Kings, courtiers, "statesmen"—save the name!
Bold Duchesses, more void of shame
⁠Than playhouse Moll or Nelly;
Intriguing placemen—all the crew
Of ladies frail, false lords, we view,
Gazing Pepys's magic-lantern through
⁠From dost and ashes sally!

Our diarist was not a saint,
He did not 'scape the age's taint.
⁠In him was naught heroic:
A bribe he scrupled not to touch,
He loved fair women far too much,
His gormandising too was such
⁠As would have shocked a stoic.

We know him as none else we know—
Far better even than Rousseau,
⁠Spite of his strange revealings;
Not Byron's self we know so well,
From what he did and did not tell,
(His soul a mingled heaven and hell!)
⁠Confessions and concealings.

Few have, like Pepys, the pluck to own
E'en to their very selves alone
⁠Their little peccadilloes;
Though quick our neighbours' faults to
We're to our own worse failings blind.
Nor ta confess them are inclined
⁠E'en to our friendly pillows.

We know he'd sins both great and small
To answer for, but, after all,
⁠Pray tell me who's without them?