught the art By doctor's bills to play the doctor's part, Bold in the practice of mistaken rules, Prescribe, apply, and call their masters fools. Some on the leaves of ancient authors prey, Nor time nor moths e'er spoil'd so much as they: Some drily plain, without invention's aid, Write dull receipts how poems may be made: These leave the sense, their learning to display, And those explain the meaning quite away.        You then whose judgment the right course would steer, Know well each ANCIENT'S proper character; His fable, subject, scope in ev'ry page; Religion, country, genius of his age: Without all these at once before your eyes, Cavil you may, but never criticise. Be Homer's works your study and delight, Read them by day, and meditate by night; Thence form your judgment, thence your maxims bring, And trace the Muses upward to their spring; Still with itself compar'd, his text peruse; And let your comment be the Mantuan Muse.        When first young Maro in his boundless mind A work t' outlast immortal Rome design'd, Perhaps he seem'd above the critic's law, And but from Nature's fountains scorn'd to draw: But when t' examine ev'ry part he came, Nature and Homer were, he found, the same. Convinc'd, amaz'd, he checks the bold design, And rules as strict his labour'd work confine, As if the Stagirite o'erlook'd each line. Learn hence for ancient rules a just esteem; To copy nature is to copy them.        Some beauties yet, no precepts can declare, For there's a happiness as well as care. Music resembles poetry, in each Are nameless graces which no methods teach, And which a master-hand alone can reach. If, where the rules not far enough extend, (Since rules were made but to promote their end) Some lucky LICENCE answers to the full Th' intent propos'd, that licence is a rule. Thus Pegasus, a nearer way to take, May boldly deviate from the common track. Great wits sometimes may gloriously offend, And rise to faults true critics dare not mend; From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part, And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art, Which, without passing through the judgment, gains The heart, and all its end at once attains. In prospects, thus, some objects please our eyes, Which out of nature's common order rise, The shapeless rock, or hanging precipice. But tho' the ancients thus their rules invade, (As kings dispense with laws themselves have made) Moderns, beware! or if you must offend Against the precept, ne'er transgress its end; Let it be seldom, and compell'd by need, And have, at least, their precedent to plead. The critic else proceeds without remorse, Seizes your fame, and puts his laws in force.        I know there are, to whose presumptuous thoughts Those freer beauties, ev'n in them, seem faults. Some figures monstrous and misshap'd appear, Consider'd singly, or beheld too near, Which, but proportion'd to their light, or place, Due distance reconciles to form and grace. A prudent chief not always must display His pow'rs in equal ranks, and fair array, But with th' occasion and the place comply, Conceal his force, nay seem sometimes to fly. Those oft are stratagems which errors seem, Nor is it Homer nods, but we that dream.        Still green with bays each ancient altar stands, Above the reach of sacrilegious hands, Secure from flames, from envy's fiercer rage, Destructive war, and all-involving age. See, from each clime the learn'd their incense bring! Hear, in all tongues consenting pæans ring! In praise so just let ev'ry voice be join'd, And fill the gen'ral chorus of mankind! Hail, bards triumphant! born in happier days; Immortal heirs of universal praise! Whose honours with increase of ages grow, As streams roll down, enlarging as they flow! Nations unborn your mighty names shall sound, And worlds applaud that must not yet be found! Oh may some spark of your celestial fire The last, the meanest of your sons inspire, (That on weak wings, from far, pursues your flights; Glows while he reads, but trembles as he writes) To teach vain wits a science little known, T' admire superior sense, and doubt their own!

