An Essay on Criticism in Modern English

This eminent English poet was born in London, May 21, 1688. His parents were Roman Catholics, and to this faith the poet adhered, thus debarring himself from public office and employment. His father, a linen merchant, having saved a moderate competency, withdrew from business, and settled on a small estate he had purchased in Windsor Forest. He died at Chiswick, in 1717. His son shortly afterwards took a long lease of a house and five acres of land at Twickenham, on the banks of the Thames, whither he retired with his widowed mother, to whom he was tenderly attached and where he resided till death, cultivating his little domain with exquisite taste and skill, and embellishing it with a grotto, temple, wilderness, and other adjuncts poetical and picturesque. In this famous villa Pope was visited by the most celebrated wits, statesmen and beauties of the day, himself being the most popular and successful poet of his age. His early years were spent at Binfield, within the range of the Royal Forest. He received some education at little Catholic schools, but was his own instructor after his twelfth year. He never was a profound or accurate scholar, but he read Latin poets with ease and delight, and acquired some Greek, French, and Italian. He was a poet almost from infancy, he "lisped in numbers," and when a mere youth surpassed all his contemporaries in metrical harmony and correctness. His pastorals and some translations appeared in 1709, but were written three or four years earlier. These were followed by the Essay on Criticism, 1711; Rape of the Lock (when completed, the most graceful, airy, and imaginative of his works), 1712-1714; Windsor Forest, 1713; Temple of Fame, 1715. In a collection of his works printed in 1717 he included the Epistle of Eloisa and Elegy on an Unfortunate Lady, two poems inimitable for pathetic beauty and finished melodious versification.

This prominent English poet was born in London on May 21, 1688. His parents were Roman Catholics, and he remained committed to that faith, which prevented him from holding public office or employment. His father, a linen merchant, had saved a decent amount of money, retired from business, and settled on a small estate he bought in Windsor Forest. He passed away in Chiswick in 1717. Shortly after, his son took a long lease on a house and five acres of land in Twickenham, along the Thames, where he moved in with his widowed mother, to whom he was very close, and lived until his death. He cultivated his small estate with great skill and taste, enhancing it with a grotto, a temple, a wilderness, and other poetic and picturesque features. At this famous villa, Pope welcomed the most renowned wits, statesmen, and beauties of the time, being himself the most popular and successful poet of his generation. He spent his early years in Binfield, within the boundaries of the Royal Forest. He received some education at small Catholic schools but was largely self-taught after the age of twelve. Although he was never a deep or precise scholar, he read Latin poets with ease and enjoyment and picked up some Greek, French, and Italian. He began writing poetry almost from childhood; he "lisped in numbers," and as a young man, he outperformed all his peers in rhythm and accuracy. His pastorals and some translations were published in 1709 but were written three or four years earlier. These were followed by the Essay on Criticism in 1711, Rape of the Lock (which, when finished, became the most graceful, light, and imaginative of his works) from 1712 to 1714, Windsor Forest in 1713, and Temple of Fame in 1715. In a collection of his works printed in 1717, he included the Epistle of Eloisa and Elegy on an Unfortunate Lady, two poems unmatched for their emotional beauty and finely crafted melodic verse.

From 1715 till 1726 Pope was chiefly engaged on his translations of the Iliad and Odyssey, which, though wanting in time Homeric simplicity, naturalness, and grandeur, are splendid poems. In 1728-29 he published his greatest satire—the Dunciad, an attack on all poetasters and pretended wits, and on all other persons against whom the sensitive poet had conceived any enmity. In 1737 he gave to the world a volume of his Literary Correspondence, containing some pleasant gossip and observations, with choice passages of description but it appears that the correspondence was manufactured for publication not composed of actual letters addressed to the parties whose names are given, and the collection was introduced to the public by means of an elaborate stratagem on the part of the scheming poet. Between the years 1731 and 1739 he issued a series of poetical essays moral and philosophical, with satires and imitations of Horace, all admirable for sense, wit, spirit and brilliancy of these delightful productions, the most celebrated is the Essay on Man to which Bolingbroke is believed to have contributed the spurious philosophy and false sentiment, but its merit consists in detached passages, descriptions, and pictures. A fourth book to the Dunciad, containing many beautiful and striking lines and a general revision of his works, closed the poet's literary cares and toils. He died on the 30th of May, 1744, and was buried in the church at Twickenham.

From 1715 to 1726, Pope focused mainly on his translations of the Iliad and Odyssey, which, while lacking the simplicity, naturalness, and grandeur of Homer, are still outstanding poems. In 1728-29, he published his most famous satire—the Dunciad, which attacked all mediocre poets and pretenders, as well as anyone else the sensitive poet had it in for. In 1737, he released a volume of his Literary Correspondence, filled with entertaining gossip and observations, along with selected descriptive passages, but it seems the correspondence was created for publication rather than being actual letters addressed to the people named, and the collection was introduced to the public through a clever scheme by the scheming poet. Between 1731 and 1739, he published a series of moral and philosophical poetic essays, along with satires and imitations of Horace, all remarkable for their sense, wit, spirit, and brilliance. The most famous of these is the Essay on Man, which Bolingbroke is thought to have influenced with its dubious philosophy and false sentiment, but it is noteworthy for its individual passages, descriptions, and depictions. A fourth book to the Dunciad, which included many beautiful and impactful lines, along with a general revision of his works, marked the end of the poet's literary efforts. He passed away on May 30, 1744, and was buried in the church at Twickenham.

Pope was of very diminutive stature and deformed from his birth. His physical infirmity, susceptible temperament, and incessant study rendered his life one long disease. He was, as his friend Lord Chesterfield said, "the most irritable of all the genus irritabile vatum, offended with trifles and never forgetting or forgiving them." His literary stratagems, disguises, assertions, denials, and (we must add) misrepresentations would fill volumes. Yet when no disturbing jealousy vanity, or rivalry intervened was generous and affectionate, and he had a manly, independent spirit. As a poet he was deficient in originality and creative power, and thus was inferior to his prototype, Dryden, but as a literary artist, and brilliant declaimer satirist and moralizer in verse he is still unrivaled. He is the English Horace, and will as surely descend with honors to the latest posterity.

Pope was very short and physically deformed from birth. His physical issues, sensitive nature, and constant studying made his life feel like one long sickness. He was, as his friend Lord Chesterfield said, "the most irritable of all the genus irritabile vatum, bothered by small things and never forgetting or forgiving them." His literary tricks, disguises, claims, denials, and (we should note) misrepresentations would fill volumes. Still, when jealousy, vanity, or rivalry didn’t get in the way, he was generous and caring, with a strong, independent spirit. As a poet, he lacked originality and creative power, making him inferior to his role model, Dryden. However, as a literary artist, brilliant speaker, satirist, and moralist in verse, he remains unmatched. He is the English Horace and will surely be remembered with honor by future generations.

[The title, An Essay on Criticism hardly indicates all that is included in the poem. It would have been impossible to give a full and exact idea of the art of poetical criticism without entering into the consideration of the art of poetry. Accordingly Pope has interwoven the precepts of both throughout the poem which might more properly have been styled an essay on the Art of Criticism and of Poetry.]

[The title, An Essay on Criticism barely reflects everything included in the poem. It wouldn't be possible to fully and accurately convey the art of poetic criticism without also discussing the art of poetry. As a result, Pope has blended the principles of both throughout the poem, which could have been more fittingly called an essay on the Art of Criticism and Poetry.]

'Tis hard to say if greater want of skill
Appear in writing or in judging ill,
But of the two less dangerous is the offense
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.

It's hard to say whether a greater lack of skill
Shows up in writing or in bad judgment,
But between the two, the less dangerous offense
Is to wear out our patience than to mislead our senses.
A few might mess up with that, but lots go wrong with this,
Ten criticize wrongly for one who writes poorly,
A fool might once expose only himself,
Now one in verse creates 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 share
Both must alike from Heaven 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 [17]
But are not critics to their judgment too?

It's like our judgments are like our watches; none
work exactly the same, yet everyone thinks theirs is right.
In poetry, true genius is pretty rare,
and true taste is just as seldom found in critics.
Both need to get their inspiration from above,
those born to judge and those born to write.
Let those who are exceptional teach others,
and freely criticize those who have written well.
Authors are biased towards their own wit, that's true [17]
but aren't critics biased in their judgments too?

Yet if we look more closely we shall find
Most have the seeds of judgment in their mind
Nature affords at least a glimmering light
The lines though touched but faintly are drawn right,
But as the slightest sketch if justly traced
Is by ill coloring but the more disgraced
So by false learning is good sense defaced
Some are bewildered in the maze of schools [26]
And some made coxcombs nature meant but fools
In search of wit these lose their common sense
And then turn critics in their own defense
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 Maevius scribble in Apollo's spite [34]
There are who judge still worse than he can write.

Yet if we take a closer look, we'll find
Most people have the seeds of judgment in their minds.
Nature gives at least a flicker of understanding,
The lines, though drawn only faintly, are correct.
But just like the slightest sketch, if it's poorly colored,
It suffers even more from bad presentation.
In the same way, false knowledge ruins good sense.
Some get lost in the confusion of schools [26]
And some become fools whom nature intended to be wise.
In their quest for wit, they lose their common sense,
And then they become critics to defend themselves.
Everyone is burned equally, whether they can or cannot write,
Or out of spite, whether from a rival or a coward.
All fools still have an urge to mock,
And would gladly join the laughing side.
If Maevius writes out of spite against Apollo [34]
There are those who judge even worse than he can write.

Some have at first for wits then poets passed
Turned critics next and proved plain fools at last
Some neither can for wits nor critics pass
As heavy mules are neither horse nor ass.
Those half-learned witlings, numerous in our isle,
As half-formed insects on the banks of Nile
Unfinished things one knows not what to call
Their generation is so equivocal
To tell them would a hundred tongues require,
Or one vain wits that might a hundred tire.

Some people were thought to be clever and then became poets,
Later turned into critics and ended up as plain fools.
Some can’t pass as either clever or critics,
Like heavy mules that are neither horse nor donkey.
Those half-educated jokers, so common on our island,
Like half-formed insects by the banks of the Nile,
Unfinished things that aren’t easily named,
Their kind is so unclear.
It would take a hundred voices to describe them,
Or one clever person who might tire out a hundred.

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 dullness meet.

But you who aim to earn recognition and deserve to be called a critic,
Make sure you know your own abilities and limits,
Understand how far your talent, taste, and knowledge extend.
Don't go beyond your depth; be wise
And notice the point where insight and ignorance intersect.

Nature to all things fixed the limits fit
And wisely curbed 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
Not only bounded to peculiar arts,
But oft in those confined to single parts
Like kings, we lose the conquests gained before,
By vain ambition still to make them more
Each might his several province well command,
Would all but stoop to what they understand.

