No One Talks More Than A Poet; Fain he'd Have The People Know It. Praise Or Blame He Ever Loves; None In Prose Confess An Error, Yet We Do So, Void Of Terror, In The Muses' Silent Groves. What I Err'D In, What Corrected, What I Suffer'D, What Effected, To This Wreath As Flow'Rs Belong; For The Aged, And The Youthful, And The Vicious, And The Truthful, All Are Fair When Viewed In Song.