Of all the causes which conspire to blind Man's erring judgment, and misguide the mind, What the weak head with strongest bias rules, Is pride, the never-failing vice of fools. Whatever Nature has in worth denied, She gives in large recruits of needful pride; For as in bodies, thus in souls, we find What wants in blood and spirits, swell'd with wind; Pride, where wit fails, steps in to our defence, And fills up all the mighty void of sense! If once right reason drives that cloud away, Truth breaks upon us with resistless day; Trust not yourself; but your defects to know, Make use of ev'ry friend—and ev'ry foe.        A little learning is a dang'rous thing; Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring: There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain, And drinking largely sobers us again. Fir'd at first sight with what the Muse imparts, In fearless youth we tempt the heights of arts, While from the bounded level of our mind, Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind, But more advanc'd, behold with strange surprise New, distant scenes of endless science rise! So pleas'd at first, the tow'ring Alps we try, Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread the sky; Th' eternal snows appear already past, And the first clouds and mountains seem the last; But those attain'd, we tremble to survey The growing labours of the lengthen'd way, Th' increasing prospect tires our wand'ring eyes, Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise!        A perfect judge will read each work of wit With the same spirit that its author writ, Survey the whole, nor seek slight faults to find, Where nature moves, and rapture warms the mind; Nor lose, for that malignant dull delight, The gen'rous pleasure to be charm'd with wit. But in such lays as neither ebb, nor flow, Correctly cold, and regularly low, That shunning faults, one quiet tenour keep; We cannot blame indeed—but we may sleep. In wit, as nature, what affects our hearts Is not th' exactness of peculiar parts; 'Tis not a lip, or eye, we beauty call, But the joint force and full result of all. Thus when we view some well-proportion'd dome, (The world's just wonder, and ev'n thine, O Rome!' No single parts unequally surprise; All comes united to th' admiring eyes; No monstrous height, or breadth, or length appear; The whole at once is bold, and regular.        Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see, Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be. In ev'ry work regard the writer's end, Since none can compass more than they intend; And if the means be just, the conduct true, Applause, in spite of trivial faults, is due. As men of breeding, sometimes men of wit, T' avoid great errors, must the less commit: Neglect the rules each verbal critic lays, For not to know such trifles, is a praise. Most critics, fond of some subservient art, Still make the whole depend upon a part: They talk of principles, but notions prize, And all to one lov'd folly sacrifice.        Once on a time, La Mancha's knight, they say, A certain bard encount'ring on the way, Discours'd in terms as just, with looks as sage, As e'er could Dennis of the Grecian stage; Concluding all were desp'rate sots and fools, Who durst depart from Aristotle's rules. Our author, happy in a judge so nice, Produc'd his play, and begg'd the knight's advice, Made him observe the subject and the plot, The manners, passions, unities, what not? All which, exact to rule, were brought about, Were but a combat in the lists left out. "What! leave the combat out?" exclaims the knight; "Yes, or we must renounce the Stagirite." "Not so by Heav'n" (he answers in a rage) "Knights, squires, and steeds, must enter on the stage." So vast a throng the stage can ne'er contain. "Then build a new, or act it in a plain."        Thus critics, of less judgment than caprice, Curious not knowing, not exact but nice, Form short ideas; and offend in arts (As most in manners) by a love to parts.        Some to conceit alone their taste confine, And glitt'ring thoughts struck out at ev'ry line; Pleas'd with a work where nothing's just or fit; One glaring chaos and wild heap of wit. Poets, like painters, thus, unskill'd to trace The naked nature and the living grace, With gold and jewels cover ev'ry part, And hide with ornaments their want of art. True wit is nature to advantage dress'd, What oft was thought, but ne'er so well express'd, Something, whose truth convinc'd at sight we find, That gives us back the image of our mind. As shades more sweetly recommend the light, So modest plainness sets off sprightly wit. For works may have more wit than does 'em good, As bodies perish through excess of blood.        Others for language all their care express, And value books, as women men, for dress: Their praise is still—"the style is excellent": The sense, they humbly take upon content. Words are like leaves; and where they most abound, Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found. False eloquence, like the prismatic glass, Its gaudy colours spreads on ev'ry place; The face of Nature we no more survey, All glares alike, without distinction gay: But true expression, like th' unchanging sun, Clears, and improves whate'er it shines upon, It gilds all objects, but it alters none. Expression is the dress of thought, and still Appears more decent, as more suitable; A vile conceit in pompous words express'd, Is like a clown in regal purple dress'd: For diff'rent styles with diff'rent subjects sort, As several garbs with country, town, and court. Some by old words to fame have made pretence, Ancients in phrase, mere moderns in their sense; Such labour'd nothings, in so strange a style, Amaze th' unlearn'd, and make the learned smile. Unlucky, as Fungoso in the play, These sparks with awkward vanity display What the fine gentleman wore yesterday! And but so mimic ancient wits at best, As apes our grandsires, in their doublets dress'd. In words, as fashions, the same rule will hold; Alike fantastic, if too new, or old; Be not the first by whom the new are tried, Not yet the last to lay the old aside.        But most by numbers judge a poet's song; And smooth or rough, with them is right or wrong: In the bright Muse though thousand charms conspire, Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire, Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear, Not mend their minds; as some to church repair, Not for the doctrine, but the music there. These equal syllables alone require, Tho' oft the ear the open vowels tire, While expletives their feeble aid do join, And ten low words oft creep in one dull line, While they ring round the same unvaried chimes, With sure returns of still expected rhymes. Where'er you find "the cooling western breeze", In the next line, it "whispers through the trees": If "crystal streams with pleasing murmurs creep", The reader's threaten'd (not in vain) with "sleep". Then, at the last and only couplet fraught With some unmeaning thing they call a thought, A needless Alexandrine ends the song, That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along. Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, and know What's roundly smooth, or languishingly slow; And praise the easy vigour of a line, Where Denham's strength, and Waller's sweetness join. True ease in writing comes from art, not chance, As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance. 'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence, The sound must seem an echo to the sense. Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows, And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows; But when loud surges lash the sounding shore, The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar. When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, The line too labours, and the words move slow; Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain, Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main. Hear how Timotheus' varied lays surprise, And bid alternate passions fall and rise! While, at each change, the son of Libyan Jove Now burns with glory, and then melts with love; Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow, Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow: Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found, And the world's victor stood subdu'd by sound! The pow'r of music all our hearts allow, And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now.        Avoid extremes; and shun the fault of such, Who still are pleas'd too little or too much. At ev'ry trifle scorn to take offence, That always shows great pride, or little sense; Those heads, as stomachs, are not sure the best, Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest. Yet let not each gay turn thy rapture move, For fools admire, but men of sense approve; As things seem large which we through mists descry, Dulness is ever apt to magnify.        Some foreign writers, some our own despise; The ancients only, or the moderns prize. Thus wit, like faith, by each man is applied To one small sect, and all are damn'd beside. Meanly they seek the blessing to confine, And force that sun but on a part to shine; Which not alone the southern wit sublimes, But ripens spirits in cold northern climes; Which from the first has shone on ages past, Enlights the present, and shall warm the last; (Though each may feel increases and decays, And see now clearer and now darker days.) Regard not then if wit be old or new, But blame the false, and value still the true. Some ne'er advance a judgment of their own, But catch the spreading notion of the town; They reason and conclude by precedent, And own stale nonsense which they ne'er invent. Some judge of authors' names, not works, and then Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men. Of all this servile herd, the worst is he That in proud dulness joins with quality, A constant critic at the great man's board, To fetch and carry nonsense for my Lord. What woeful stuff this madrigal would be, In some starv'd hackney sonneteer, or me? But let a Lord once own the happy lines, How the wit brightens! how the style refines! Before his sacred name flies every fault, And each exalted stanza teems with thought!        The vulgar thus through imitation err; As oft the learn'd by being singular; So much they scorn the crowd, that if the throng By chance go right, they purposely go wrong: So Schismatics the plain believers quit, And are but damn'd for having too much wit.        Some praise at morning what they blame at night; But always think the last opinion right. A Muse by these is like a mistress us'd, This hour she's idoliz'd, the next abus'd; While their weak heads, like towns unfortified, Twixt sense and nonsense daily change their side. Ask them the cause; they're wiser still, they say; And still tomorrow's wiser than today. We think our fathers fools, so wise we grow; Our wiser sons, no doubt, will think us so. Once school divines this zealous isle o'erspread; Who knew most Sentences, was deepest read; Faith, Gospel, all, seem'd made to be disputed, And none had sense enough to be confuted: Scotists and Thomists, now, in peace remain, Amidst their kindred cobwebs in Duck Lane. If Faith itself has different dresses worn, What wonder modes in wit should take their turn? Oft, leaving what is natural and fit, The current folly proves the ready wit; And authors think their reputation safe Which lives as long as fools are pleased to laugh.        Some valuing those of their own side or mind, Still make themselves the measure of mankind; Fondly we think we honour merit then, When we but praise ourselves in other men. Parties in wit attend on those of state, And public faction doubles private hate. Pride, Malice, Folly, against Dryden rose, In various shapes of Parsons, Critics, Beaus; But sense surviv'd, when merry jests were past; For rising merit will buoy up at last. Might he return, and bless once more our eyes, New Blackmores and new Milbourns must arise; Nay should great Homer lift his awful head, Zoilus again would start up from the dead. Envy will merit, as its shade, pursue, But like a shadow, proves the substance true; For envied wit, like Sol eclips'd, makes known Th' opposing body's grossness, not its own. When first that sun too powerful beams displays, It draws up vapours which obscure its rays; But ev'n those clouds at last adorn its way, Reflect new glories, and augment the day.        Be thou the first true merit to befriend; His praise is lost, who stays till all commend. Short is the date, alas, of modern rhymes, And 'tis but just to let 'em live betimes. No longer now that golden age appears, When patriarch wits surviv'd a thousand years: Now length of Fame (our second life) is lost, And bare threescore is all ev'n that can boast; Our sons their fathers' failing language see, And such as Chaucer is, shall Dryden be. So when the faithful pencil has design'd Some bright idea of the master's mind, Where a new world leaps out at his command, And ready Nature waits upon his hand; When the ripe colours soften and unite, And sweetly melt into just shade and light; When mellowing years their full perfection give, And each bold figure just begins to live, The treacherous colours the fair art betray, And all the bright creation fades away!        Unhappy wit, like most mistaken things, Atones not for that envy which it brings. In youth alone its empty praise we boast, But soon the short-liv'd vanity is lost: Like some fair flow'r the early spring supplies, That gaily blooms, but ev'n in blooming dies. What is this wit, which must our cares employ? The owner's wife, that other men enjoy; Then most our trouble still when most admir'd, And still the more we give, the more requir'd; Whose fame with pains we guard, but lose with ease, Sure some to vex, but never all to please; 'Tis what the vicious fear, the virtuous shun; By fools 'tis hated, and by knaves undone!        If wit so much from ign'rance undergo, Ah let not learning too commence its foe! Of old, those met rewards who could excel, And such were prais'd who but endeavour'd well: Though triumphs were to gen'rals only due, Crowns were reserv'd to grace the soldiers too. Now, they who reach Parnassus' lofty crown, Employ their pains to spurn some others down;        And while self-love each jealous writer rules, Contending wits become the sport of fools: But still the worst with most regret commend, For each ill author is as bad a friend. To what base ends, and by what abject ways, Are mortals urg'd through sacred lust of praise! Ah ne'er so dire a thirst of glory boast, Nor in the critic let the man be lost! Good nature and good sense must ever join; To err is human; to forgive, divine.        But if in noble minds some dregs remain, Not yet purg'd off, of spleen and sour disdain, Discharge that rage on more provoking crimes, Nor fear a dearth in these flagitious times. No pardon vile obscenity should find, Though wit and art conspire to move your mind; But dulness with obscenity must prove As shameful sure as impotence in love. In the fat age of pleasure, wealth, and ease, Sprung the rank weed, and thriv'd with large increase: When love was all an easy monarch's care; Seldom at council, never in a war: Jilts ruled the state, and statesmen farces writ; Nay wits had pensions, and young Lords had wit: The fair sat panting at a courtier's play, And not a mask went unimprov'd away: The modest fan was lifted up no more, And virgins smil'd at what they blush'd before. The following licence of a foreign reign Did all the dregs of bold Socinus drain; Then unbelieving priests reform'd the nation, And taught more pleasant methods of salvation; Where Heav'n's free subjects might their rights dispute, Lest God himself should seem too absolute: Pulpits their sacred satire learned to spare, And Vice admired to find a flatt'rer there! Encourag'd thus, wit's Titans brav'd the skies, And the press groan'd with licenc'd blasphemies. These monsters, critics! with your darts engage, Here point your thunder, and exhaust your rage! Yet shun their fault, who, scandalously nice, Will needs mistake an author into vice; All seems infected that th' infected spy, As all looks yellow to the jaundic'd eye.