Nature has set limits for everything,
And wisely kept proud man's cleverness in check.
While the ocean advances on land here,
In other places, it leaves behind wide sandy shores.
Similarly, in the soul, as memory remains,
The true strength of understanding fades
Where warm imagination shines,
The gentle images of memory fade away.
Only one type of knowledge suits one talent,
Art is so vast, and human cleverness so limited.
It's not just confined to specific skills,
But often stuck in narrow sections.
Like kings, we lose the victories we've won,
Chasing empty ambitions to achieve more.
Each could effectively rule their own domain,
If only everyone would focus on what they truly 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 the informing soul
With spirits feeds, with vigor fills the whole,
Each motion guides and every nerve sustains,
Itself unseen, but in the effects remains.
Some, to whom Heaven in wit has been profuse, [80]
Want as much more, to turn it to its use;
For wit and judgment often are at strife,
Though 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 generous horse, [86]
Shows most true mettle when you check his course.

First, follow nature and shape your judgment
By her fair standard, which remains unchanged.
Unfailing nature is still wonderfully bright,
One clear, consistent, and universal light,
Life force and beauty, must be shared by all,
The source, the goal, and the measure of art.
Art draws from that well, providing each just supply,
It works without show and presides without pomp.
In some beautiful body, thus the guiding soul
Feeds the spirit, fills the whole with vigor,
Guides every movement and supports every nerve,
Itself unseen, but present in its effects.
Some, to whom Heaven has given abundance of wit, [80]
Need even more to make good use of it;
For wit and judgment often clash,
Though intended to help each other, like a married couple.
It's more important to guide than to push the muse along,
To restrain its fury rather than urge its speed,
The winged horse, like a noble steed, [86]
Shows its true spirit when you steady its course.

Those rules, of old discovered, not devised,
Are nature still, but nature methodized;
Nature, like liberty, is but restrained
By the same laws which first herself ordained.

Those rules, discovered long ago and not created,
Still reflect nature, but in an organized way;
Nature, like freedom, is only limited
By the same laws that originally shaped her.

Hear how learned Greece her useful rules indites,
When to repress and when indulge our flights.
High on Parnassus' top her sons she showed, [94]
And pointed out those arduous paths they trod;
Held from afar, aloft, the immortal prize,
And urged the rest by equal steps to rise. [97]
Just precepts thus from great examples given,
She drew from them what they derived from Heaven.
The generous critic fanned the poet's fire,
And taught the world with reason to admire.
Then criticism the muse's handmaid proved,
To dress her charms, and make her more beloved:
But following wits from that intention strayed
Who could not win the mistress, wooed the maid
Against the poets their own arms they turned
Sure to hate most the men from whom they learned
So modern pothecaries taught the art
By doctors bills to play the doctor's part.
Bold in the practice of mistaken rules
Prescribe, apply, and call their masters fools.
Some on the leaves of ancient authors prey,
Nor time nor moths e'er spoil so much as they.
Some dryly plain, without invention's aid,
Write dull receipts how poems may be made
These leave the sense their learning to display,
And those explain the meaning quite away.

Listen to how educated Greece writes her helpful rules,
When to hold back and when to let our creativity soar.
High on Parnassus’ peak, she showed her sons, [94]
And pointed out the challenging paths they traveled;
She held the immortal prize high from afar,
And encouraged everyone to rise step by step. [97]
Valuable lessons drawn from great examples,
She extracted from them what they received from Heaven.
The generous critic ignited the poet’s passion,
And taught the world to admire with reason.
Then, criticism proved to be the muse’s servant,
To enhance her charms and make her more loved:
But aspiring writers strayed from that intention,
Those who couldn’t win the main prize pursued the lesser one.
They turned their own weapons against the poets,
Sure to despise the very people from whom they learned.
So modern day apothecaries learned the trade
By following physicians’ prescriptions to act like doctors.
Confident in applying flawed rules,
They prescribe, implement, and call their mentors fools.
Some prey on the works of ancient authors,
Neither time nor moths ever damage them as much as they do.
Some write in a dry and plain style, lacking creativity,
Producing boring formulas on how poems can be created.
These writers sacrifice meaning to display their knowledge,
While others explain the meaning right away.

You then, whose judgment the right course would steer,
Know well each ancient's proper character,
His fable subject scope in every page,
Religion, country, genius of his age
Without all these at once before your eyes,
Cavil you may, but never criticise.
Be Homers works your study and delight,
Read them by day and meditate by night,
Thence form your judgment thence your maxims bring
And trace the muses upward to their spring.
Still with itself compared, his text peruse,
And let your comment be the Mantuan Muse. [129]

You, whose judgment could guide the right path,
Understand well each author's true character,
The themes and subjects in their every page,
Their beliefs, country, and the spirit of their time.
Without all of this in front of you,
You can argue, but you can’t really critique.
Let Homer's works be your study and your joy,
Read them in the day and reflect on them at night,
From there form your opinions and draw your principles
And trace the muses back to their source.
Always compare his text to itself,
And let your commentary be inspired by the Mantuan Muse. [129]

When first young Maro in his boundless mind, [130]
A work to outlast immortal Rome designed,
Perhaps he seemed above the critic's law
And but from nature's fountain scorned to draw
But when to examine every part he came
Nature and Homer were he found the same
Convinced, amazed, he checks the bold design
And rules as strict his labored work confine
As if the Stagirite o'erlooked each line [138]
Learn hence for ancient rules a just esteem,
To copy nature is to copy them.

When young Maro first set out with his limitless ambition, [130]
He aimed to create a work that would outlast immortal Rome,
At first, he might have felt he was above criticism,
Only wanting to pull from nature's well.
But when he examined each part carefully,
He found that nature and Homer were the same.
Convinced and amazed, he refined his bold vision,
Strictly imposing rules to confine his crafted work,
As if Aristotle were overseeing each line.
From this, learn to value the ancient rules:
To imitate nature is to honor them.

Some beauties yet no precepts can declare,
For there's a happiness as well as care.
Music resembles poetry—in each
Are nameless graces which no methods teach,
And which a master hand alone can reach
If, where the rules not far enough extend
(Since rules were made but to promote their end),
Some lucky license answer to the full
The intent proposed that license is a rule.
Thus Pegasus a nearer way to take
May boldly deviate from the common track
Great wits sometimes may gloriously offend,
And rise to faults true critics dare not mend,
From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part,
And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art,
Which without passing through the judgment gains
The heart and all its end at once attains.
In prospects, thus, some objects please our eyes,
Which out of nature's common order rise,
The shapeless rock or hanging precipice.
But though the ancients thus their rules invade
(As kings dispense with laws themselves have made),
Moderns beware! or if you must offend
Against the precept, ne'er transgress its end,
Let it be seldom, and compelled by need,
And have, at least, their precedent to plead.
The critic else proceeds without remorse,
Seizes your fame, and puts his laws in force.

Some beauties can't be captured by rules,
Because there's both happiness and worry.
Music is like poetry—both share
Certain unnamed graces that can't be taught,
Which only a skilled hand can achieve.
If rules don't cover everything far enough
(Since rules exist just to serve their purpose),
Some fortunate freedom can completely fulfill
The intended goal that freedom can embrace.
Like Pegasus taking a shortcut,
It can boldly stray from the usual path.
Great minds may sometimes gloriously err,
Rising to mistakes that true critics can't fix,
Breaking free from ordinary limits with bold chaos,
And reaching a beauty beyond what art can capture,
Which wins the heart without needing judgment
And achieves its goal all at once.
Similarly, some sights please our eyes
That rise above nature’s usual order,
Like a shapeless rock or a hanging cliff.
But while the ancients broke their own rules
(Like kings who ignore laws they’ve set),
Moderns should be cautious! If you must stray
From the rules, never forget their purpose,
Do it rarely and only when necessary,
And at least have a past example to cite.
Otherwise, the critic will act without pity,
Taking your reputation and enforcing his own rules.

I know there are, to whose presumptuous thoughts
Those freer beauties, even in them, seem faults
Some figures monstrous and misshaped appear,
Considered singly, or beheld too near,
Which, but proportioned to their light, or place,
Due distance reconciles to form and grace.
A prudent chief not always must display
His powers in equal ranks and fair array,
But with the occasion and the place comply.
Conceal his force, nay, seem sometimes to fly.
Those oft are stratagems which errors seem,
Nor is it Homer nods, but we that dream. [180]

I know there are some people who think too highly of themselves
Those more beautiful things might look like flaws to them
Some figures appear monstrous and misshapen,
When looked at too closely or on their own,
But when they're in the right light or context,
The proper distance makes them look balanced and graceful.
A wise leader doesn't always have to show off
His strength in equal ranks and neat formations,
But should adapt to the situation and the setting.
He might hide his power, or even seem to retreat.
Sometimes, those are clever tactics that just look like mistakes,
It's not that Homer is off, but we are the ones who misunderstand. [180]

Still green with bays each ancient altar stands,
Above the reach of sacrilegious hands,
Secure from flames, from envy's fiercer rage, [183]
Destructive war, and all-involving age.
See, from each clime the learned their incense bring;
Hear, in all tongues consenting Paeans ring!
In praise so just let every voice be joined,
And fill the general chorus of mankind.
Hail! bards triumphant! born in happier days;
Immortal heirs of universal praise!
Whose honors with increase of ages grow,
As streams roll down, enlarging as they flow;
Nations unborn your mighty names shall sound, [193]
And worlds applaud that must not yet be found!
Oh may some spark of your celestial fire,
The last, the meanest of your sons inspire,
(That, on weak wings, from far pursues your flights,
Glows while he reads, but trembles as he writes),
To teach vain wits a science little known,
To admire superior sense, and doubt their own!

Still green with laurel, each ancient altar stands,
Out of reach of sacrilegious hands,
Safe from flames, from envy’s fierce rage,
Destructive war, and the passage of time.
Look, from every land, the wise bring their offerings;
Listen, in all languages, harmonious praises ring!
In such just praise, let every voice unite,
And fill the collective chorus of humanity.
Hail! triumphant bards! born in better days;
Immortal heirs of universal praise!
Whose honors grow with the passage of time,
Like rivers that expand as they flow;
Future nations will echo your mighty names,
And worlds will applaud that have yet to be discovered!
Oh, may some spark of your divine inspiration,
Ignite even the weakest of your descendants,
(Who, on feeble wings, strives to emulate your heights,
Glows while he reads, but trembles as he writes),
To show shallow minds a little-known truth,
To admire greater wisdom, and question their own!

Of all the causes which conspire to blind
Man's erring judgment and misguide the mind,
What the weak head with strongest bias rules,
Is pride, the never-failing vice of fools.
Whatever nature has in worth denied,
She gives in large recruits of needful pride;
For as in bodies, thus in souls, we find
What wants in blood and spirits, swelled with wind:
Pride where wit fails steps in to our defense,
And fills up all the mighty void of sense.
If once right reason drives that cloud away,
Truth breaks upon us with resistless day
Trust not yourself, but your defects to know,
Make use of every friend—and every foe.

