--------Si quid novifti rectius iftis, Candidus imperti; fi non, his utere mecum.

HORAT.

T

A N

ESSAY

ON

CRITICISM.

T

IS hard to fay, if greater want of skill
Appear in writing or in judging ill;
But, of the two, lefs dang'rous is th' offence
To tire our patience, than mislead our fenfe.
Some few in that, but numbers err in this,
Ten cenfure wrong for one who writes amifs;
A fool might once himself alone expose,
Now one in verse makes many more in profe.
'Tis with our judgments as our watches, none
Go just alike, yet each believes his own.

In

71

In Poets as true Genius is but rare,

True Tafte as feldom is the Critic's fhare;
Both must alike from heav'n derive their light,
These born to judge, as well as those to write.
Let * fuch teach others who themselves excell,
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 feeds 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 flighteft sketch, if juftly trac'd,
Is by ill colouring but the more difgrac❜d,
So by falfe learning is good fenfe defac'd:
Some are bewilder'd in the maze of fchools,
And fome made coxcombs nature meant but fools.
In fearch of wit thefe lofe their common fense,
And then turn Critics in their own defence:

* Qui fcribit artificiofe, ab aliis commodè fcripta facile intelligere poterit. Cic. ad Herenn. lib. 4.

+ Omnes tacito quodam fenfu, fine ulla arte, aut ratione, que fiet in artibus ac rationibus recta ac prava dijudicant. Cic. de Orat. lib. 3.

3

But

Thofe hate as rivals all that write; and others But envy wits, as eunuchs envy lovers.

All fuch have still an itching to deride,

And fain would be upon the laughing fide:
If Mævius fcribble in Apollo's fpight,

There are, who judge ftill worse than he can write.
Some have at first for Wits, then Poets past,
Turn'd Critics next, and prov'd plain fools at last.
Some neither can for Wits nor Critics pass,
As heavy mules are neither horfe nor ass.
Those half-learn'd witlings, num'rous in our isle,
As half-form'd infects on the banks of Nile;
Unfinish'd things, one knows not what to call,
Their generation's fo 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 fure your self and your own reach to know,
How far your genius, taste, and learning go;
Launch not beyond your depth, but be difcreet,
And mark that point where sense and dulnefs meet.
Nature

U