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Learn then what morals critics ought to show,For 'tis but half a judge's task, to know.
— An Essay on Criticism
Learn then what morals critics ought to show,For 'tis but half a judge's task, to know.
Be silent always when you doubt your sense.
'Tis not enough your Counsel still be true,And Things unknown propos'd as Things forgot.
The bookful blockhead, ignorantly read,All books he reads, and all he reads assails.
No Place so Sacred from such Fops is barr'd,For fools rush in where angels fear to tread.
But where's the man who counsel can bestow,Still pleased to teach, and yet not proud to know?
Careless of censure, nor too fond of fame,Not free from faults, nor yet too vain to mend.
Ten Censure wrong for one who Writes amiss.
'Tis with our judgements as our watches, noneGo just alike, yet each believes his own.
Let such teach others who themselves excel,And censure freely who have written well.
Some are bewildered in the maze of schools,And some made coxcombs nature meant but fools.
One science only will one genius fit:So vast is art, so narrow human wit.
Wit and judgment often are at strife,Though meant each other's aid, like man and wife.
Some Figures monstrous and mis-shap'd appear, Due Distance reconciles to Form and Grace.
A prudent Chief not always must display Nor is it Homer Nods, but We that Dream.
Of all the causes which conspire to blind Is pride, the never-failing vice of fools.
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;And drinking largely sobers us again.
'Tis not a lip, or eye, we beauty call,But the joint force and full result of all.
Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see,Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be.
True wit is nature to advantage dressed,What oft was thought, but ne'er so well expressed.
Words are like leaves; and where they most abound,Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found.
Such labored nothings, in so strange a style,Amaze th' unlearned, and make the learned smile.
In words, as fashions, the same rule will hold,Nor yet the last to lay the old aside.
As some to church repair,And ten low words oft creep in one dull line.
Then, at the last and only couplet fraughtThat, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.
At ev'ry Trifle scorn to take Offence, That always shows Great Pride, or Little Sense.
Yet not let each gay turn thy rapture move;For fools admire, but men of sense approve.
Some judge of authors' names, not works, and thenNor praise nor blame the writings, but the men.
What woeful stuff this madrigal would be,How the wit brightens! how the style refines!
Some praise at morning what they blame at night,But always think the last opinion right.
We think our fathers fools, so wise we grow;Our wiser sons, no doubt, will think us so.
Fondly we think we honour Merit then,When we but praise Our selves in Other Men.
Be thou the first true Merit to befriend;His praise is lost, who stays till All commend.
Ah ne'er so dire a Thirst of Glory boast,To err is human, to forgive divine.
All seems Infected that th' Infected spy,As all looks yellow to the Jaundic'd Eye.
