An Essay on Criticism | Page 7

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.
* * * * *

PART III.
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