Learn then what morals critics ought to show, For 'tis but half a judge's task, to know. 'Tis not enough, taste, judgment, learning, join; In all you speak, let truth and candour shine: That not alone what to your sense is due, All may allow; but seek your friendship too.        Be silent always when you doubt your sense; And speak, though sure, with seeming diffidence: Some positive, persisting fops we know, Who, if once wrong, will needs be always so; But you, with pleasure own your errors past, And make each day a critic on the last.        'Tis not enough, your counsel still be true; Blunt truths more mischief than nice falsehoods do; Men must be taught as if you taught them not; And things unknown proposed as things forgot. Without good breeding, truth is disapprov'd; That only makes superior sense belov'd.        Be niggards of advice on no pretence; For the worst avarice is that of sense. With mean complacence ne'er betray your trust, Nor be so civil as to prove unjust. Fear not the anger of the wise to raise; Those best can bear reproof, who merit praise.        'Twere well might critics still this freedom take, But Appius reddens at each word you speak, And stares, Tremendous ! with a threatening eye, Like some fierce tyrant in old tapestry! Fear most to tax an honourable fool, Whose right it is, uncensur'd, to be dull; Such, without wit, are poets when they please, As without learning they can take degrees. Leave dangerous truths to unsuccessful satires, And flattery to fulsome dedicators, Whom, when they praise, the world believes no more, Than when they promise to give scribbling o'er. 'Tis best sometimes your censure to restrain, And charitably let the dull be vain: Your silence there is better than your spite, For who can rail so long as they can write? Still humming on, their drowsy course they keep, And lash'd so long, like tops, are lash'd asleep. False steps but help them to renew the race, As after stumbling, jades will mend their pace. What crowds of these, impenitently bold, In sounds and jingling syllables grown old, Still run on poets, in a raging vein, Even to the dregs and squeezings of the brain, Strain out the last, dull droppings of their sense, And rhyme with all the rage of impotence!        Such shameless bards we have; and yet 'tis true, There are as mad, abandon'd critics too. The bookful blockhead, ignorantly read, With loads of learned lumber in his head, With his own tongue still edifies his ears, And always list'ning to himself appears. All books he reads, and all he reads assails, From Dryden's Fables down to Durfey's Tales. With him, most authors steal their works, or buy; Garth did not write his own Dispensary . Name a new play, and he's the poet's friend, Nay show'd his faults—but when would poets mend? No place so sacred from such fops is barr'd, Nor is Paul's church more safe than Paul's churchyard: Nay, fly to altars; there they'll talk you dead: For fools rush in where angels fear to tread. Distrustful sense with modest caution speaks; It still looks home, and short excursions makes; But rattling nonsense in full volleys breaks; And never shock'd, and never turn'd aside, Bursts out, resistless, with a thund'ring tide.        But where's the man, who counsel can bestow, Still pleas'd to teach, and yet not proud to know? Unbias'd, or by favour or by spite; Not dully prepossess'd, nor blindly right; Though learn'd, well-bred; and though well-bred, sincere; Modestly bold, and humanly severe? Who to a friend his faults can freely show, And gladly praise the merit of a foe? Blest with a taste exact, yet unconfin'd; A knowledge both of books and human kind; Gen'rous converse; a soul exempt from pride; And love to praise, with reason on his side?        Such once were critics; such the happy few, Athens and Rome in better ages knew. The mighty Stagirite first left the shore, Spread all his sails, and durst the deeps explore: He steer'd securely, and discover'd far, Led by the light of the Mæonian Star. Poets, a race long unconfin'd and free, Still fond and proud of savage liberty, Receiv'd his laws; and stood convinc'd 'twas fit, Who conquer'd nature, should preside o'er wit.        Horace still charms with graceful negligence, And without methods talks us into sense, Will, like a friend, familiarly convey The truest notions in the easiest way. He, who supreme in judgment, as in wit, Might boldly censure, as he boldly writ, Yet judg'd with coolness, though he sung with fire; His precepts teach but what his works inspire. Our critics take a contrary extreme, They judge with fury, but they write with fle'me: Nor suffers Horace more in wrong translations By wits, than critics in as wrong quotations.        See Dionysius Homer's thoughts refine, And call new beauties forth from ev'ry line!        Fancy and art in gay Petronius please, The scholar's learning, with the courtier's ease.        In grave Quintilian's copious work we find The justest rules, and clearest method join'd; Thus useful arms in magazines we place, All rang'd in order, and dispos'd with grace, But less to please the eye, than arm the hand, Still fit for use, and ready at command.        Thee, bold Longinus! all the Nine inspire, And bless their critic with a poet's fire. An ardent judge, who zealous in his trust, With warmth gives sentence, yet is always just; Whose own example strengthens all his laws; And is himself that great sublime he draws.        Thus long succeeding critics justly reign'd, Licence repress'd, and useful laws ordain'd; Learning and Rome alike in empire grew, And arts still follow'd where her eagles flew; From the same foes, at last, both felt their doom, And the same age saw learning fall, and Rome. With tyranny, then superstition join'd, As that the body, this enslav'd the mind; Much was believ'd, but little understood, And to be dull was constru'd to be good; A second deluge learning thus o'er-run, And the monks finish'd what the Goths begun.        At length Erasmus, that great, injur'd name, (The glory of the priesthood, and the shame!) Stemm'd the wild torrent of a barb'rous age, And drove those holy Vandals off the stage.        But see! each Muse, in Leo's golden days, Starts from her trance, and trims her wither'd bays! Rome's ancient genius, o'er its ruins spread, Shakes off the dust, and rears his rev'rend head! Then sculpture and her sister-arts revive; Stones leap'd to form, and rocks began to live; With sweeter notes each rising temple rung; A Raphael painted, and a Vida sung. Immortal Vida! on whose honour'd brow The poet's bays and critic's ivy grow: Cremona now shall ever boast thy name, As next in place to Mantua, next in fame!        But soon by impious arms from Latium chas'd, Their ancient bounds the banished Muses pass'd; Thence arts o'er all the northern world advance; But critic-learning flourish'd most in France. The rules a nation born to serve, obeys, And Boileau still in right of Horace sways. But we, brave Britons, foreign laws despis'd, And kept unconquer'd, and uncivilis'd, Fierce for the liberties of wit, and bold, We still defied the Romans, as of old. Yet some there were, among the sounder few Of those who less presum'd, and better knew, Who durst assert the juster ancient cause, And here restor'd wit's fundamental laws. Such was the Muse, whose rules and practice tell "Nature's chief master-piece is writing well." Such was Roscommon—not more learn'd than good, With manners gen'rous as his noble blood; To him the wit of Greece and Rome was known, And ev'ry author's merit, but his own. Such late was Walsh—the Muse's judge and friend, Who justly knew to blame or to commend; To failings mild, but zealous for desert; The clearest head, and the sincerest heart. This humble praise, lamented shade! receive, This praise at least a grateful Muse may give: The Muse, whose early voice you taught to sing, Prescrib'd her heights, and prun'd her tender wing, (Her guide now lost) no more attempts to rise, But in low numbers short excursions tries: Content, if hence th' unlearn'd their wants may view, The learn'd reflect on what before they knew: Careless of censure, nor too fond of fame, Still pleas'd to praise, yet not afraid to blame, Averse alike to flatter, or offend, Not free from faults, nor yet too vain to mend.

