Chuse to be _absent_ when your _Cause_ is try'd,
Lest _Favour_ should the _partial Judge_ misguide;
Not _others Thoughts_ implicitly prefer,
Your _Friend's_ a _Mortal_, and like _you_, may _err_.
Upon the _last Appeal_ let _Reason_ sit,
And _here_, let _all Authority_ submit.
Divest your _self of self_ whate'er you can,
And think the _Author_ now some _other Man_.
A thousand trivial _Lumber-Thoughts_ will come, 330
A thousand _Fagot-Lines_ will crowd for room;
_Reform_ your _Troops_, and no _Exemption_ grant,
You'll gain in _Strength_, what you in _Numbers_ want.
Nor yet _Infallibility_ pretend;
He still _errs on_ who thinks he ne'er can _mend_:
Reject that _hasty_, that _presumptuous Thought_!
None e'er but VIRGIL wrote without a _Fault_;
(Or _none_ he has, or none that _I can find_,
Who, dazzled with his _Beauties_, to his _Moles_ am blind.)
Who has the _least_ is _happiest_, he the _best_, 340
Who _owns_ and _mends_ where he has once _transgrest_.
Nor will _good Writers smaller Blots_ despise,
Lest those neglected should to _Crimes_ arise;
Such _Venial Sins_ indulg'd will _mortal_ prove,
At least they from _Perfection_ far remove.
Nor _Critical Exactness_ here deride,
It looks like _Sloth_ or _Ignorance_, or _Pride_;
_Good Sense_ is spoild in _Words unapt_ exprest,
And _Beauty_ pleases more when 'tis _well drest_.
[Sidenote: _Method_.]
Forget not METHOD if the _Prize_ you'd gain, 350