The port was the dark burden of that womb,
Whose liquid bowels are the greedy tomb
Of trade and hope, by art improved to be
From foes a refuge, boisterous winds, and sea.
The worth and safety, though not equal fate
Of this fair prize, might Jason's emulate;
That yellow fleece, bulls hoofed with thunder kept,
And a near watchful guard, that never slept.
This cloistered, in the hostile harbour lay,
Maintained by castles and a treacherous way.