The acknowledged master of the heroic couplet and one of the primary tastemakers of the Augustan age, British writer Alexander Pope was a central figure in the Neoclassical movement of the early 18th century. He is known for having perfected the rhymed couplet form of his idol, John Dryden, and...

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An Essay on Criticism Summary & Analysis by Alexander Pope

• Line-by-Line Explanation & Analysis
• Poetic Devices
• Vocabulary & References
• Form, Meter, & Rhyme Scheme
• Line-by-Line Explanations

Alexander Pope's "An Essay on Criticism" seeks to lay down rules of good taste in poetry criticism, and in poetry itself. Structured as an essay in rhyming verse, it offers advice to the aspiring critic while satirizing amateurish criticism and poetry. The famous passage beginning "A little learning is a dangerous thing" advises would-be critics to learn their field in depth, warning that the arts demand much longer and more arduous study than beginners expect. The passage can also be read as a warning against shallow learning in general. Published in 1711, when Alexander Pope was just 23, the "Essay" brought its author fame and notoriety while he was still a young poet himself.

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The Full Text of “From An Essay on Criticism: A little learning is a dangerous thing”

1 A little learning is a dangerous thing;

2 Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring:

3 There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain,

4 And drinking largely sobers us again.

5 Fired at first sight with what the Muse imparts,

6 In fearless youth we tempt the heights of Arts,

7 While from the bounded level of our mind,

8 Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind,

9 But, more advanced, behold with strange surprise

10 New, distant scenes of endless science rise!

11 So pleased at first, the towering Alps we try,

12 Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread the sky;

13 The eternal snows appear already past,

14 And the first clouds and mountains seem the last;

15 But those attained, we tremble to survey

16 The growing labours of the lengthened way,

17 The increasing prospect tires our wandering eyes,

18 Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise!

“From An Essay on Criticism: A little learning is a dangerous thing” Summary

“from an essay on criticism: a little learning is a dangerous thing” themes.

Shallow Learning vs. Deep Understanding

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Line-by-Line Explanation & Analysis of “From An Essay on Criticism: A little learning is a dangerous thing”

A little learning is a dangerous thing; Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring: There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain, And drinking largely sobers us again.

Fired at first sight with what the Muse imparts, In fearless youth we tempt the heights of Arts, While from the bounded level of our mind, Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind,

But, more advanced, behold with strange surprise New, distant scenes of endless science rise!

Lines 11-14

So pleased at first, the towering Alps we try, Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread the sky; The eternal snows appear already past, And the first clouds and mountains seem the last;

Lines 15-18

But those attained, we tremble to survey The growing labours of the lengthened way, The increasing prospect tires our wandering eyes, Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise!

“From An Essay on Criticism: A little learning is a dangerous thing” Symbols

The Mountains/Alps

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“From An Essay on Criticism: A little learning is a dangerous thing” Poetic Devices & Figurative Language

Alliteration.

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Extended Metaphor

“from an essay on criticism: a little learning is a dangerous thing” vocabulary.

Select any word below to get its definition in the context of the poem. The words are listed in the order in which they appear in the poem.

• A little learning
• Pierian spring
• Bounded level
• Short views
• The lengthened way
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Form, Meter, & Rhyme Scheme of “From An Essay on Criticism: A little learning is a dangerous thing”

Rhyme scheme, “from an essay on criticism: a little learning is a dangerous thing” speaker, “from an essay on criticism: a little learning is a dangerous thing” setting, literary and historical context of “from an essay on criticism: a little learning is a dangerous thing”, more “from an essay on criticism: a little learning is a dangerous thing” resources, external resources.

The Poem Aloud — Listen to an audiobook of Pope's "Essay on Criticism" (the "A little learning" passage starts at 12:57).

The Poet's Life — Read a biography of Alexander Pope at the Poetry Foundation.

"Alexander Pope: Rediscovering a Genius" — Watch a BBC documentary on Alexander Pope.

More on Pope's Life — A summary of Pope's life and work at Poets.org.

Pope at the British Library — More resources and articles on the poet.

LitCharts on Other Poems by Alexander Pope

Ode on Solitude

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An Essay on Criticism

1928 facsimile reprint.

CRITICISM .

In search of Wit these lose their common Sense , And then turn Criticks in their own Defence. Those hate as Rivals all that write; and others But envy Wits , as Eunuchs envy Lovers . All Fools have still an Itching to deride, And fain wou'd be upon the Laughing Side: If Mævius Scribble in Apollo ' s spight, There are, who judge still worse than he can write . Some have at first for Wits , then Poets past, Turn'd Criticks next, and prov'd plain Fools at last; Some neither can for Wits nor Criticks pass, As heavy Mules are neither Horse or 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, wou'd a hundred Tongues require, Or one vain Wit's , that wou'd a hundred tire. But you who seek to give and merit Fame, And justly bear a Critick'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 . Nature to all things fix'd the Limits fit, And wisely curb'd proud Man's pretending Wit: As on the Land while here the Ocean gains, In other Parts it leaves wide sandy Plains; Thus in the Soul while Memory prevails, The solid Pow'r of Understanding fails; Where Beams of warm Imagination play, The Memory's soft Figures melt away. One Science only will one Genius fit; So vast is Art, so narrow Human Wit; Not only bounded to peculiar Arts , But oft in those , confin'd to single Parts . Like Kings we lose the Conquests gain'd before, By vain Ambition still to make them more: Each might his sev'ral Province well command, Wou'd all but stoop to what they understand .

