The multitude is always in the wrong

Immodest words admit of no defence, For want of decency is want of sense.

Hail mighty Maro! may that sacred name Kindle my breast with thy celestial flame; Sublime ideas and apt words infuse, The Muse instruct my voice, and thou inspire the Muse!

My God, my Father, and my Friend, Do not forsake me at my end.

Then, seek a poet who your way does bend, And choose an author as you choose a friend; United by this sympathetic bond, You grow familiar, intimate and fond; Your thoughts, your words, your styles, your souls agree, No longer his …

Remember Milo's end, Wedged in that timber which he strove to rend.

Take pains the genuine meaning to explore, There sweat, there strain, tug the laborious oar; Search every comment that your care can find, Some here, some there, may hit the poet's mind.