Of all the things that can blind
a person's judgment and mislead their thinking,
what the weak mind is heavily influenced by
is pride, the fool's ever-present flaw.
Whatever nature lacks in value,
she compensates with a surplus of necessary pride;
for just as we see in the body, we find in the soul
what is missing in blood and spirit, inflated with air:
Pride steps in to defend us when intelligence fails,
and fills the huge gap where sense should be.
If reason ever clears away that fog,
truth shines down on us like an unstoppable dawn.
Don’t trust only yourself; be aware of your flaws,
and make use of every friend—and every enemy.

A little learning is a dangerous thing
Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring [216]
There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain,
And drinking largely sobers us again.
Fired at first sight with what the muse imparts,
In fearless youth we tempt the heights of arts
While from the bounded level of our mind
Short views we take nor see the lengths behind
But more advanced behold with strange surprise,
New distant scenes of endless science rise!
So pleased at first the towering Alps we try,
Mount o'er the vales and seem to tread the sky,
The eternal snows appear already passed
And the first clouds and mountains seem the last.
But those attained we tremble to survey
The growing labors of the lengthened way
The increasing prospect tires our wandering eyes,
Hills peep o'er hills and Alps on Alps arise!

A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.
Dive deep, or don’t sip from the fountain of knowledge [216]
There, shallow sips cloud the mind,
And drinking deeply brings clarity again.
At first, excited by what inspiration offers,
In fearless youth, we reach for the heights of creativity
While from the limited scope of our minds
We take short views and miss the bigger picture
But as we progress, we marvel at the sight,
New distant landscapes of endless knowledge emerge!
So, thrilled at first, we tackle the towering Alps,
Climbing over the valleys, we feel like we’re touching the sky,
The eternal snows seem already behind us
And the first clouds and mountains feel like the last.
But once we reach them, we hesitate to look back
At the growing challenges of the extended journey
The expanding view fatigues our wandering eyes,
Hills rise over hills, and Alps upon Alps appear!

A perfect judge will read each work of wit
With the same spirit that its author writ
Survey the whole nor seek slight faults to find
Where nature moves and rapture warms the mind,
Nor lose for that malignant dull delight
The generous pleasure to be charmed with wit
But in such lays as neither ebb nor flow,
Correctly cold and regularly low
That, shunning faults, one quiet tenor keep;
We cannot blame indeed—but we may sleep.
In wit, as nature, what affects our hearts
Is not the exactness of peculiar parts,
'Tis not a lip, or eye, we beauty call,
But the joint force and full result of all.
Thus, when we view some well proportioned dome
(The worlds just wonder, and even thine, O Rome!), [248]
No single parts unequally surprise,
All comes united to the admiring eyes;
No monstrous height or breadth, or length, appear;
The whole at once is bold, and regular.

A great judge will read each piece of humor
With the same spirit in which the author wrote.
They’ll look at the whole work and not just pick out
Small flaws where nature flows and inspiration fills the mind,
Nor miss the chance for joy over wit
For the dull satisfaction of finding faults
But in pieces that neither rise nor fall,
Correctly cool and consistently low,
So that, avoiding mistakes, they maintain one steady tone;
We can’t complain, but we might as well sleep.
In wit, as in nature, what touches our hearts
Isn't the precision of individual parts;
It’s not a lip or an eye that we call beauty,
But the combined force and complete effect of everything.
Thus, when we look at a well-proportioned dome
(The wonder of the world, and yours too, O Rome!),
No single parts surprise us unevenly;
Everything comes together to capture our admiration;
No extreme height, width, or length stands out;
The whole thing is bold and balanced at once.

Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see.
Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be.
In every work regard the writer's end,
Since none can compass more than they intend;
And if the means be just, the conduct true,
Applause, in spite of trivial faults, is due.
As men of breeding, sometimes men of wit,
To avoid great errors, must the less commit:
Neglect the rules each verbal critic lays,
For not to know some trifles is a praise.
Most critics, fond of some subservient art,
Still make the whole depend upon a part:
They talk of principles, but notions prize,
And all to one loved folly sacrifice.

Whoever thinks there's a perfect piece to see.
Thinks of something that never was, isn’t, and never will be.
In every work, consider the writer's goal,
Since no one can achieve more than they aim for;
And if the method is fair and the conduct is right,
Praise, despite minor faults, is deserved.
Just like well-bred people, sometimes witty people,
To avoid major mistakes, must commit minor ones:
Ignore the rules that every picky critic sets,
Because not knowing some small details is a compliment.
Most critics, fond of some submissive skill,
Still make the whole depend on just a part:
They speak of principles but favor ideas,
And sacrifice everything for one cherished nonsense.

Once on a time La Mancha's knight, they say, [267]
A certain bard encountering on the way,
Discoursed in terms as just, with looks as sage,
As e'er could Dennis, of the Grecian stage; [270]
Concluding all were desperate sots and fools,
Who durst depart from Aristotle's rules
Our author, happy in a judge so nice,
Produced his play, and begged the knight's advice;
Made him observe the subject, and the plot,
The manners, passions, unities, what not?
All which, exact to rule, were brought about,
Were but a combat in the lists left out
"What! leave the combat out?" exclaims the knight.
"Yes, or we must renounce the Stagirite."
"Not so, by heaven!" (he answers in a rage)
"Knights, squires, and steeds must enter on the stage."
"So vast a throng the stage can ne'er contain."
"Then build a new, or act it in a plain."

Once upon a time in La Mancha, they say,
[267]
A certain bard met along the way,
Spoke wisely and seriously, just like Dennis,
From the Greek stage; [270]
Concluding that everyone was just lost and foolish,
Who dared to deviate from Aristotle's rules.
Our author, pleased with such a discerning judge,
Presented his play and asked the knight for input;
He made him consider the subject, the plot,
The characters, emotions, unities, and so on?
All which, strictly following the rules, were laid out,
Except for a duel that was left out.
"What! Leave the duel out?" the knight exclaimed.
"Yes, or we have to give up Aristotle."
"Not a chance, by heaven!" (he replied in anger)
"Knights, squires, and steeds must appear on stage."
"Such a huge crowd could never fit on stage."
"Then build a bigger one, or perform it in the open."

Thus critics of less judgment than caprice,
Curious, not knowing, not exact, but nice,
Form short ideas, and offend in arts
(As most in manners) by a love to parts.

Thus critics with less judgment than whim,
Curious, unsure, not precise, but pleasant,
Create brief thoughts, and offend in art
(As many do in manners) by their love of details.

Some to conceit alone their taste confine,
And glittering thoughts struck out at every line;
Pleased with a work where nothing's just or fit;
One glaring chaos and wild heap of wit.
Poets, like painters, thus, unskilled to trace
The naked nature and the living grace,
With gold and jewels cover every part,
And hide with ornaments their want of art.
True wit is nature to advantage dressed;
What oft was thought, but ne'er so well expressed;
Something, whose truth convinced at sight we find
That gives us back the image of our mind.
As shades more sweetly recommend the light,
So modest plainness sets off sprightly wit
For works may have more wit than does them good,
As bodies perish through excess of blood.

Some people limit their taste to just what they think is clever,
And every line is filled with flashy ideas;
Happy with a piece where nothing fits or makes sense;
It's just a loud mess and a chaotic mix of wit.
Poets, like painters, clueless in their craft,
Cover every piece with gold and jewels,
Hiding their lack of skill with decorations.
True wit is nature dressed to impress;
What’s often been thought but never expressed so well;
Something whose truth we instantly recognize
That reflects back the image of our thoughts.
Just as shadows highlight the light more beautifully,
Simple modesty enhances lively wit.
For works can have more wit than is beneficial,
Just as bodies can suffer from too much blood.

Others for language all their care express,
And value books, as women men, for dress.
Their praise is still—"the style is excellent,"
The sense they humbly take upon content [308]
Words are like leaves, and where they most abound
Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found.
False eloquence, like the prismatic glass. [311]
Its gaudy colors spreads on every place,
The face of nature we no more survey.
All glares alike without distinction gay:
But true expression, like the unchanging sun,
Clears and improves whate'er it shines upon;
It gilds all objects, but it alters none.
Expression is the dress of thought, and still
Appears more decent, as more suitable,
A vile conceit in pompous words expressed,
Is like a clown in regal purple dressed
For different styles with different subjects sort,
As several garbs with country town and court
Some by old words to fame have made pretense,
Ancients in phrase, mere moderns in their sense;
Such labored nothings, in so strange a style,
Amaze the unlearned, and make the learned smile.
Unlucky, as Fungoso in the play, [328]
These sparks with awkward vanity display
What the fine gentleman wore yesterday;
And but so mimic ancient wits at best,
As apes our grandsires in their doublets dressed.
In words as fashions the same rule will hold,
Alike fantastic if too new or old.
Be not the first by whom the new are tried,
Nor yet the last to lay the old aside

Others express all their care through language,
And value books like women value men's fashion.
Their praise is always—"the style is great,"
The meaning they humbly accept as sufficient [308]
Words are like leaves, and where they flourish the most
Little true understanding is usually found beneath.
False eloquence, like prismatic glass, [311]
Spreads its flashy colors everywhere,
We no longer appreciate the true face of nature.
Everything shines equally without any distinction:
But true expression, like the unchanging sun,
Clarifies and enhances whatever it shines on;
It brightens all objects, but doesn't change any.
Expression is the outfit of thought, and always
Looks more appropriate as it becomes more fitting,
A vile idea expressed in pompous words
Is like a clown dressed in royal purple.
Different styles suit different subjects,
Like various outfits in the country, town, and court.
Some have claimed fame with outdated words,
Ancient in phrasing, but merely modern in meaning;
Such empty labor, in such odd style,
Amazes the uneducated and makes the educated smile.
Unlucky, like Fungoso in the play, [328]
These folks awkwardly showcase
What the fashionable gentleman wore yesterday;
And only mimic ancient wits at best,
Like apes dressing up in our ancestors' clothes.
The same rule applies to words as to fashion,
Equally absurd if they are too new or too old.
Don’t be the first to try the new things,
Nor the last to set the old ones aside.

But most by numbers judge a poet's song
And smooth or rough, with them is right or wrong.
In the bright muse though thousand charms conspire,
Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire,
Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear,
Not mend their minds, as some to church repair,
Not for the doctrine but the music there
These equal syllables alone require,
Though oft the ear the open vowels tire;
While expletives their feeble aid do join;
And ten low words oft creep in one dull line,
While they ring round the same unvaried chimes,
With sure returns of still expected rhymes,
Where'er you find "the cooling western breeze,"
In the next line it "whispers through the trees"
If crystal streams "with pleasing murmurs creep"
The reader's threatened (not in vain) with "sleep"
Then, at the last and only couplet fraught
With some unmeaning thing they call a thought,
A needless Alexandrine ends the song [356]
That, like a wounded snake drags its slow length along.