First follow Nature , and your Judgment frame By her just Standard, which is still the same: Unerring Nature , still divinely bright, One clear, unchang'd and Universal Light, Life, Force, and Beauty, must to all impart, At once the Source , and End , and Test of Art . That Art is best which most resembles Her ; Which still presides , yet never does Appear ; In some fair Body thus the sprightly Soul With Spirits feeds, with Vigour fills the whole, Each Motion guides, and ev'ry Nerve sustains; It self unseen , but in th' Effects , remains. There are whom Heav'n has blest with store of Wit, Yet want as much again to manage it; For Wit and Judgment ever are at strife, Tho' meant each other's Aid, like Man and Wife . 'Tis more to guide than spur the Muse's Steed; Restrain his Fury, than provoke his Speed; The winged Courser, like a gen'rous Horse, Shows most true Mettle when you check his Course.

Against the Poets their own Arms they turn'd, Sure to hate most the Men from whom they learn'd. So modern Pothecaries , taught the Art By Doctor's Bills to play the Doctor's Part , Bold in the Practice of mistaken Rules , Prescribe, apply, and call their Masters Fools . Some on the Leaves of ancient Authors prey, Nor Time nor Moths e'er spoil'd so much as they: Some dryly plain, without Invention's Aid, Write dull Receits how Poems may be made: These lost the Sense, their Learning to display, And those explain'd the Meaning quite away. You then whose Judgment the right Course wou'd steer, Know well each Ancient's proper Character , His Fable, Subject, Scope in ev'ry Page, Religion, Country, Genius of his Age : Without all these at once before your Eyes, You may Confound , but never Criticize . Be Homer ' s Works your Study , and Delight , Read them by Day, and meditate by Night,

And tho' the Ancients thus their Rules invade, (As Kings dispense with Laws Themselves have made) Moderns , beware! Or if you must offend Against the Precept , ne'er transgress its End , Let it be seldom , and compell'd by Need , And have, at least, Their Precedent to plead. The Critick else proceeds without Remorse, Seizes your Fame, and puts his Laws in force. I know there are, to whose presumptuous Thoughts Those Freer Beauties , ev'n in Them , seem Faults: Some Figures monstrous and mis-shap'd appear, Consider'd singly , or beheld too near , Which, but proportion'd to their Light , or Place , Due Distance reconciles to Form and Grace. A prudent Chief not always must display His Pow'rs in equal Ranks , and fair Array , But with th' Occasion and the Place comply, Oft hide his Force, nay seem sometimes to Fly . Those are but Stratagems which Errors seem, Nor is it Homer Nods , but We that Dream .

Still green with Bays each ancient Altar stands, Above the reach of Sacrilegious Hands, Secure from Flames , from Envy's fiercer Rage, Destructive War , and all-devouring Age . See, from each Clime the Learn'd their Incense bring; Hear, in all Tongues Triumphant Pæans ring! In Praise so just, let ev'ry Voice be join'd, And fill the Gen'ral Chorus of Mankind ! Hail Bards Triumphant ! born in happier Days ; Immortal Heirs of Universal Praise! Whose Honours with Increase of Ages grow , As Streams roll down, enlarging as they flow! Nations unborn your mighty Names shall sound, And Worlds applaud that must not yet be found ! Oh may some Spark of your Cœlestial Fire The last, the meanest of your Sons inspire, (That with weak Wings, from far, pursues your Flights; Glows while he reads , but trembles as he writes ) To teach vain Wits a Science little known , T' admire Superior Sense, and doubt their own!

OF all the Causes which conspire to blind Man's erring Judgment, and misguide the Mind, What the weak Head with strongest Byass rules, Is Pride , the never-failing Vice of Fools . Whatever Nature has in Worth deny'd, She gives in large Recruits of needful Pride ; For as in Bodies , thus in Souls , we find What wants in Blood and Spirits , swell'd with Wind ; Pride, where Wit fails, steps in to our Defence, And fills up all the mighty Void of Sense ! If once right Reason drives that Cloud away, Truth breaks upon us with resistless Day ; Trust not your self; but your Defects to know, Make use of ev'ry Friend —— and ev'ry Foe . A little Learning is a dang'rous Thing; Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian Spring: There shallow Draughts intoxicate the Brain, And drinking largely sobers us again.

Fir’d with the Charms fair Science does impart, In fearless Youth we tempt the Heights of Art; While from the bounded Level of our Mind, Short Views we take, nor see the Lengths behind , But more advanc'd , survey with strange Surprize New, distant Scenes of endless Science rise! So pleas'd at first, the towring Alps we try, Mount o'er the Vales, and seem to tread the Sky; Th' Eternal Snows appear already past, And the first Clouds and Mountains seem the last: But those attain'd , we tremble to survey The growing Labours of the lengthen'd Way, Th' increasing Prospect tires our wandring Eyes, Hills peep o'er Hills, and Alps on Alps arise! [4] A perfect Judge will read each Work of Wit With the same Spirit that its Author writ , Survey the Whole , nor seek slight Faults to find; Where Nature moves , and Rapture warms the Mind;

Nor lose, for that malignant dull Delight, The gen'rous Pleasure to be charm'd with Wit. But in such Lays as neither ebb , nor flow , Correctly cold , and regularly low , That shunning Faults, one quiet Tenour keep; We cannot blame indeed —— but we may sleep . In Wit, as Nature, what affects our Hearts Is not th' Exactness of peculiar Parts; 'Tis not a Lip , or Eye , we Beauty call, But the joint Force and full Result of all . Thus when we view some well-proportion'd Dome, The World ' s just Wonder, and ev'n thine O Rome !) No single Parts unequally surprize; All comes united to th' admiring Eyes; No monstrous Height, or Breadth, or Length appear; The Whole at once is Bold , and Regular . Whoever thinks a faultless Piece to see, Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be. In ev'ry Work regard the Writer's End , Since none can compass more than they Intend ;

All which, exact to Rule were brought about, Were but a Combate in the Lists left out. What! Leave the Combate out ? Exclaims the Knight; Yes, or we must renounce the Stagyrite . Not so by Heav'n (he answers in a Rage) Knights, Squires, and Steeds, must enter on the Stage . The Stage can ne'er so vast a Throng contain. Then build a New, or act it in a Plain . Thus Criticks, of less Judgment than Caprice , Curious , not Knowing , not exact , but nice , Form short Ideas ; and offend in Arts (As most in Manners ) by a Love to Parts . Some to Conceit alone their Taste confine, And glitt'ring Thoughts struck out at ev'ry Line; Pleas'd with a Work where nothing's just or fit; One glaring Chaos and wild Heap of Wit: Poets like Painters, thus, unskill'd to trace The naked Nature and the living Grace , With Gold and Jewels cover ev'ry Part, And hide with Ornaments their Want of Art .

