Alexander Pope's "An Essay on Criticism"

Alexander Pope represents one of the greatest poets of the period known as the Restoration, as well as the Eighteenth Century. His work stands at the pinnacle of a whole classical tradition of poetry, shortly before the Romantic period subverts almost everything that came before it. At Clapham School our class is navigating that transition this year by studying Pope for the first half, and following up with William Wordsworth for the second.
Pope's "An Essay on Criticism" is a poem on a grand scale, an essay of heroic couplets in fact, reaching the length of 18 pages in Times New Roman font on a Word Document. Pope boldly and humorously criticizes the critics and scholars of his day. At the same time, he presents a whole philosophy of what makes for good poetry, good criticism, good sense, and good art.
We've been memorizing the first 3 paragraphs in class, and I've been quite pleased with how much the students have grown in their ability to understand Pope, as we've studied this poem. Take a moment to read through the first three paragraphs and see what you can make of it:

'Tis hard to say, if greater Want of Skill
Appear in Writing or in Judging ill,
But, of the two, less dang'rous is th' Offence,
To tire our Patience, than mis-lead our Sense:
Some few in that, but Numbers err in this,
Ten Censure wrong for one who Writes amiss;
A Fool might once himself alone expose,
Now One in Verse makes many more in Prose.

'Tis with our Judgments as our Watches, none
Go just alike, yet each believes his own.
In Poets as true Genius is but rare,
True Taste as seldom is the Critick's Share;
Both must alike from Heav'n derive their Light,
These born to Judge, as well as those to Write.
Let such teach others who themselves excell,
And censure freely who have written well.
Authors are partial to their Wit, 'tis true,
But are not Criticks to their Judgment too?

Yet if we look more closely, we shall find
Most have the Seeds of Judgment in their Mind;
Nature affords at least a glimm'ring Light;
The Lines, tho' touch'd but faintly, are drawn right.
But as the slightest Sketch, if justly trac'd,
Is by ill Colouring but the more disgrac'd,
So by false Learning is good Sense defac'd.
Some are bewilder'd in the Maze of Schools,
And some made Coxcombs Nature meant but Fools.
In search of Wit these lose their common Sense,
And then turn Criticks in their own Defence.
Each burns alike, who can, or cannot write,
Or with a Rival's or an Eunuch's spite.
All Fools have still an Itching to deride,
And fain wou'd be upon the Laughing Side;
If Maevius Scribble in Apollo's spight,
There are, who judge still worse than he can write.