But most people judge a poet's song by the numbers
And whether it's smooth or rough, they see it as right or wrong.
Even when the bright muse brings together a thousand charms,
Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire,
Who visit Parnassus just to please their ears,
Not to improve their minds, like some who go to church,
Not for the teachings but for the music there.
These equal syllables alone are what they want,
Though often the open vowels tire the ear;
While empty phrases lend their weak support;
And ten simple words often creep into one dull line,
While they keep repeating the same unvaried tunes,
With sure returns of still expected rhymes,
Wherever you find "the cooling western breeze,"
In the next line it "whispers through the trees."
If crystal streams "creep with pleasing murmurs,"
The reader's threatened (not without reason) with "sleep."
Then, at the end, the only couplet loaded
With some meaningless thing they call a thought,
A needless Alexandrine drags the song down
Like a wounded snake dragging its slow length along.

Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, and know
What's roundly smooth or languishingly slow;
And praise the easy vigor of a line,
Where Denham's strength, and Waller's sweetness join. [361]
True ease in writing comes from art, not chance,
As those move easiest who have learned to dance
'Tis not enough no harshness gives offense,
The sound must seem an echo to the sense.
Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows, [366]
And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows,
But when loud surges lash the sounding shore,
The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar,
When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw,
The line too labors, and the words move slow;
Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain,
Flies o'er the unbending corn, and skims along the main. [373]
Hear how Timotheus' varied lays surprise, [374]
And bid alternate passions fall and rise!
While, at each change, the son of Libyan Jove [376]
Now burns with glory, and then melts with love;
Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow,
Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow:
Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found,
And the world's victor stood subdued by sound? [381]
The power of music all our hearts allow,
And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now.

Leave others to craft their own boring rhymes, and know
What flows smoothly or drags on too slow;
And celebrate the effortless energy of a line,
Where Denham's strength and Waller's sweetness combine.
[361]
True ease in writing comes from skill, not luck,
Just as those who have learned to dance move with grace.
It’s not enough that no harshness is offensive,
The sound must echo the meaning.
The melody is soft when the gentle breeze blows, [366]
And the calm stream flows with smooth verses,
But when loud waves crash on the raging shore,
The rough verse should roar like a torrent,
When Ajax struggles to throw a massive rock,
The line also struggles, and the words move slowly;
Not so when swift Camilla races across the field,
Skimming over straight corn, and gliding along the sea.
[373]
Listen to how Timotheus' varied songs surprise, [374]
And how alternating emotions rise and fall!
As, at each change, the son of Libyan Jove [376]
Now burns with glory, and then softens with love;
Now his fierce eyes gleam with furious light,
Now sighs escape, and tears begin to flow:
Persians and Greeks found such changes of nature,
And even the world's conqueror was subdued by sound? [381]
The power of music touches all our hearts,
And what Timotheus was, Dryden is now.

Avoid extremes, and shun the fault of such,
Who still are pleased too little or too much.
At every trifle scorn to take offense,
That always shows great pride, or little sense:
Those heads, as stomachs, are not sure the best,
Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest.
Yet let not each gay turn thy rapture move;
For fools admire, but men of sense approve:
As things seem large which we through mist descry,
Dullness is ever apt to magnify. [393]

Avoid extremes, and steer clear of those
Who are either pleased too little or too much.
Don’t take offense at every little thing,
Because that shows either great pride or little understanding:
Those minds, like stomachs, aren’t good at figuring out
What’s truly great, as they reject everything and digest nothing.
Still, don’t let every little thing move you to excitement;
Fools admire, but smart people appreciate:
Just as things seem big when seen through mist,
Stupidity is always quick to exaggerate. [393]

Some foreign writers, some our own despise,
The ancients only, or the moderns prize.
Thus wit, like faith, by each man is applied
To one small sect, and all are damned beside.
Meanly they seek the blessing to confine,
And force that sun but on a part to shine,
Which not alone the southern wit sublimes,
But ripens spirits in cold northern climes.
Which from the first has shone on ages past,
Enlights the present, and shall warm the last,
Though each may feel increases and decays,
And see now clearer and now darker days.
Regard not then if wit be old or new,
But blame the false, and value still the true.

Some foreign writers, and even some of our own, look down on the ancients and only value the moderns. Just like faith, people apply wit to their own small group and dismiss everything else as worthless. They narrow the blessing and try to make the sun shine just on a piece of it, even though it enhances not just the cleverness of the south but also enriches minds in the chilly north. It has shone on past ages, lights up the present, and will warm the future, even if everyone experiences ups and downs and sees brighter and darker days. So don't worry if wit is old or new; just reject the false and appreciate what is true.

Some ne'er advance a judgment of their own,
But catch the spreading notion of the town,
They reason and conclude by precedent,
And own stale nonsense which they ne'er invent.
Some judge of authors names not works, and then
Nor praise nor blame the writing, but the men.
Of all this servile herd the worst is he
That in proud dullness joins with quality
A constant critic at the great man's board,
To fetch and carry nonsense for my lord
What woful stuff this madrigal would be,
In some starved hackney sonnetteer, or me!
But let a lord once own the happy lines,
How the wit brightens! how the style refines!
Before his sacred name flies every fault,
And each exalted stanza teems with thought!

Some never form their own opinions,
But just go along with what everyone in town thinks,
They reason and conclude based on what’s been done before,
And accept tired ideas that they never create themselves.
Some judge authors by their names, not their work, and then
They neither praise nor blame the writing, but the people.
Of all this servile crowd, the worst is the one
Who, in their arrogance, aligns with the elite,
A constant critic sitting at the table of the great,
Just to bring and take nonsense for my lord.
What a terrible piece of writing this would be,
In the hands of a starving hack or a sonnet writer, or me!
But let a lord approve the fortunate lines,
Watch how the wit sharpens! watch how the style improves!
Before his esteemed name, every flaw disappears,
And every elevated stanza is filled with meaning!

The vulgar thus through imitation err;
As oft the learned by being singular.
So much they scorn the crowd that if the throng
By chance go right they purposely go wrong:
So schismatics the plain believers quit,
And are but damned for having too much wit.
Some praise at morning what they blame at night,
But always think the last opinion right.
A muse by these is like a mistress used,
This hour she's idolized, the next abused;
While their weak heads, like towns unfortified,
'Twixt sense and nonsense daily change their side.
Ask them the cause, they're wiser still they say;
And still to-morrow's wiser than to-day.
We think our fathers fools, so wise we grow;
Our wiser sons, no doubt, will think us so.
Once school-divines this zealous isle o'erspread.
Who knew most sentences was deepest read, [441]
Faith, Gospel, all, seemed made to be disputed,
And none had sense enough to be confuted:
Scotists and Thomists now in peace remain, [444]
Amidst their kindred cobwebs in Duck Lane. [445]
If faith itself has different dresses worn,
What wonder modes in wit should take their turn?
Oft, leaving what is natural and fit,
The current folly proves the ready wit;
And authors think their reputation safe,
Which lives as long as fools are pleased to laugh.

The unrefined often make mistakes by copying others;
Just as the educated sometimes get it wrong by trying to be different.
They look down on the crowd so much that if the masses happen to be right,
they will intentionally go against it:
Like schismatics who abandon straightforward believers,
They are only doomed for being too clever.
Some praise in the morning what they criticize at night,
But always believe their latest opinion is the best.
A muse for them is like a mistress;
One moment she's adored, the next she's neglected;
While their weak minds, like unprotected towns,
Flip between sense and nonsense each day.
If you ask them why, they claim to be smarter;
And tomorrow, they believe, they'll be wiser than today.
We think our parents were fools, as we become wise;
Our smarter kids will surely think the same of us.
Once, zealous scholars spread through this isle.
The one who knew the most phrases was deemed the smartest, [441]
Faith, the Gospel, everything seemed to be up for debate,
And no one was clever enough to be proven wrong:
Scotists and Thomists now peacefully coexist, [444]
Among their tangled web of ideas in Duck Lane. [445]
If faith itself has different appearances,
Why would it be surprising for styles of wit to change?
Too often, abandoning what is natural and appropriate,
The trending foolishness showcases ready-made wit;
And writers think their reputation is secure,
As long as foolish people still enjoy their jokes.

Some valuing those of their own side or mind,
Still make themselves the measure of mankind:
Fondly we think we honor merit then,
When we but praise ourselves in other men.
Parties in wit attend on those of state,
And public faction doubles private hate.
Pride, malice, folly against Dryden rose,
In various shapes of parsons, critics, beaux; [459]
But sense survived, when merry jests were past;
For rising merit will buoy up at last.
Might he return, and bless once more our eyes,
New Blackmores and new Millbourns must arise: [463]
Nay, should great Homer lift his awful head,
Zoilus again would start up from the dead [465]
Envy will merit, as its shade, pursue,
But like a shadow, proves the substance true:
For envied wit, like Sol eclipsed, makes known
The opposing body's grossness, not its own.
When first that sun too powerful beams displays,
It draws up vapors which obscure its rays,
But even those clouds at last adorn its way
Reflect new glories and augment the day

Some people favor those who think like they do,
And still, they make themselves the standard for everyone:
We mistakenly believe we're honoring talent,
When we’re really just praising ourselves in others.
Cleverness aligns with those in power,
And public division only increases personal hatred.
Pride, spite, and foolishness rose against Dryden,
In various forms like priests, critics, and dandy men; [459]
But understanding endured, once the jokes faded;
For emerging talent will eventually rise.
If he could return and bless our eyes again,
New Blackmores and new Millbourns would surely appear: [463]
Furthermore, if the great Homer were to lift his powerful head,
Zoilus would rise again from the dead [465]
Envy will chase merit like a shadow,
But like a shadow, it confirms the true substance:
For envied talent, like the sun during an eclipse, reveals
The crudeness of the opposing body, not its own.
When that sun first shines too brightly,
It draws up vapors that cloud its rays,
But eventually, even those clouds enhance its light,
Reflecting new glories and brightening the day.

Be thou the first true merit to befriend
His praise is lost who stays till all commend
Short is the date alas! of modern rhymes
And 'tis but just to let them live betimes
No longer now that golden age appears
When patriarch wits survived a thousand years [479]
Now length of fame (our second life) is lost
And bare threescore 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!

Be the first to embrace true talent
His praise is wasted if he waits for everyone to applaud
The lifespan of modern poems is so short
And it’s only fair to let them shine early
That golden age seems to be gone now
When wise men’s works lasted a thousand years [479]
Now the chance for lasting fame (our second life) is fading
And merely living to be sixty is all that can be hoped for,
Our children see their fathers' fading language
And those like Chaucer will become Dryden
So when the skilled artist has captured
Some bright idea from the master’s mind
Where a new world springs to life at his command
And nature is ready to follow his lead
When the rich colors blend and unite
And gently transition into the right shade and light
When the years of maturing bring full perfection
And each bold figure starts to come alive
The deceitful colors betray the beautiful art
And all the vibrant 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!

Unhappiness with wit, like most misguided things
Doesn’t make up for the envy it brings
In youth, we brag about its empty praise
But soon the short-lived vanity fades.
Like a pretty flower that early spring gives
That blooms brightly but dies while it lives
What is this wit that keeps us on edge?
The owner's wife that other men pledge
Our troubles increase when we're most admired
And the more we give, the more we’re required
We guard its fame with effort, but lose it with ease,
Certain to annoy, but never to appease,
It’s what the wicked fear, the good avoid,
Hated by fools, and by knaves destroyed!