[5] True Wit is Nature to Advantage drest, What oft was Thought , but ne'er so well Exprest , Something , whose Truth convinc'd at Sight we find, That gives us back the Image of our Mind: As Shades more sweetly recommend the Light, So modest Plainness sets off sprightly Wit: For Works may have more Wit than does 'em good, As Bodies perish through Excess of Blood . Others for Language all their Care express, And value Books , as Women Men , for Dress: Their Praise is still —— The Stile is excellent : The Sense , they humbly take upon Content. Words are like Leaves ; and where they most abound, Much Fruit of Sense beneath is rarely found. False Eloquence , like the Prismatic Glass , Its gawdy Colours spreads on ev'ry place ; The Face of Nature was no more Survey, All glares alike , without Distinction gay:

Where-e'er you find the cooling Western Breeze , In the next Line, it whispers thro' the Trees ; If Chrystal Streams with pleasing Murmurs creep , The Reader's threaten'd (not in vain) with Sleep . Then, at the last , and only Couplet fraught With some unmeaning Thing they call a Thought , A needless Alexandrine ends the Song, That like a wounded Snake, drags its slow length along. Leave such to tune their own dull Rhimes, and know What's roundly smooth , or languishingly slow ; And praise the Easie Vigor of a Line, Where Denham ' s Strength, and Waller ' s Sweetness join. 'Tis not enough no Harshness gives Offence, The Sound must seem an Eccho to the Sense . Soft is the Strain when Zephyr gently blows, And the smooth Stream in smoother Numbers flows; But when loud Surges lash the sounding Shore, The hoarse, rough Verse shou'd like the Torrent roar. When Ajax strives, some Rocks' vast Weight to throw, The Line too labours , and the Words move slow ;

Not so, when swift Camilla scours the Plain, Flies o'er th'unbending Corn, and skims along the Main. Hear how [10] Timotheus ' various Lays surprize, And bid Alternate Passions fall and rise! While, at each Change, the Son of Lybian Jove Now burns with Glory, and then melts with Love; Now his fierce Eyes with sparkling Fury glow; Now Sighs steal out, and Tears begin to flow : Persians and Greeks like Turns of Nature found, And the World's Victor stood subdu'd by Sound ! The Pow'r of Musick all our Hearts allow; And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now. Avoid Extreams ; and shun the Fault of such, Who still are pleas'd too little , or too much . At ev'ry Trifle scorn to take Offence, That always shows Great Pride , or Little Sense ; Those Heads as Stomachs are not sure the best Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest.

Yet let not each gay Turn thy Rapture move, For Fools Admire , but Men of Sense Approve ; As things seem large which we thro' Mists descry, Dulness is ever apt to Magnify . Some French Writers, some our own despise; The Ancients only, or the Moderns prize: Thus Wit , like Faith by each Man is apply'd To one small Sect , and All are damn'd beside. Meanly they seek the Blessing to confine, And force that Sun but on a Part to Shine; Which not alone the Southern Wit sublimes, But ripens Spirits in cold Northern Climes ; Which from the first has shone on Ages past , Enlights the present , and shall warm the last: (Tho' each may feel Increases and Decays , And see now clearer and now darker Days ) Regard not then if Wit be Old or New , But blame the False , and value still the True . Some ne'er advance a Judgment of their own, But catch the spreading Notion of the Town;

They reason and conclude by Precedent , And own stale Nonsense which they ne'er invent. Some judge of Author's Names , not Works , and then Nor praise nor damn the Writings , but the Men . Of all this Servile Herd the worst is He That in proud Dulness joins with Quality , A constant Critick at the Great-man's Board, To fetch and carry Nonsense for my Lord. What woful stuff this Madrigal wou'd be, To some starv'd Hackny Sonneteer, or me? But let a Lord once own the happy Lines , How the Wit brightens ! How the Style refines ! Before his sacred Name flies ev'ry Fault, And each exalted Stanza teems with Thought! The Vulgar thus through Imitation err; As oft the Learn'd by being Singular ; So much they scorn the Crowd, that if the Throng By Chance go right, they purposely go wrong; So Schismatics the dull Believers quit, And are but damn'd for having too much Wit .

Some praise at Morning what they blame at Night; But always think the last Opinion right . A Muse by these is like a Mistress us'd, This hour she's idoliz'd , the next abus'd , While their weak Heads, like Towns unfortify'd, 'Twixt Sense and Nonsense daily change their Side. Ask them the Cause; They're wiser still , they say; And still to Morrow's wiser than to Day. We think our Fathers Fools, so wise we grow; Our wiser Sons , no doubt, will think us so. Once School-Divines our zealous Isle o'erspread; Who knew most Sentences was deepest read ; Faith, Gospel, All, seem'd made to be disputed , And none had Sense enough to be Confuted . Scotists and Thomists , now, in Peace remain, Amidst their kindred Cobwebs in Duck-Lane . If Faith it self has diff'rent Dresses worn, What wonder Modes in Wit shou'd take their Turn? Oft, leaving what is Natural and fit, The current Folly proves the ready Wit ,

And Authors think their Reputation safe, Which lives as long as Fools are pleas'd to Laugh . Some valuing those of their own Side , or Mind , Still make themselves the measure of Mankind; Fondly we think we honour Merit then, When we but praise Our selves in Other Men . Parties in Wit attend on those of State , And publick Faction doubles private Hate. Pride, Malice, Folly , against Dryden rose, In various Shapes of Parsons, Criticks, Beaus ; But Sense surviv'd, when merry Jests were past; For rising Merit will buoy up at last. Might he return, and bless once more our Eyes, New Bl —— —s and new M —— —s must arise; Nay shou'd great Homer lift his awful Head, Zoilus again would start up from the Dead. Envy will Merit as its Shade pursue, But like a Shadow, proves the Substance too; For envy'd Wit, like Sol Eclips'd, makes known Th' opposing Body's Grossness, not its own .

When first that Sun too powerful Beams displays, It draws up Vapours which obscure its Rays; But ev'n those Clouds at last adorn its Way, Reflect new Glories, and augment the Day. Be thou the first true Merit to befriend; His Praise is lost, who stays till All commend; Short is the Date, alas, of Modern Rhymes ; And 'tis but just to let 'em live betimes . No longer now that Golden Age appears, When Patriarch-Wits surviv'd a thousand Years , Now Length of Fame (our second Life) is lost, And bare Threescore is all ev'n That can boast: Our Sons their Fathers' failing Language see, And such as Chaucer is, shall Dryden be. So when the faithful Pencil has design'd Some fair Idea of the Master's Mind, Where a new World leaps out at his command, And ready Nature waits upon his Hand; When the ripe Colours soften and unite , And sweetly melt into just Shade and Light,

When mellowing Time does full Perfection give, And each Bold Figure just begins to Live ; The treach'rous Colours the few Years decay, And all the bright Creation fades away! Unhappy Wit , like most mistaken Things, Repays not half that Envy which it brings: In Youth alone its empty Praise we boast, But soon the Short-liv'd Vanity is lost! Like some fair Flow'r the in the Spring does rise, That gaily Blooms, but ev'n in blooming Dies . What is this Wit that does our Cares employ? The Owner's Wife , that other Men enjoy, Then more his Trouble as the more admir'd , Where wanted , scorn'd, and envy'd where acquir'd ; Maintain'd with Pains , but forfeited with Ease ; Sure some to vex , but never all to please ; 'Tis what the Vicious fear , the Virtuous shun ; By Fools 'tis hated , and by Knaves undone! Too much does Wit from Ign'rance undergo, Ah let not Learning too commence its Foe!

Of old , those met Rewards who cou'd excel , And such were Prais'd who but endeavour'd well : Tho' Triumphs were to Gen'rals only due, Crowns were reserv'd to grace the Soldiers too. Now those that reach Parnassus ' lofty Crown, Employ their Pains to spurn some others down; And while Self-Love each jealous Writer rules, Contending Wits becomes the Sport of Fools : But still the Worst with most Regret commend, For each Ill Author is as bad a Friend . To what base Ends, and by what abject Ways , Are Mortals urg'd by Sacred Lust of Praise ? Ah ne'er so dire a Thirst of Glory boast, Nor in the Critick let the Man be lost! Good-Nature and Good-Sense must ever join; To err is Humane ; to Forgive, Divine . But if in Noble Minds some Dregs remain, Not yet purg'd off, of Spleen and sow'r Disdain, Discharge that Rage on more Provoking Crimes, Nor fear a Dearth in these Flagitious Times.

