'Tis with our judgments as our watches, none Go just alike, yet each believes his own. 10 In poets as true genius is but rare, True taste as seldom, is the critic's 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, But are not critics to their judgment too? Yet if we look more closely, we shall find Most have the seeds of judgment in their mind: 20 Nature affords at least a glimmering light; The lines, though touch'd but faintly, are drawn right. But as the slightest sketch, if justly traced, Is by ill colouring but the more disgraced, So by false learning is good sense defaced: Some are bewilder'd in the maze of schools, And some made coxcombs Nature meant but fools. In search of wit these lose their common sense, And then turn critics in their own defence: Each burns alike, who can, or cannot write, 30 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, There are who judge still worse than he can write. Some have at first for wits, then poets pass'd, Turn'd 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-learn'd witlings, numerous in our isle, 40 As half-form'd insects on the banks of Nile; Unfinished things, one knows not what to call, Their generation's so equivocal: To tell 'em would a hundred tongues require, Or one vain wit's, that might a hundred tire. But you who seek to give and merit fame, And justly bear a critic's noble name, Be sure yourself and your own reach to know, How far your genius, taste, and learning go; Launch not beyond your depth, but be discreet, 50 And mark that point where sense and dulness meet. Nature to all things fix'd the limits fit, And wisely curb'd proud man's pretending wit. As on the land while here the ocean gains, In other parts it leaves wide sandy plains; Thus in the soul while memory prevails, The solid power of understanding fails; Where beams of warm imagination play, The memory's soft figures melt away. One science only will one genius fit, 60 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 gain'd before, By vain ambition still to make them more; Each might his several province well command, Would all but stoop to what they understand.