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.

If ignorance can produce such wit,
Oh! let learning not become its enemy!
In the past, those who excelled were rewarded,
And those who tried their best were praised:
Although victories were reserved for generals,
Crowns were also meant to honor the soldiers.
Now, those who climb Parnassus' high peak,
Use their efforts to push others down;
And while self-love drives each jealous writer,
Competing wits become the playthings of fools:
Yet even the worst are often praised with regret,
For every bad author is as poor a friend
To what low purposes, and through what shameful means,
Are people driven, by the sacred desire for praise!
Oh, never flaunt such a desperate thirst for glory,
Nor let the critic overshadow the person
Good nature and good sense must always go hand in hand;
To err is human, to forgive is 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.

But if there are still some rough edges in noble minds,
Not yet cleared away, filled with anger and disdain;
Channel that rage towards more offensive crimes,
And don’t worry about a shortage in these scandalous times.
No forgiveness should be granted to hideous obscenity,
Even if wit and art try to sway your thoughts;
But dullness mixed with obscenity must prove
As shameful as being unable to love.
In the indulgent era of pleasure, wealth, and comfort,
The foul weed emerged and thrived abundantly:
When love was merely the easy concern of a king,
Rarely involved in council, never in war,
Flirts ruled the state, and politicians wrote farces;
Moreover, wits had salaries, and young lords had wit:
The beautiful ones sat breathless at a courtier’s play,
And not a mask went unappreciated:
The modest fan was no longer lifted,
And maidens smiled at what they once blushed over.
The ensuing freedom from a foreign reign,
Drained all the impurities of bold Socinus,
Then disbelieving priests reformed the nation.
And taught more enjoyable ways to find salvation;
Where Heaven’s free subjects could challenge their rights,
So that God himself wouldn’t seem too controlling:
Pulpits learned to spare their sacred satire,
And vice was pleased to discover a flatterer there!
Encouraged this way, the giants of wit challenged the skies,
And the press groaned with permitted blasphemies.
These monsters, critics! equip yourselves with your darts,
Direct your thunder here, and unleash your fury!
Yet avoid their mistake, who, overly particular,
Insist on misinterpreting an author as immoral;
Everything seems tainted to the one who's infected,
Just as everything appears yellow to the jaundiced eye.

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.

Learn, then, what values critics should demonstrate,
For it's only half a judge's job to know.
It's not enough; taste, judgment, and learning must come together;
In everything you say, let truth and honesty shine:
That not just what you think is right
Everyone may agree on, but also seek your connection with others.

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.

Stay quiet whenever you're unsure of yourself;
And speak confidently, but with a hint of humility:
We know some stubbornly arrogant people,
Who, if they're wrong once, will insist they're right forever;
But you, happily, acknowledge your past mistakes,
And make each day an improvement on the previous one.

'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.

It's not enough for your advice to be honest;
Harsh truths can cause more harm than gentle lies;
People need to be taught as if they're not being taught,
And unknown things should be presented as if they were forgotten.
Without good manners, truth is frowned upon;
Only that which is presented well is truly appreciated.

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 can bear reproof who merit praise.

Be stingy with advice for no reason;
Because the worst greed is the greed for wisdom
With petty self-satisfaction, never betray your trust,
Nor be so polite as to act unfairly
Don't be afraid to provoke the wise,
Those who deserve praise can handle criticism best.

'Twere well might critics still this freedom take,
But Appius reddens at each word you speak, [585]
And stares, tremendous with a threatening eye,
Like some fierce tyrant in old tapestry
Fear most to tax an honorable fool
Whose right it is uncensured to be dull
Such, without wit are poets when they please,
As without learning they can take degrees
Leave dangerous truths to unsuccessful satires,
And flattery to fulsome dedicators
Whom, when they praise, the world believes no more,
Than when they promise to give scribbling o'er.

Critics might still use this freedom,
But Appius blushes at every word you say, [585]
And glares at you with a threatening look,
Like some fierce tyrant in an old tapestry.
It's best to avoid criticizing an honorable fool
Whose right it is to remain uncriticized and dull.
Poets can easily lack wit if they choose,
Just as they can earn degrees without much knowledge.
Leave risky truths to failed satires,
And flattery to overly generous dedicators,
Whom, when they praise, the world believes no more,
Than when they promise to stop writing.

'Tis best sometimes your censure to restrain,
And charitably let the dull be vain
Your silence there is better than your spite,
For who can rail so long as they can write?
Still humming on, their drowsy course they keep,
And lashed so long like tops are lashed asleep.
False steps but help them to renew the race,
As after stumbling, jades will mend their pace.
What crowds of these, impenitently bold,
In sounds and jingling syllables grown old,
Still run on poets in a raging vein,
Even to the dregs and squeezing of the brain;
Strain out the last dull droppings of their sense,
And rhyme with all the rage of impotence!

Sometimes it's best to hold back your criticism,
And kindly let the uninteresting feel proud.
Your silence is better than your anger,
Because who can complain as long as they can write?
They keep chugging along, their boring path unchanged,
And spinning around like tops still are at rest.
Wrong turns only help them to pick up speed,
Just like worn-out horses will quicken their pace after tripping.
What a crowd of these, shamelessly bold,
With old sounds and clanging syllables,
Still attack poets with anger,
Right to the very end, squeezing their ideas dry;
Extracting the last dull remnants of their thoughts,
And rhyming with all the fury of powerlessness!

Such shameless bards we have, and yet, 'tis true,
There are as mad abandoned critics, too
The bookful blockhead ignorantly read,
With loads of learned lumber in his head,
With his own tongue still edifies his ears,
And always listening to himself appears
All books he reads and all he reads assails
From Dryden's Fables down to Durfey's Tales [617]
With him most authors steal their works or buy;
Garth did not write his own Dispensary [619]
Name a new play, and he's the poets friend
Nay, showed his faults—but when would poets mend?
No place so sacred from such fops is barred,
Nor is Paul's Church more safe than Paul's Churchyard: [623]
Nay, fly to altars; there they'll talk you dead,
For fools rush in where angels fear to tread
Distrustful sense with modest caution speaks,
It still looks home, and short excursions makes;
But rattling nonsense in full volleys breaks,
And, never shocked, and never turned aside.
Bursts out, resistless, with a thundering tide,

Such shameless poets we have, and yet, it's true,
There are just as many crazy critics, too.
The book-filled idiot reads without a clue,
Stuffed with all sorts of learned nonsense in his head,
With his own voice still teaching his ears,
And always seems to be listening to himself.
All the books he reads, he criticizes as well,
From Dryden's Fables down to Durfey's Tales [617]
With him, most authors either steal or buy their work;
Garth didn't write his own Dispensary [619]
Name a new play, and he's every poet's friend,
Sure, he points out mistakes—but when do poets improve?
No place is safe from such fools' presence,
Nor is St. Paul's Church any safer than its graveyard: [623]
Even at altars, they'll talk you to death,
For fools rush in where angels fear to tread.
Cautious sense speaks with modest restraint,
It still looks within, and takes short trips;
But rattling nonsense bursts forth in full force,
And never shocked, never turned aside,
It erupts, unstoppable, like a thundering tide.

But where's the man who counsel can bestow,
Still pleased to teach, and yet not proud to know?
Unbiased, or by favor, or in spite,
Not dully prepossessed, nor blindly right;
Though learned, well-bred, and though well bred, sincere,
Modestly bold, and humanly severe,
Who to a friend his faults can freely show,
And gladly praise the merit of a foe?
Blessed with a taste exact, yet unconfined;
A knowledge both of books and human kind;
Generous converse, a soul exempt from pride;
And love to praise, with reason on his side?

But where's the man who can offer good advice,
Happy to teach and not too proud to learn?
Open-minded, not swayed by favor or dislike,
Not blindly convinced, nor too rigid in his views;
Though smart, well-mannered, and genuinely sincere,
Bold yet modest, and fair but strict;
Who can point out a friend's faults without hesitation,
And is willing to acknowledge the strengths of an enemy?
Gifted with a sharp yet broad perspective;
Knowledgeable in both literature and people;
Engaging in conversation, free from arrogance;
And eager to praise, with reasoning on his side?

Such once were critics such the happy few,
Athens and Rome in better ages knew.
The mighty Stagirite first left the shore, [645]
Spread all his sails, and durst the deeps explore;
He steered securely, and discovered far,
Led by the light of the Maeonian star. [648]
Poets, a race long unconfined and free,
Still fond and proud of savage liberty,
Received his laws, and stood convinced 'twas fit,
Who conquered nature, should preside o'er wit. [652]

Such were the critics once, the fortunate few,
Athens and Rome knew them in better times.
The great Stagirite first left the shore,
Spread all his sails, and dared to explore the depths;
He navigated safely and discovered much,
Guided by the light of the Maeonian star.
Poets, a group always unconfined and free,
Still loving and proud of wild liberty,
Embraced his rules and accepted it was right,
That those who conquered nature should lead in wit.

Horace still charms with graceful negligence,
And without method talks us into sense;
Will like a friend familiarly convey
The truest notions in the easiest way.
He who supreme in judgment as in wit,
Might boldly censure, as he boldly writ,
Yet judged with coolness though he sung with fire;
His precepts teach but what his works inspire
Our critics take a contrary extreme
They judge with fury, but they write with phlegm:
Nor suffers Horace more in wrong translations
By wits than critics in as wrong quotations.

Horace still captivates with effortless charm,
And talks us into understanding without a plan;
He shares true ideas like a friend in a casual way,
Making complex thoughts seem simple to convey.
He, who is both wise and witty at his best,
Could criticize boldly, just as he expressed,
Yet he critiqued with calmness even when passionate;
His teachings reflect what his works have inspired.
Our critics go to the opposite extreme,
They judge with anger, but write with indifference:
Horace suffers less from bad translations
By clever minds than critics do from misquotations.

See Dionysius Homer's thoughts refine, [665]
And call new beauties forth from every line!

See Dionysius refine Homer's ideas, [665]
And bring new beauties to life in every line!

Fancy and art in gay Petronius please, [667]
The scholar's learning with the courtier's ease.

Fancy and art in stylish Petronius please, [667]
The scholar's knowledge with the courtier's grace.

In grave Quintilian's copious work we find [669]
The justest rules and clearest method joined:
Thus useful arms in magazines we place,
All ranged in order, and disposed with grace,
But less to please the eye, than arm the hand,
Still fit for use, and ready at command.

In serious Quintilian's extensive work, we find [669]
The fairest rules and clearest methods combined:
So we put useful tools in storage, All organized and arranged nicely, But not just to look good, but to be handy, Always ready to use and at our command.

Thee bold Longinus! all the Nine inspire, [675]
And bless their critic with a poet's fire.
An ardent judge, who, zealous in his trust,
With warmth gives sentence, yet is always just:
Whose own example strengthens all his laws;
And is himself that great sublime he draws.

