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T IS hard to say, if greater want of skill
I 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 ert 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 juft 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.
+ Qui scribit artificiofe, ab aliis commode fcripta facile intelligere poterit.
Çoc. ad Herenn. b. 4..
VICTU difficile est, an fit dementia major: U Egiffe invitâ vatem criticumne Minervâ ;. Ille tamen certe venia tibi dignior errat. Qui lassat, quam qui feducit in avia, sensus. Sunt, qui absurda canunt; sed enim ftultissima stultos - 5 Quam longe exuperat criticorum natio vates; Se folum exhibuit quondam, melioribus annis Natus hebes; ridendum; at nunc musa imprcba prolem Innumeram gignit, quæ mox fermone soluto Æquiparet ftolidos versus, certetque ftupendo. 10
Nobis judicium, veluti quæ dividit horas Machina, construitur, motus non omnibus idem, Non pretium, regit usque tamen sua quemque. Poetas Divite perpaucos venâ donavit Apollo, Et criticis recte fapere est rariffima virtus; Arte in utraque nitent felices indole soli, Musaque quos placido nascentes lumine vidit. Ille alios melius, qui inclaruit ipse, docebit, Jureque quam meruit, poterit tribuisse coronanı.
Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true ;
But are not criticks 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 slightest sketch, if justly trac’d,
Is by ill-colouring but the more disgrac’d,
So by false learning is good fense defac’d.
Some are bewilder'd in the maze of schools,
And some made coxcombs, nature meant but sools.
In search of wit, those lose their common sense,
And then turn criticks in their own defence.
Each burns alike, who can, or cannot write,
Or with a rival's, or an eunuch’s fpite.
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 or criticks pass,
As heavy mules are neither horse, nor ass.
+ Omnes tacito quodam fenfu, sine ullâ arte, aut ratione, quæ sint in artibus ac rationibus recta ac prava dijudicant.
Cic. de Orat. lib. 3.
Scriptores (fateor) fidunt propriæ nimis arti,
Nonne autem criticos pravus favor urget ibidem ?
At vero propius fi ftemus, cuique fatendum est,
Judicium quoddam natura inseverit olim :
Illa diem certe dubiam diffundere callet
Et, ftrictim defcripta licet, fibi linea conftat. 25
Sed minimum ut specimen, quod pictor doctus adumbrat,
Deterius tibi fiat eo mage, quo mage vilem
Inducas isti fucum, fic mentis honestæ
Doctrina effigiem maculabit prava decoram.
His inter cæcas mens illaqueata scholarum
Ambages errat, stolidisque supervenit illis
(Diis aliter visum eft) petulantia. Perdere sensum
Communem hi sudant, dum frustra ascendere Pindum
Conantur, mox, ut se defensoribus ipfis
Utantur, critici quoque fiunt: omnibus idem
35 Ardor scribendi, studio hi rivalis aguntur, Illis invalida Eunuchi violentia gliscit. Ridendi proprium est fatuis cacoethes, amantque Turbæ perpetuo sese immiscere jocosa. Mævius invito dum fudat Apolline, multi Pingue opus exuperant (fi diis placet) emendando.
Sunt qui belli homines primo, tum deinde poetæ, Mox critici evasère, meri tum denique stulti. Et, qui nec criticum nec vatem reddit, inesque Ut mulus, medium quoddam eft asinum inter equmuque.
Those half-learn’d witlings num'rous in our ifle,
As half-form'd insects on the banks of Nile,
Unfinish'd things one knows not what to call,
Their generation's fo equivocal :
To tell 'em, wou'd 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 critick’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 wifely 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, fo 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.