Alexander Pope

Here you will find the Long Poem An Essay on Criticism of poet Alexander Pope

An Essay on Criticism

Part I

INTRODUCTION. That it is as great a fault to judge ill as to write ill, and a more dangerous one to the public. That a true Taste is as rare to be found as a true Genius. That most men are born with some Taste, but spoiled by false education. The multitude of Critics, and causes of them. That we are to study our own Taste, and know the limits of it. Nature the best guide of judgment. Improved by Art and rules, which are but methodized Nature. Rules derived from the practice of the ancient poets. That therefore the ancients are necessary to be studied by a Critic, particularly Homer and Virgil. Of licenses, and the use of them by the ancients. Reverence due to the ancients, and praise of them. 

'Tis hard to say if greater want of skill 
Appear in writing or in judging ill; 
But of the two less dangerous 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 traced, 
Is by ill col'ring but the more disgraced, 
So by false learning is good sense defaced: 
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, numerous 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 them would a hundred tongues required, 
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 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 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 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: 
Now 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, 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 th'informing soul 
With spirits feeds, with vigour fills the whole; 
Each motion guides, and every 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 
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 mettel when you check his course. 

Those rules of old, discover'd, not devised, 
Are Nature still, but Nat