Page:An Essay on Criticism - Pope (1711).pdf/13

 In search of Wit these lose their common Sense, And then turn Criticks in their own Defence. Those hate as Rivals all that write; and others But envy Wits, as Eunuchs envy Lovers. All Fools have still an Itching to deride, And fain wou'd be upon the Laughing Side: If Mævius Scribble in Apollo's spight, There are, who judge still worse than he can write. Some have at first for Wits, then Poets past, Turn'd Criticks next, and prov'd plain Fools at last; Some neither can for Wits nor Criticks pass, As heavy Mules are neither Horse or Ass. Those half-learn'd Witlings, num'rous in our Isle, As half-form'd Insects on the Banks of Nile; Unfinish'd Things, one knows not what to call, Their Generation's so equivocal: To tell 'em, wou'd a hundred Tongues require, Or one vain Wit's, that wou'd a hundred tire. But you who seek to give and merit Fame, And justly bear a Critick's noble Name, Be