No Pardon vile Obscenity should find, Tho' Wit and Art conspire to move your Mind; But Dulness with Obscenity must prove As Shameful sure as Impotence in Love . In the fat Age of Pleasure, Wealth, and Ease, Sprung the rank Weed, and thriv'd with large Increase; When Love was all an easie Monarch's Care; Seldom at Council , never in a War : Jilts rul'd the State, and Statesmen Farces writ; Nay Wits had Pensions , and young Lords had Wit : The Fair sate panting at a Courtier's Play , And not a Mask went un-improv'd away: The modest Fan was lifted up no more, And Virgins smil'd at what they blush'd before —— The following Licence of a Foreign Reign Did all the Dregs of bold Socinus drain; Then first the Belgian Morals were extoll'd; We their Religion had, and they our Gold: Then Unbelieving Priests reform'd the Nation, And taught more Pleasant Methods of Salvation;

Where Heav'ns Free Subjects might their Rights dispute, Lest God himself shou'd seem too Absolute . Pulpits their Sacred Satire learn'd to spare, And Vice admir'd to find a Flatt'rer there! Encourag'd thus, Witt's Titans brav'd the Skies, And the Press groan'd with Licenc'd Blasphemies —— These Monsters, Criticks! with your Darts engage, Here point your Thunder, and exhaust your Rage! Yet shun their Fault, who, Scandalously nice , Will needs mistake an Author into Vice ; All seems Infected that th' Infected spy, As all looks yellow to the Jaundic'd Eye. Learn then what Morals Criticks ought to show, For 'tis but half a Judge's Task , to Know . 'Tis not enough, Wit, Art, and Learning join; In all you speak, let Truth and Candor shine: That not alone what to your Judgment ' s due, All may allow; but seek your Friendship too.

Be silent always when you doubt your Sense; Speak when you're sure , yet speak with Diffidence ; Some positive persisting Fops we know, Who, if once wrong , will needs be always so ; But you, with Pleasure own your Errors past, And make each Day a Critick on the last. 'Tis not enough your Counsel still be true , Blunt Truths more Mischief than nice Falshoods do; Men must be taught as if you taught them not ; And Things ne'er known propos'd as Things forgot : Without Good Breeding, Truth is not approv'd, That only makes Superior Sense belov'd . Be Niggards of Advice on no Pretence; For the worst Avarice is that of Sense : With mean Complacence ne'er betray your Trust, Nor be so Civil as to prove Unjust ; Fear not the Anger of the Wise to raise; Those best can bear Reproof , who merit Praise .

'Twere well, might Criticks still this Freedom take; But Appius reddens at each Word you speak, And stares, Tremendous ! with a threatning Eye , Like some fierce Tyrant in Old Tapestry ! Fear most to tax an Honourable Fool, Whose Right it is, uncensur'd to be dull; Such without Wit are Poets when they please, As without Learning they can take Degrees . Leave dang'rous Truths to unsuccessful Satyrs , And Flattery to fulsome Dedicators , Whom, when they Praise , the World believes no more, Than when they promise to give Scribling o'er. 'Tis best sometimes your Censure to restrain, And charitably let the Dull be vain : Your Silence there is better than your Spite , For who can rail so long as they can write ? Still humming on, their old dull Course they keep, And lash'd so long, like Tops , are lash'd asleep .

False Steps but help them to renew the Race, As after Stumbling , Jades will mend their Pace. What Crouds of these, impenitently bold, In Sounds and jingling Syllables grown old, Still run on Poets in a raging Vein, Ev'n to the Dregs and Squeezings of the Brain ; Strain out the last, dull droppings of their Sense, And Rhyme with all the Rage of Impotence ! Such shameless Bards we have; and yet 'tis true, There are as mad, abandon'd Criticks too. [11] The Bookful Blockhead, ignorantly read, With Loads of Learned Lumber in his Head, With his own Tongue still edifies his Ears, And always List'ning to Himself appears. All Books he reads, and all he reads assails, From Dryden ' s Fables down to D —— — y ' s Tales .

Tho' Learn'd well-bred; and tho' well-bred, sincere; Modestly bold, and Humanly severe? Who to a Friend his Faults can freely show, And gladly praise the Merit of a Foe ? Blest with a Taste exact, yet unconfin'd; A Knowledge both of Books and Humankind ; Gen'rous Converse ; a Soul exempt from Pride ; And Love to Praise , with Reason on his Side? Such once were Criticks , such the Happy Few , Athens and Rome in better Ages knew. The mighty Stagyrite first left the Shore, Spread all his Sails, and durst the Deeps explore; He steer'd securely, and discover'd far, Led by the Light of the Mæonian Star . Not only Nature did his Laws obey, But Fancy's boundless Empire own'd his Sway. Poets, a Race long unconfin'd and free, Still fond and proud of Savage Liberty ,

Receiv'd his Laws, and stood convinc'd 'twas fit Who conquer'd Nature , shou'd preside o'er Wit . Horace still charms with graceful Negligence, And without Method talks us into Sense, Does like a Friend familiarly convey The truest Notions in the easiest way . He, who Supream in Judgment, as in Wit, Might boldly censure, as he boldly writ, Yet judg'd with Coolness tho' he sung with Fire ; His Precepts teach but what his Works inspire. Our Criticks take a contrary Extream, They judge with Fury , but they write with Fle'me: Nor suffers Horace more in wrong Translations By Wits , than Criticks in as wrong Quotations . Fancy and Art in gay Petronius please, The Scholar's Learning , with the Courtier's Ease . In grave Quintilian ' s copious Work we find The justest Rules , and clearest Method join'd;

Thus useful Arms in Magazines we place, All rang'd in Order , and dispos'd with Grace , Nor thus alone the Curious Eye to please, But to be found , when Need requires, with Ease. The Muses sure Longinus did inspire, And blest their Critick with a Poet's Fire . An ardent Judge , that Zealous in his Trust, With Warmth gives Sentence, yet is always Just ; Whose own Example strengthens all his Laws, And Is himself that great Sublime he draws. Thus long succeeding Criticks justly reign'd, Licence repress'd, and useful Laws ordain'd; Learning and Rome alike in Empire grew, And Arts still follow'd where her Eagles flew ; From the same Foes, at last, both felt their Doom, And the same Age saw Learning fall, and Rome . With Tyranny , then Superstition join'd, As that the Body , this enslav'd the Mind ;

All was Believ'd , but nothing understood , And to be dull was constru'd to be good ; A second Deluge Learning thus o'er-run, And the Monks finish'd what the Goths begun. At length, Erasmus , that great, injur'd Name, (The Glory of the Priesthood, and the Shame !) Stemm'd the wild Torrent of a barb'rous Age , And drove those Holy Vandals off the Stage. But see! each Muse , in Leo ' s Golden Days, Starts from her Trance, and trims her wither'd Bays! Rome ' s ancient Genius , o'er its Ruins spread, Shakes off the Dust , and rears his rev'rend Head! Then Sculpture and her Sister-Arts revive; Stones leap'd to Form , and Rocks began to live ; With sweeter Notes each rising Temple rung; A Raphael painted, and a [12] Vida sung!

