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 gen’rous 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 th’ 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 world’s just wonder, and e’en thine, O Rome!)
  So single parts unequally surprise,
  All comes united to th’ admiring eyes;
  No monstrous height, or breadth, or length appear;
  The whole at once is bold, and regular.

  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,
  T’ 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.

  Once on a time, La Mancha’s knight, they say,
  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;
  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.’

  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.