Samuel Pepys

Like as the Oak whose roots descend
  Through earth and stillness seeking food
 Most apt to furnish in the end
   That dense, indomitable wood 

Which, felled, may arm a seaward flank
  Of Ostia’s mole or—bent to frame
 The beaked Liburnian’s triple bank—
   Carry afar the Roman name; 

But which, a tree, the season moves
  Through gentler Gods than Wind or Tide,
 Delightedly to harbour doves,
  Or take some clasping vine for bride; 

So this man—prescient to ensure
   (Since even now his orders hold)
 A little State might ride secure
   At sea from foes her sloth made bold,— 

Turned in his midmost harried round,
  As Venus drove or Liber led,
 And snatched from any shrine he found
  The Stolen Draught, the Secret Bread. 

Nor these alone. His life betrayed
   No gust unslaked, no pleasure missed.
 He called the obedient Nine to aid
   The varied chase. And Clio kissed; 

Bidding him write each sordid love,
  Shame, panic, stratagem, and lie
 In full, that sinners undiscovered
  Like ourselves, might say:—“’Tis I!”