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, 255 Since none can compass more than they intend; And if the means be just, the conduct true, Applause, in spight of trivial faults, is due; As men of breeding, sometimes men of wit, T' avoid great errors, must the less commit: 260 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, 265 And all to one lov'd Folly sacrifice.
Once on a time, La Mancha's Knight, they say, A certain bard encount'ring on the way, Discours'd in terms as just, with looks as sage, As e'er could Dennis of the Grecian stage; 270 Concluding all were desp'rate sots and fools, Who durst depart from Aristotle's rules. Our Author, happy in a judge so nice, Produc'd his Play, and begg'd the Knight's advice; Made him observe the subject, and the plot, 275 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. 280 "Not so, by Heav'n" (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, 285 Curious not knowing, not exact but nice, Form short Ideas; and offend in arts (As most in manners) by a love to parts.
Some to _Conceit_ alone their taste confine, And glitt'ring thoughts struck out at ev'ry line; 290 Pleas'd with a work where nothing's just or fit; One glaring Chaos and wild heap of wit. Poets like painters, thus, unskill'd to trace The naked nature and the living grace, With gold and jewels cover ev'ry part, 295 And hide with ornaments their want of art. True Wit is Nature to advantage dress'd, What oft was thought, but ne'er so well express'd; Something, whose truth convinc'd at sight we find, That gives us back the image of our mind. 300 As shades more sweetly recommend the light, So modest plainness sets off sprightly wit. For works may have more wit than does 'em good, As bodies perish thro' excess of blood.