1 Like as the Oak whose roots descend Through earth and stillness seeking food Most apt to furnish in the end That dense, indomitable wood 2 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; 3 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; 4 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,— 5 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. 6 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; 7 Bidding him write each sordid love, Shame, panic, stratagem, and lie In full, that sinners undiscovered Like ourselves, might say:—“’Tis I!”
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