an essay on criticism part 2

An Essay on Criticism. Critics in wit, language, versification only. Pride. In the first line of lines 344 to 347 I identified the beat and metre as trochaic pentameter. Written in the Year 1709. It would have been impossible to give a full and exact idea of the art of poetical criticism without entering into the consideration of the art of poetry. Reverence due to the Ancients, and praise of 'em. An Essay on Criticism, didactic poem in heroic couplets by Alexander Pope, first published anonymously in 1711 when the author was 22 years old. You may need to download version 2.0 now from the,Please complete the security check to access. By mnd091090 Feb 23, 2013 454 Words. (As most in Manners), by a love to parts.Some to Conceit alone their taste confine.And glitt’ring thoughts struck out at every line;Pleas’d with a work where nothing’s just or fit,Poets, like painters, thus unskill’d to trace.And hide with ornaments their want of Art.What oft was thought, but ne’er so well express’d;Something whose truth convinced at sight we find.That gives us back the image of our mind.As shades more sweetly recommend the light.So modest plainness sets off sprightly wit:For works may have more wit than does them good.Others for language all their care express.And value books, as women men, for dress:Their praise is still—the Style is excellent;Words are like leaves; and where they most abound.Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found.False eloquence, like the prismatic glass.Its gaudy colours spreads on every place;All glares alike, without distinction gay;But true expression, like th’ unchanging sun.Clears and improves whate’er it shines upon;It gilds all objects, but it alters none.Expression is the dress of thought, and still,A vile Conceit in pompous words express’d.For diff’rent styles with diff’rent subjects sort.As sev’ral garbs with country, town, and court.Some by old words to fame have made pretence.Ancients in phrase, mere moderns in their sense;Such labour’d nothings, in so strange a style.Amaze th’ unlearn’d, and make the learned smile;As apes our grandsires in their doublets drest.In words as fashions the same rule will hold.Be not the first by whom the new are tried.And smooth or rough with them is right or wrong.In the bright Muse tho thousand charms conspire.Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire;Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear.Not mend their minds; as some to church repair.Not for the doctrine, but the music there.While expletives their feeble aid do join.And ten low words oft creep in one dull line:While they ring round the same unvaried chimes.With sure returns of still expected rhymes;Where’er you find ‘the cooling western breeze,’,In the next line, it ‘whispers thro’ the trees;’,If crystal streams ‘with pleasing murmurs creep,’,The reader’s threaten’d (not in vain) with ‘sleep;’,Then, at the last and only couplet, fraught.With some unmeaning thing they call a thought.That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, and know.What ’s roundly smooth, or languishingly slow;Where Denham’s strength and Waller’s sweetness join.True ease in writing comes from Art, not Chance.As those move easiest who have learn’d to dance.’T is not enough no harshness gives offence;The sound must seem an echo to the sense.Soft is the strain when zephyr gently blows.And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows;But when loud surges lash the sounding shore.The hoarse rough verse should like the torrent roar.When Ajax strives some rock’s vast weight to throw.The line, too, labours, and the words move slow:Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain.Flies o’er th’ unbending corn, and skims along the main.Hear how Timotheus’ varied lays surprise.And bid alternate passions fall and rise!While at each change the son of Libyan Jove.Now burns with glory, and then melts with love;Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow.Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow:Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found.And the world’s Victor stood subdued by sound!Avoid extremes, and shun the fault of such.Who still are pleas’d too little or too much.That always shows great pride or little sense:Those heads, as stomachs, are not sure the best.Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest.Yet let not each gay turn thy rapture move;For fools admire, but men of sense approve:As things seem large which we thro’ mist descry.Some foreign writers, some our own despise;Thus Wit, like Faith, by each man is applied.To one small sect, and all are damn’d beside.Meanly they seek the blessing to confine.And force that sun but on a part to shine.Which not alone the southern wit sublimes.But ripens spirits in cold northern climes;Which from the first has shone on ages past.Enlights the present, and shall warm the last;But blame the False and value still the True.Some ne’er advance a judgment of their own.But catch the spreading notion of the town;And own stale nonsense which they ne’er invent.Some judge of authors’ 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.How the Wit brightens! That we are to study our own Taste, and know the limits of it.7. Identifying Rhythm and Meter in “An Essay on Criticism” by Alexander Pope Essay Sample The lesson for this hebdomad I felt that I struggled with placing the beat and metre. The lines to which you are referring in Alexander Pope's "An Essay on Criticism" are: 297 With gold and jewels cover ev'ry part, 298 And hide with Ornaments their want of art. of modern rhymes.And ’t is but just to let them live betimes.When patriarch wits survived a thousand years:Now length of fame (our second life) is lost.And bare threescore is all ev’n that can boast:Our sons their fathers’ failing language see.Where a new world leaps out at his command.And sweetly melt into just shade and light;When mellowing years their full perfection give.And each bold figure just begins to live.The treach’rous colours the fair art betray.Atones not for that envy which it brings:In youth alone its empty praise we boast.Like some fair flower the early Spring supplies.That gaily blooms, but ev’n in blooming dies.What is this Wit, which must our cares employ?Then most our trouble still when most admired.And still the more we give, the more required;Whose fame with pains we guard, but lose with ease.Sure some to vex, but never all to please.’T is what the vicious fear, the virtuous shun;By fools ’t is hated, and by knaves undone!Ah, let not Learning too commence its foe!Of old those met rewards who could excel.And such were prais’d who but endeavour’d well;Crowns were reserv’d to grace the soldiers too.Now they who reach Parnassus’ lofty crown.Employ their pains to spurn some others down;And while self-love each jealous writer rules.Contending wits become the sport of fools;But still the worst with most regret commend.To what base ends, and by what abject ways.Are mortals urged thro’ sacred lust of praise!Ah, ne’er so dire a thirst of glory boast.Good nature and good sense must ever join;Not yet purged off, of spleen and sour disdain.Discharge that rage on more provoking crimes.Nor fear a dearth in these flagitious times.Tho’ Wit and Art conspire to move your mind;In the fat age of pleasure, wealth, and ease.Sprung the rank weed, and thrived with large increase:When love was all an easy monarch’s care.Jilts ruled the state, and statesmen farces writ;Nay wits had pensions, and young lords had wit;The Fair sat panting at a courtier’s play.And virgins smil’d at what they blush’d before.Then unbelieving priests reform’d the nation.And taught more pleasant methods of salvation;Where Heav’n’s free subjects might their rights dispute.Lest God himself should seem too absolute;Pulpits their sacred satire learn’d to spare.And vice admired to find a flatt’rer there!Encouraged thus, Wit’s Titans braved the skies.And the press groan’d with licens’d blasphemies.These monsters, Critics!

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