The bold Longinus! all the Nine inspire,
[675]
And bless their critic with a poet's fire.
An eager judge, who, passionate in his role,
With warmth delivers verdicts, yet is always fair:
Whose own example reinforces all his rules;
And is himself that great sublime he describes.

Thus long succeeding critics justly reigned,
License repressed, and useful laws ordained.
Learning and Rome alike in empire grew;
And arts still followed where her eagles flew,
From the same foes at last, both felt their doom,
And the same age saw learning fall, and Rome. [686]
With tyranny then superstition joined
As that the body, this enslaved the mind;
Much was believed but little understood,
And to be dull was construed to be good;
A second deluge learning thus o'errun,
And the monks finished what the Goths begun. [692]

So for a long time, critics held their ground,
Censorship restricted, and practical laws were established.
Knowledge and Rome both expanded their reach;
And the arts continued to thrive wherever her eagles soared,
Eventually, both felt their downfall from the same enemies,
And the same era witnessed the decline of knowledge and Rome. [686]
With tyranny now paired with superstition
As one oppressed the body, the other enslaved the mind;
A lot was believed, but little was truly understood,
And being dull was seen as a virtue;
A second flood of ignorance overwhelmed learning,
And the monks completed what the Goths had started. [692]

At length Erasmus, that great injured name [693]
(The glory of the priesthood and the shame!)
Stemmed the wild torrent of a barbarous age,
And drove those holy Vandals off the stage. [696]

At last, Erasmus, that great wronged figure
(The pride of the priesthood and the disgrace!)
Stopped the raging flow of a brutal era,
And pushed those holy Vandals off the stage.

But see! each muse, in Leo's golden days, [697]
Starts from her trance and trims her withered bays,
Rome's ancient genius o'er its ruins spread
Shakes off the dust, and rears his reverent head
Then sculpture and her sister arts revive,
Stones leaped to form, and rocks began to live;
With sweeter notes each rising temple rung,
A Raphael painted, and a Vida sung [704]
Immortal Vida! on whose honored brow
The poets bays and critic's ivy grow
Cremona now shall ever boast thy name
As next in place to Mantua, next in fame!

But look! each muse, in Leo's golden era,
[697]
Awakens from her trance and dresses her withered laurel,
Rome's ancient spirit spreads over its ruins
Shakes off the dust and lifts his respectful head
Then sculpture and her sister arts come back to life,
Stones jumped to shape, and rocks started to breathe;
With sweeter sounds, each rising temple rang,
A Raphael painted, and a Vida sang [704]
Immortal Vida! on whose honored brow
The poets' laurel and critics' ivy grow
Cremona will always proudly hold your name
Right next to Mantua, next in fame!

But soon by impious arms from Latium chased,
Their ancient bounds the banished muses passed.
Thence arts o'er all the northern world advance,
But critic-learning flourished most in France,
The rules a nation born to serve, obeys;
And Boileau still in right of Horace sways [714]
But we, brave Britons, foreign laws despised,
And kept unconquered and uncivilized,
Fierce for the liberties of wit and bold,
We still defied the Romans as of old.
Yet some there were, among the sounder few
Of those who less presumed and better knew,
Who durst assert the juster ancient cause,
And here restored wit's fundamental laws.
Such was the muse, whose rule and practice tell
"Nature's chief masterpiece is writing well."
Such was Roscommon, not more learned than good,
With manners generous as his noble blood,
To him the wit of Greece and Rome was known,
And every author's merit, but his own
Such late was Walsh—the muse's judge and friend,
Who justly knew to blame or to commend,
To failings mild, but zealous for desert,
The clearest head, and the sincerest heart,
This humble praise, lamented shade! receive,
This praise at least a grateful muse may give.
The muse whose early voice you taught to sing
Prescribed her heights and pruned her tender wing,
(Her guide now lost) no more attempts to rise,
But in low numbers short excursions tries,
Content if hence the unlearned their wants may view,
The learned reflect on what before they knew
Careless of censure, nor too fond of fame,
Still pleased to praise, yet not afraid to blame,
Averse alike to flatter, or offend,
Not free from faults, nor yet too vain to mend.

But soon, driven from Latium by impious forces,
The exiled muses crossed their old boundaries.
From there, the arts spread across the northern world,
But critical learning thrived the most in France,
Where the established rules are obeyed by a nation born to serve;
And Boileau still holds sway in the tradition of Horace [714]
But we, brave Britons, scorned foreign laws,
Remaining unconquered and uncivilized,
Fierce for the freedoms of wit and bold,
We continued to defy the Romans as before.
Yet among the wiser few,
Those who were less presumptuous and more knowledgeable,
There were those who dared to champion the rightful ancient cause,
And here restored the fundamental laws of wit.
Such was the muse, whose rules and practices declare
"Nature's greatest masterpiece is writing well."
Such was Roscommon, learned yet good,
With a generous spirit to match his noble blood,
He knew the wit of Greece and Rome,
And recognized every author's merit except his own.
Recently there was Walsh—the muse's judge and friend,
Who knew how to criticize and praise justly,
Gentle with failings, but passionate for merit,
With the clearest mind and the sincerest heart,
This humble praise, lamented shade! accept,
At least a grateful muse may offer this praise.
The muse whose early voice you taught to sing
Set her heights and refined her tender wing,
(Her guide now lost) she no longer attempts to soar,
But in simple verses makes brief forays,
Content if from this the unlearned can see their needs,
And the learned can reflect on what they already knew.
Careless of criticism, not overly eager for fame,
Still happy to praise, but unafraid to blame,
Equally averse to flattery and offense,
Not free from faults, yet not too proud to improve.

[Line 17: Wit is used in the poem in a great variety of meanings (1) Here it seems to mean genius or fancy, (2) in line 36 a man of fancy, (3) in line 53 the understanding or powers of the mind, (4) in line 81 it means judgment.]

[Line 17: Wit is used in the poem in a variety of ways (1) Here it seems to mean genius or creativity, (2) in line 36 a creative person, (3) in line 53 the mind or mental abilities, (4) in line 81 it means judgment.]

[Line 26: Schools—Different systems of doctrine or philosophy as taught by particular teachers.]

[Line 26: Schools—Various systems of beliefs or philosophies taught by specific educators.]

[Line 34: Maevius—An insignificant poet of the Augustan age, ridiculed by Virgil in his third Eclogue and by Horace in his tenth Epode.]

[Line 34: Maevius—A minor poet from the Augustan period, mocked by Virgil in his third Eclogue and by Horace in his tenth Epode.]

[Lines 80, 81: There is here a slight inaccuracy or inconsistency, since "wit" has a different meaning in the two lines: in 80, it means fancy, in 81, judgment.]

[Lines 80, 81: There's a slight inaccuracy or inconsistency here, since "wit" has different meanings in the two lines: in 80, it means imagination, while in 81, it refers to judgment.]

[Line 86: The winged courser.—Pegasus, a winged horse which sprang from the blood of Medusa when Perseus cut off her head. As soon as born he left the earth and flew up to heaven, or, according to Ovid, took up his abode on Mount Helicon, and was always associated with the Muses.]

[Line 86: The winged courser.—Pegasus, a winged horse that emerged from the blood of Medusa when Perseus beheaded her. Right after he was born, he flew up to the heavens, or, according to Ovid, settled on Mount Helicon, where he was always linked with the Muses.]

[Line 94: Parnassus.—A mountain of Phocis, which received its name from Parnassus, the son of Neptune, and was sacred to the Muses, Apollo and Bacchus.]

[Line 94: Parnassus.—A mountain in Phocis, named after Parnassus, the son of Neptune, and honored by the Muses, Apollo, and Bacchus.]

[Line 97: Equal steps.—Steps equal to the undertaking.]

[Line 97: Equal steps.—Steps that match the task at hand.]

[Line 129: The Mantuan Muse—Virgil called Maro in the next line (his full name being, Virgilius Publius Maro) born near Mantua, 70 B.C.]

[Line 129: The Mantuan Muse—Virgil referred to Maro in the next line (his full name was Virgilius Publius Maro), born near Mantua in 70 B.C.]

[Lines 130-136: It is said that Virgil first intended to write a poem on the Alban and Roman affairs which he found beyond his powers, and then he imitated Homer:

[Lines 130-136: It's said that Virgil initially planned to write a poem about the Alban and Roman events, which he realized was beyond his abilities, and then he modeled his work after Homer:]

Cum canerem reges et proelia Cynthius aurem
Vellit—Virg. Ecl. VI]

[Line 138: The Stagirite—Aristotle, born at the Greek town of Stageira on the Strymonic Gulf (Gulf of Contessa, in Turkey) 384 B.C., whose treatises on Rhetoric and the Art of Poetry were the earliest development of a Philosophy of Criticism and still continue to be studied.

[Line 138: The Stagirite—Aristotle, born in the Greek town of Stageira by the Strymonic Gulf (Gulf of Contessa, in Turkey) in 384 B.C., whose works on Rhetoric and the Art of Poetry were the first steps in developing a Philosophy of Criticism and are still being studied today.

The poet contradicts himself with regard to the principle he is here laying down in lines 271-272 where he laughs at Dennis for

The poet contradicts himself regarding the principle he's presenting in lines 271-272, where he laughs at Dennis for

Concluding all were desperate sots and fools
Who durst depart from Aristotle's rules.]

Concluding everyone were hopeless drunks and idiots
Who dared to stray from Aristotle's guidelines.]

[Line 180: Homer nods—Quandoque bonus dormitat Homerus, 'even the good Homer nods'—Horace, Epistola ad Pisones, 359.]

[Line 180: Homer nods—Sometimes even the great Homer dozes off—Horace, Epistles to the Pisones, 359.]

[Lines 183, 184: Secure from flames.—The poet probably alludes to such fires as those in which the Alexandrine and Palatine Libraries were destroyed. From envy's fiercer rage.—Probably he alludes to the writings of such men as Maevius (see note to line 34) and Zoilus, a sophist and grammarian of Amphipolis, who distinguished himself by his criticism on Isocrates, Plato, and Homer, receiving the nickname of Homeromastic (chastiser of Homer). Destructive war—Probably an allusion to the irruption of the barbarians into the south of Europe. And all-involving age; that is, time. This is usually explained as an allusion to 'the long reign of ignorance and superstition in the cloisters,' but it is surely far-fetched, and more than the language will bear.]

[Lines 183, 184: Safe from flames.—The poet likely refers to fires that destroyed the Alexandrine and Palatine Libraries. From the intense rage of envy.—He probably refers to the writings of people like Maevius (see note to line 34) and Zoilus, a sophist and grammarian from Amphipolis, who made a name for himself by criticizing Isocrates, Plato, and Homer, earning the nickname Homeromastic (critic of Homer). Destructive war—Likely an allusion to the invasion of barbarians into southern Europe. And the all-encompassing age; that is, time. This is often interpreted as a reference to 'the long period of ignorance and superstition in the monasteries,' but that seems far-fetched and more than what the language can support.]