Immortal Vida ! on whose honour'd Brow The Poet's Bays and Critick's Ivy grow: Cremona now shall ever boast thy Name, As next in Place to Mantua , next in Fame! But soon by Impious Arms from Latium chas'd, Their ancient Bounds the banish'd Muses past: Thence Arts o'er all the Northern World advance, But Critic Learning flourish'd most in France . The Rules , a Nation born to serve, obeys, And Boileau still in Right of Horace sways. But we , brave Britains, Foreign Laws despis'd, And kept unconquer'd and unciviliz'd , Fierce for the Liberties of Wit , and bold, We still defy'd the Romans as of old . Yet some there were, among the sounder Few Of those who less presum'd , and better knew ,

Who durst assert the juster Ancient Cause , And here restor'd Wit's Fundamental Laws . Such was the Muse, whose Rules and Practice tell, Nature's chief Master-piece is writing well. Such was Roscomon —— not more learn'd than good , With Manners gen'rous as his Noble Blood; To him the Wit of Greece and Rome was known, And ev'ry Author's Merit , but his own. Such late was Walsh , —— the Muse's Judge and Friend, Who justly knew to blame or to commend; To Failings mild , but zealous for Desert; The clearest Head , and the sincerest Heart . This humble Praise, lamented Shade' ! receive, This Praise at least a grateful Muse may give! The Muse, whose early Voice you taught to Sing, Prescrib'd her Heights, and prun'd her tender Wing, (Her Guide now lost) no more attempts to rise , But in low Numbers short Excursions tries:

Content, if hence th' Unlearned their Wants may view, The Learn'd reflect on what before they knew: Careless of Censure , not too fond of Fame , Still pleas'd to praise , yet not afraid to blame , Averse alike to Flatter , or Offend , Not free from Faults, nor yet too vain to mend .

• ↑ —— De Pictore, Sculptore, Fictore, nisi Artifex judicare non potest . Pliny.
• ↑ Omnes tacito quodam sensu, sine ulla arte, aut ratione, quæ sint in artibus ac rationibus recta ac prava dijudicant. Cic. de Orat. lib.3.
• ↑ Neque tam sancta sunt ista Præcepta, sed quicquid est, Utilitas excogitavit; Non negabo autem sic utile esse plerunque; verum si eadem illa nobis aliud suadebit utilitas, hanc relictis magistrorum autoritatibus, sequemur. Quintil. l. 2. cap. 13.
• ↑ Diligenter legendum est, ac pœne ad scribendi sollicitudinem: Nec per partes modo scrutanda sunt omnia, sed perlectus liber utique ex Integro resumendus. Quintilian.
• ↑ Naturam intueamur, hanc sequamur; Id facillimè accipiunt animi quod agnoscunt. Quintil. lib. 8. c. 3.
• ↑ Abolita & abrogata retinere, insolentiæ cujusdam est, & frivolæ in parvis jactantiæ. Quint. lib. 1. c. 6. Opus est ut Verba a vetustate repetita neque crebra sint, neque manifesta, quia nil est odiosius affectatione, nec utique ab ultimis repetita temporibus. Oratio, cujus summa virtus est perspicuitas, quam sit vitiosa si egeat interprete? Ergo ut novorum optima erunt maximè vetera, ita veterum maximè nova. Idem.
• ↑ Ben. Johnson ' s Every Man in his Humour .
• ↑ Quis populi sermo est? quis enim? nisi carmine molli Nunc demum numero fluere, ut per severos Effugit junctura ungues: scit tendere versum, Non secus ac si oculo rubricam dirigat uno . Persius , Sat. 1.
• ↑ Fugiemus crebras vocalium concursiones, quæ vastam atque hiantem orationem reddunt . Cic. ad Herenn. lib. 4. Vide etiam Quintil. lib. 9. c. 4.
• ↑ Alexander ' s Feast, or the Power of Musick; An Ode by Mr. Dryden.
• ↑ Nihil pejus est iis, qui paullum aliquid ultra primas litteras progressi, falsam sibi scientiæ persuasionem induerunt: Nam & cedere præcipiendi peritis indignantur, & velut jure quodam potestatis, quo ferè hoc hominum genus intumescit, imperiosi, atque interim sævientes, Stultitiam suam perdocent. Quintil. lib. I. ch. 1.
• ↑ M. Hieronymus Vida , an excellent Latin Poet, who writ an Art of Poetry in Verse .

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AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM

by John Oldmixon

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An Essay on Criticism

Alexander pope.

Available to download for free in PDF, epub, and Kindle (mobi and AZW3) ebook formats. Or read online. Skip straight to downloads.

Description

An Essay on Criticism is one of the first major poems written by the English writer Alexander Pope. It is a verse essay written in the Horatian mode and is primarily concerned with how writers and critics behave in the new literary commerce of Pope's contemporary age. The poem covers a range of good criticism and advice, and represents many of the chief literary ideals of Pope's age. Includes an introductory chapter about the author.

This book has 8,851 words, 23 pages in the PDF version, and was originally published in 1711.

Production notes: This ebook of An Essay on Criticism was published by Global Grey in 2019, and updated on the 30th December 2022. The artwork used for the cover is 'Alexander Pope' by Michael Dahl.

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An Essay on "An Essay on Criticism": Derision as Inspiration

This paper responds to Alexander Pope's derisive reproach of his contemporary literary critics in "An Essay on Criticism" (1711). His condescending tone initially intimidates, then challenges a stubborn reader who longs to prove him wrong. In stumbling verse, my speaker's rhyming thoughts capture a shifting attitude, moving from intimidation to defiance. Though it uses an unconventional, admittedly less explicit argumentative style, this paper demonstrates how Pope's derision might have inspired his contemporaries to clean up their act.

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Plato's Protagoras is a unique text in the history of criticism, the only extended example of practical poetic criticism that we have from classical Greece. This long passage (338e-347c) shows a group of fifth-century intellectual luminaries debating the meaning of a dense lyric poem by Simonides: the text is quoted at length and its language examined closely and methodically - and wildly. My paper first attempts to pinpoint how this passage - often written off as a parody or a joke or misunderstood as a simplistic polemic against 'sophistry' - fits into the work. I argue that Plato is more serious here than is usually supposed, and that the passage gives his best account of the uses and limits of literary criticism. In a coda, I consider an analysis of the passage by Glenn Most and suggest that the role of memory in interpretation is overlooked in academic criticism.

Journal of Narrative and Language Studies

This article contextualizes the eighteenth-century English poet Alexander Pope's An Essay on Criticism (1711) and his other literary essays in order to elicit Pope's contributions to the neoclassical norm. Exploring the aesthetic interchanges between Pope and his predecessors and contemporaries, I endeavor to show how Pope's poetry and prose have tackled the difficult task of unifying antithetical categories of invention and judgment into the Johnsonian " general nature. "

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This paper discusses Pope’s Essay on Criticism in terms of Derek Attridge’s theory of creativity. It argues that Pope’s text is fundamentally based on the same commitment to the other that Attridge describes as constitutive of the singularity of literature and hence the 300-year-old Essay is a vital text which communicates itself to the present in significant ways. The success of poetry for Pope depends primarily on an appropriate relation to nature and the first chapter of this paper argues that the way Pope describes this relation is very similar to Attridge’s description of the relation to the other. The three subsequent chapters discuss how Pope’s concept of “expression” continues this theme and describes the pitfalls as well as the success of relating to nature as the other. The last two sections discuss the Essay’s treatment of the rules. It is shown that the way the rules are presented in the Essay reflects Pope’s fundamental ethical commitment no less than his concepts of na...

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