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 author’s names, not works, and then
  Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men. 
  Of all this servile herd, the worst is he
  That in proud dulness 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 sonneteer, 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!

* * * * *

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 candour shine: 
That not alone what to your sense is due
All may allow; but seek your friendship too.

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 critic 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. 
Without good breeding, truth is disapproved;
That only makes superior sense beloved.

* * * * *

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. 
With him, most authors steal their works, or buy;
Garth did not write his own Dispensary. 
Name a new play, and he’s the poet’s 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: 
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.