’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’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?

* * * * *

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 dulness meet.

* * * * *

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 th’ informing soul
With spirit feeds, with vigour fills the whole. 
Each motion guides, and every nerve sustains;
Itself unseen, but in th’ effects, remains. 
Some, to whom Heaven in wit has been profuse,
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,
Shows most true mettle when you check his 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.

  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 Homer’s 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.

  When first young Maro in his boundless mind
  A work t’ outlast immortal Rome designed,
  Perhaps he seemed above the critic’s law,
  And but from nature’s fountains scorned to draw: 
  But when t’ examine every part he came,