[Lines 193, 194:

[Lines 193, 194:]

'Round the whole world this dreaded name shall sound,
And reach to worlds that must not yet be found,"—COWLEY.]

'Round the whole world, this feared name will echo,
And reach to worlds that are yet to be discovered,"—COWLEY.]

[Line 216: The Pierian spring—A fountain in Pieria, a district round Mount Olympus and the native country of the Muses.]

[Line 216: The Pierian spring—A fountain in Pieria, an area around Mount Olympus and the home of the Muses.]

[Line 248: And even thine, O Rome.—The dome of St Peter's Church, designed by Michael Angelo.]

[Line 248: And even yours, O Rome.—The dome of St. Peter's Church, designed by Michael Angelo.]

[Line 267: La Mancha's Knight.—Don Quixote, a fictitious Spanish knight, the hero of a book written (1605) by Cervantes, a Spanish writer.]

[Line 267: The Knight of La Mancha.—Don Quixote, a fictional Spanish knight, is the main character in a book written (1605) by Cervantes, a Spanish author.]

[Line 270: Dennis, the son of a saddler in London, born 1657, was a mediocre writer, and rather better critic of the time, with whom Pope came a good deal into collision. Addison's tragedy of Cato, for which Pope had written a prologue, had been attacked by Dennis. Pope, to defend Addison, wrote an imaginary report, pretending to be written by a notorious quack mad-doctor of the day, entitled The Narrative of Dr. Robert Norris on the Frenz of F. D. Dennis replied to it by his Character of Mr. Pope. Ultimately Pope gave him a place in his Dunciad, and wrote a prologue for his benefit.]

[Line 270: Dennis, the son of a saddler in London, born 1657, was a mediocre writer and a slightly better critic of his time, with whom Pope often clashed. Addison's tragedy of Cato, for which Pope had written a prologue, was criticized by Dennis. To defend Addison, Pope wrote a fictional report claiming to be from a well-known quack doctor of the day, titled The Narrative of Dr. Robert Norris on the Frenz of F. D. Dennis responded with his Character of Mr. Pope. Ultimately, Pope included him in his Dunciad and wrote a prologue for his benefit.]

[Line 308: On content.—On trust, a common use of the word in Pope's time.]

[Line 308: On content.—Regarding trust, a common way of using the word in Pope's era.]

[Lines 311, 312: Prismatic glass.—A glass prism by which light is refracted, and the component rays, which are of different colors being refracted at different angles show what is called a spectrum or series of colored bars, in the order violet, indigo, blue, green, yellow, orange, red.]

[Lines 311, 312: Prismatic glass.—A glass prism that bends light, showing the different colors of light being refracted at different angles, which creates a spectrum or a series of colored bars in the order of violet, indigo, blue, green, yellow, orange, red.]

[Line 328: Fungoso—One of the characters in Ben Jonson's Every Man out of his Humor who assumed the dress and tried to pass himself off for another.]

[Line 328: Fungoso—One of the characters in Ben Jonson's Every Man out of his Humor who put on a disguise and tried to pass himself off as someone else.]

[Line 356: Alexandrine—A line of twelve syllables, so called from a French poem on the Life of Alexander the Great, written in that meter. The poet gives a remarkable example in the next line.]

[Line 356: Alexandrine—A line of twelve syllables, named after a French poem about the Life of Alexander the Great, written in that meter. The poet provides a notable example in the next line.]

[Line 361: Sir John Denham, a poet of the time of Charles I. (1615-1668). His verse is characterized by considerable smoothness and ingenuity of rhythm, with here and there a passage of some force—Edmund Waller (1606-1687) is celebrated as one of the refiners of English poetry. His rank among English poets, however, is very subordinate.]

[Line 361: Sir John Denham, a poet from the time of Charles I (1615-1668). His poetry is known for its smoothness and clever rhythm, along with occasional powerful lines—Edmund Waller (1606-1687) is recognized as one of the influencers of English poetry. However, his status among English poets is relatively low.]

[Line 366: Zephyr.—Zephyrus, the west wind personified by the poets and made the most mild and gentle of the sylvan deities.]

[Line 366: Zephyr.—Zephyrus, the west wind represented by poets and known as the most mild and gentle of the forest gods.]

[Lines 366-373: In this passage the poet obviously intended to make "the sound seem an echo to the sense". The success of the attempt has not been very complete except in the second two lines, expressing the dash and roar of the waves, and in the last two, expressing the skimming, continuous motion of Camilla. What he refers to is the onomatopoeia of Homer and Virgil in the passages alluded to. Ajax, the son of Telamon, was, next to Achilles, the bravest of all the Greeks in the Trojan war. When the Greeks were challenged by Hector he was chosen their champion and it was in their encounter that he seized a huge stone and hurled it at Hector.

[Lines 366-373: In this passage the poet clearly aimed to make "the sound reflect the meaning." This attempt hasn't been fully successful, except in the last two lines, which capture the crashing and roaring of the waves, and in the final two, which convey the smooth, continuous movement of Camilla. What he mentions is the sound symbolism used by Homer and Virgil in the referenced passages. Ajax, the son of Telamon, was, after Achilles, the bravest of all the Greeks in the Trojan War. When the Greeks were challenged by Hector, he was chosen as their champion, and it was during their battle that he picked up a massive stone and threw it at Hector.]

Thus rendered by Pope himself:

Thus stated by Pope himself:

   "Then Ajax seized the fragment of a rock
   Applied each nerve, and swinging round on high,
   With force tempestuous let the ruin fly
   The huge stone thundering through his buckler broke."

"Then Ajax grabbed a piece of rock
  Focused all his strength, and swinging it high,
  With fierce power let the debris fly
  The massive stone smashed through his shield."

Camilla, queen of the Volsci, was brought up in the woods, and, according to Virgil, was swifter than the winds. She led an army to assist Turnus against Aeneas.

Camilla, queen of the Volsci, was raised in the woods, and, according to Virgil, was faster than the winds. She led an army to help Turnus against Aeneas.

   "Dura pan, cursuque pedum praevertere ventos.
    Illa vel intactae segetis per summa volaret
    Gramina nec teneras cursu laesisset aristas;
    Vel mare per medium fluctu suspensa tumenti,
    Ferret iter, celeres nec tingeret aequore plantas."
                                            Aen. vii 807-811.

"Dura pan, and to outrun the winds with her feet.
She would fly over the untouched grains
and wouldn't harm the tender ears of corn as she ran;
Or she would carry her path through the heaving sea,
swift and not touching the waves with her feet."
Aen. vii 807-811.

Thus rendered by Dryden.

Thus transformed by Dryden.

   "Outstripped the winds in speed upon the plain,
   Flew o'er the fields, nor hurt the bearded grain;
   She swept the seas, and as she skimmed along,
   Her flying feet unbathed on billows hung"]

"Surpassed the winds in speed across the plain,
   Raced over the fields without harming the grain;
   She soared over the seas, and as she glided by,
   Her swift feet untouched on the waves that rolled high."

[Lines 374-381: This passage refers to Dryden's ode, Alexander's Feast, or The Power of Music. Timotheus, mentioned in it, was a musician of Boeotia, a favorite of Alexander's, not the great musician Timotheus, who died before Alexander was born, unless, indeed, Dryden have confused the two.]

[Lines 374-381: This passage refers to Dryden's ode, Alexander's Feast, or The Power of Music. Timotheus, who is mentioned here, was a musician from Boeotia and a favorite of Alexander, not the famous musician Timotheus who died before Alexander was born, unless, of course, Dryden mixed them up.]

[Line 376: The son of Libyan Jove.—A title arrogated to himself by Alexander.]

[Line 376: The son of Libyan Jove.—A title claimed by Alexander.]

[Line 393: Dullness here 'seems to be incorrectly used. Ignorance is apt to magnify, but dullness reposes in stolid indifference.']

[Line 393: Dullness here 'seems to be used incorrectly. Ignorance tends to exaggerate, but dullness rests in unfeeling indifference.']

[Line 441: Sentences—Passages from the Fathers of the Church who were regarded as decisive authorities on all disputed points of doctrine.]

[Line 441: Sentences—Excerpts from the Church Fathers who were seen as key authorities on all disputed theological issues.]

[Line 444: Scotists—The disciples of Duns Scotus, one of the most famous and influential of the scholastics of the fourteenth century, who was opposed to Thomas Aquinas (1224-1274), another famous scholastic, regarding the doctrines of grace and the freedom of the will, but especially the immaculate conception of the Virgin. The followers of the latter were called Thomists, between whom and the Scotists bitter controversies were carried on.]

[Line 444: Scotists—The followers of Duns Scotus, one of the most well-known and influential scholastics of the fourteenth century. He opposed Thomas Aquinas (1224-1274), another prominent scholastic, on topics like grace and free will, particularly concerning the immaculate conception of the Virgin. Aquinas's followers were known as Thomists, and there were heated debates between them and the Scotists.]

[Line 445: Duck Lane.—A place near Smithfield where old books were sold. The cobwebs were kindred to the works of these controversialists, because their arguments were intricate and obscure. Scotus is said to have demolished two hundred objections to the doctrine of the immaculate conception, and established it by a cloud of proofs.]

[Line 445: Duck Lane.—A spot near Smithfield where old books were sold. The cobwebs were similar to the works of these controversial writers, because their arguments were complex and unclear. Scotus is said to have refuted two hundred objections to the doctrine of the immaculate conception and supported it with a multitude of evidence.]

[Line 459: Parsons.—This is an allusion to Jeremy Collier, the author of A Short View etc, of the English Stage. Critics, beaux.—This to the Duke of Buckingham, the author of The Rehearsal.]

[Line 459: Parsons.—This refers to Jeremy Collier, who wrote A Short View etc, of the English Stage. Critics, beaux.—This points to the Duke of Buckingham, the author of The Rehearsal.]

[Line 463: Blackmore, Sir Richard (1652-1729), one of the court physicians and the writer of a great deal of worthless poetry. He attacked the dramatists of the time generally and Dryden individually, and is the Quack Maurus of Dryden's prologue to The Secular Masque. Millbourn, Rev. Luke, who criticised Dryden; which criticism, although sneered at by Pope, is allowed to have been judicious and decisive.]

[Line 463: Blackmore, Sir Richard (1652-1729), one of the court doctors and the author of a lot of meaningless poetry. He criticized the playwrights of his time in general and Dryden in particular, and he is the quack Maurus from Dryden's prologue to The Secular Masque. Millbourn, Rev. Luke, who critiqued Dryden; although Pope mocked this criticism, it is considered to have been insightful and significant.]

[Line 465: Zoilus. See note on line 183.]

[Line 479: Patriarch wits—Perhaps an allusion to the great age to which the antediluvian patriarchs of the Bible lived.]

[Line 479: Patriarch wits—Maybe a reference to the long lives of the ancient patriarchs from the Bible.]

[Line 536: An easy monarch.—Charles II.]

A chill king. —Charles II.

[Line 541: At that time ladies went to the theater in masks.]

[Line 541: Back then, women wore masks to the theater.]

[Line 544: A foreign reign.—The reign of the foreigner, William III.]

