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 erred in, what corrected,
What I suffered, what effected,
⁠To this wreath as flowers belong;
For the aged and the youthful.
And the vicious and the truthful,
⁠All are fair when viewed in song.