The poem
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.
1800.* -----