[Line 544: A foreign rule.—The rule of the foreigner, William III.]

[Line 545: Socinus.—The reaction from the fanaticism of the Puritans, who held extreme notions of free grace and satisfaction, by resolving all Christianity into morality, led the way to the introduction of Socinianism, the most prominent feature of which is the denial of the existence of the Trinity.]

[Line 545: Socinus.—The backlash against the extreme beliefs of the Puritans, who had radical ideas about free grace and satisfaction, by reducing all of Christianity to morality, paved the way for the rise of Socinianism, which is primarily characterized by the rejection of the Trinity.]

[Line 552: Wit's Titans.—The Titans, in Greek mythology, were the children of Uranus (heaven) and Gaea (earth), and of gigantic size. They engaged in a conflict with Zeus, the king of heaven, which lasted ten years. They were completely defeated, and hurled down into a dungeon below Tartarus. Very often they are confounded with the Giants, as has apparently been done here by Pope. These were a later progeny of the same parents, and in revenge for what had been done to the Titans, conspired to dethrone Zeus. In order to scale heaven, they piled Mount Ossa upon Pelion, and would have succeeded in their attempt if Zeus had not called in the assistance of his son Hercules.]

[Line 552: Wit's Titans.—In Greek mythology, the Titans were the offspring of Uranus (the sky) and Gaea (the earth), and they were enormous in size. They fought against Zeus, the king of the heavens, in a battle that lasted ten years. They were ultimately defeated and cast into a dungeon beneath Tartarus. Often, they are confused with the Giants, as seems to be the case here with Pope. The Giants were a later generation from the same parents, and they plotted to overthrow Zeus in retaliation for what had happened to the Titans. To reach the heavens, they stacked Mount Ossa on top of Pelion, and they might have succeeded if Zeus hadn't called for help from his son Hercules.]

[Line 585: Appius.—He refers to Dennis (see note to verse 270) who had published a tragedy called Appius and Virginia. He retaliated for these remarks by coarse personalities upon Pope, in his criticism of this poem.]

[Line 585: Appius.—He’s talking about Dennis (see note to verse 270) who wrote a play called Appius and Virginia. He hit back at these comments with harsh insults directed at Pope in his critique of this poem.]

[Line 617: Durfey's Tales.—Thomas D'Urfey, the author (in the reign of Charles II.) of a sequel in five acts of The Rehearsal, a series of sonnets entitled Pills to Purge Melancholy, the Tales here alluded to, etc. He was a very inferior poet, although Addison pleaded for him.]

[Line 617: Durfey's Tales.—Thomas D'Urfey, the author (during the reign of Charles II.) of a five-act sequel to The Rehearsal, a collection of sonnets titled Pills to Purge Melancholy, the Tales mentioned here, etc. He was a pretty mediocre poet, even though Addison defended him.]

[Line 619: Garth, Dr., afterwards Sir Samuel (born 1660) an eminent physician and a poet of considerable reputation He is best known as the author of The Dispensary, a poetical satire on the apothecaries and physicians who opposed the project of giving medicine gratuitously to the sick poor. The poet alludes to a slander current at the time with regard to the authorship of the poem.]

[Line 619: Garth, Dr., later Sir Samuel (born 1660) was a well-known physician and a poet with significant recognition. He is primarily known for writing The Dispensary, a satirical poem targeting the apothecaries and doctors who were against the initiative of providing free medicine to the sick poor. The poet references a rumor that was popular at the time concerning the authorship of the poem.]

[Line 623: St Paul's Churchyard, before the fire of London, was the headquarters of the booksellers.]

[Line 623: St Paul’s Churchyard, before the Great Fire of London, was the hub for booksellers.]

[Lines 645, 646: See note on line 138.]

[Line 648: The Maeonian star.—Homer, supposed by some to have been born in Maeonia, a part of Lydia in Asia Minor, and whose poems were the chief subject of Aristotle's criticism.]

[Line 648: The Maeonian star.—Homer, thought by some to have been born in Maeonia, a region of Lydia in Asia Minor, and whose poems were the main focus of Aristotle's critique.]

[Line 652: Who conquered nature—He wrote, besides his other works, treatises on Astronomy, Mechanics, Physics, and Natural History.]

[Line 665: Dionysius, born at Halicarnassus about 50 B.C., was a learned critic, historian, and rhetorician at Rome in the Augustan age.]

[Line 665: Dionysius, born in Halicarnassus around 50 B.C., was a knowledgeable critic, historian, and rhetorician in Rome during the Augustan period.]

[Line 667: Petronius.—A Roman voluptuary at the court of Nero whose ambition was to shine as a court exquisite. He is generally supposed to be the author of certain fragments of a comic romance called Petronii Arbitri Satyricon.]

[Line 667: Petronius.—A Roman pleasure-seeker at Nero's court who wanted to stand out as a stylish courtier. He is commonly believed to be the author of some fragments of a comic romance titled Petronii Arbitri Satyricon.]

[Line 669: Quintilian, born in Spain 40 A.D. was a celebrated teacher of rhetoric and oratory at Rome. His greatwork is De Institutione Oratorica, a complete system of rhetoric, which is here referred to.]

[Line 669: Quintilian, born in Spain in 40 A.D., was a renowned teacher of rhetoric and public speaking in Rome. His major work is De Institutione Oratorica, a comprehensive system of rhetoric, which is mentioned here.]

[Line 675: Longinus, a Platonic philosopher and famous rhetorician, born either in Syria or at Athens about 213 A.D., was probably the best critic of antiquity. From his immense knowledge, he was called "a living library" and "walking museum," hence the poet speaks of him as inspired by all the Nine—Muses that is. These were Clio, the muse of History, Euterpe, of Music, Thaleia, of Pastoral and Comic Poetry and Festivals, Melpomene, of Tragedy, Terpsichore, of Dancing, Erato, of Lyric and Amorous Poetry, Polyhymnia, of Rhetoric and Singing, Urania, of Astronomy, Calliope, of Eloquence and Heroic Poetry.]

[Line 675: Longinus, a Platonic philosopher and renowned expert in rhetoric, born either in Syria or in Athens around 213 A.D., was likely the greatest critic of ancient times. Due to his vast knowledge, he was referred to as "a living library" and "a walking museum," which is why the poet describes him as inspired by all the Nine—the Muses. These included Clio, the muse of History; Euterpe, of Music; Thaleia, of Pastoral and Comic Poetry and Festivals; Melpomene, of Tragedy; Terpsichore, of Dance; Erato, of Lyric and Love Poetry; Polyhymnia, of Rhetoric and Singing; Urania, of Astronomy; Calliope, of Eloquence and Heroic Poetry.]

[Line 686: Rome.—For this pronunciation (to rhyme with doom) he has Shakespeare's example as precedent.]

[Line 686: Rome.—For this pronunciation (to rhyme with doom) he has Shakespeare's example as a precedent.]

[Line 692: Goths.—A powerful nation of the Germanic race, which, originally from the Baltic, first settled near the Black Sea, and then overran and took an important part in the subversion of the Roman empire. They were distinguished as Ostro Goths (Eastern Goths) on the shores of the Black Sea, the Visi Goths (Western Goths) on the Danube, and the Moeso Goths, in Moesia ]

[Line 692: Goths.—A powerful nation of the Germanic people, originally from the Baltic region, who first settled near the Black Sea and then played a significant role in the downfall of the Roman Empire. They were identified as Ostro Goths (Eastern Goths) along the shores of the Black Sea, the Visi Goths (Western Goths) by the Danube, and the Moeso Goths in Moesia ]

[Line 693: Erasmus.—A Dutchman (1467-1536), and at one time a Roman Catholic priest, who acted as tutor to Alexander Stuart, a natural son of James IV. of Scotland as professor of Greek for a short time at Oxford, and was the most learned man of his time. His best known work is his Colloquia, which contains satirical onslaughts on monks, cloister life, festivals, pilgrimages etc.]

[Line 693: Erasmus.—A Dutchman (1467-1536), who was once a Roman Catholic priest. He served as a tutor to Alexander Stuart, an illegitimate son of James IV of Scotland, and taught Greek briefly at Oxford. He was the most educated person of his time. His most famous work is his Colloquia, which includes satirical critiques of monks, monastic life, festivals, pilgrimages, and so on.]

[Line 696: Vandals.—A race of European barbarians, who first appear historically about the second century, south of the Baltic. They overran in succession Gaul, Spain, and Italy. In 455 they took and plundered Rome, and the way they mutilated and destroyed the works of art has become a proverb, hence the monks are compared to them in their ignorance of art and science.]

[Line 696: Vandals.—A group of European barbarians who first show up in history around the second century, south of the Baltic. They invaded Gaul, Spain, and Italy in succession. In 455, they captured and looted Rome, and their brutal destruction of artwork has become a common saying, which is why monks are compared to them in their lack of appreciation for art and science.]

[Line 697: Leo.—Leo X., or the Great (1513-1521), was a scholar himself, and gave much encouragement to learning and art.]

[Line 697: Leo.—Leo X., or the Great (1513-1521), was a scholar himself, and supported learning and the arts a lot.]

[Line 704: Raphael (1483-1520), an Italian, is almost universally regarded as the greatest of painters. He received much encouragement from Leo. Vida—A poet patronised by Leo. He was the son of poor parents at Cremona (see line 707), which therefore the poet says, would be next in fame to Mantua, the birthplace of Virgil as it was next to it in place.

[Line 704: Raphael (1483-1520), an Italian, is widely considered the greatest painter of all time. He got a lot of support from Leo. Vida—A poet supported by Leo. He was born to poor parents in Cremona (see line 707), which the poet claims would be second in fame only to Mantua, the birthplace of Virgil, since it was close by.

"Mantua vae miserae nimium vicina Cremona."—Virg.]

"Mantua, oh wretched city, too close to Cremona."—Virg.

[Line 714: Boileau.—An illustrious French poet (1636-1711), who wrote a poem on the Art of Poetry, which is copiously imitated by Pope in this poem.]

[Line 714: Boileau.—A famous French poet (1636-1711), who wrote a poem on the Art of Poetry, which heavily influenced Pope in this poem.]

[Lines 723, 724: Refers to the Duke of Buckingham's Essay on Poetry which had been eulogized also by Dryden and Dr. Garth.]

[Lines 723, 724: Refers to the Duke of Buckingham's Essay on Poetry which had been praised also by Dryden and Dr. Garth.]

[Line 725: Roscommon, the Earl of, a poet, who has the honor to be the first critic who praised Milton's Paradise Lost, died 1684.]

[Line 725: Roscommon, the Earl of, a poet who was the first critic to praise Milton's Paradise Lost, died in 1684.]

[Line 729: Walsh.—An indifferent writer, to whom Pope owed a good deal, died 1710.]

[Line 729: Walsh.—A mediocre writer, to whom Pope was quite indebted, died in 1710.]

AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM.

ALEXANDER POPE.

AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM,

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1709

PART I.

PART II.

PART III.

LINE NOTES