Learn then what morals critics ought to show, 560 For 'tis but half a judge's task, to know. 'Tis not enough, taste, judgment, learning, join; In all you speak, let truth and candour shine, That not alone what to your sense is due All may allow, but seek your friendship too. 565 Be silent always when you doubt your sense; And speak, though sure, with seeming diffidence:[237] Some positive, persisting fops we know, Who, if once wrong, will needs be always so; But you with pleasure own your errors past, 570 And make each day a critique on the last. 'Tis not enough your counsel still be true; Blunt truths more mischief than nice falsehoods do; Men must be taught as if you taught them not, And things unknown proposed as things forgot. 575 Without good-breeding truth is disapproved; That only makes superior sense beloved. Be niggards of advice on no pretence: For the worst avarice is that of sense. With mean complaisance ne'er betray your trust, 580 Nor be so civil as to prove unjust.[238] Fear not the anger of the wise to raise; Those best can bear reproof, who merit praise. 'Twere well might critics still this freedom take, But Appius reddens[239] at each word you speak, 585 And stares, tremendous, with a threat'ning eye, Like some fierce tyrant in old tapestry.[240] Fear most to tax an Honourable fool, Whose right it is, uncensured, to be dull; Such, without wit, are poets when they please, 590 As without learning they can take degrees.[241] Leave dang'rous 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. 595 'Tis best sometimes your censure to restrain, And charitably let the dull be vain:[242] Your silence there is better than your spite, For who can rail so long as they can write?[243] Still humming on, their drowsy course they keep, 600 And lashed so long, like tops, are lashed asleep.[244] 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, 605 Still run on poets in a raging vein, Ev'n to the dregs and squeezing of the brain, Strain out the last dull droppings[245] of their sense, And rhyme with all the rage of impotence. Such shameless bards we have; and yet, 'tis true, 610 There are as mad, abandoned critics too. The bookful blockhead, ignorantly read, With loads of learned lumber in his head,[246] With his own tongue still edifies his ears,