Not Tyre so rich, not Tyrian Carthage rose.
Wilt thou yet fear, lest here the haughty foe,
Thy fields o’er-run, and still unpunished go!
Is it then nought to view th’ extended strand
O’er which stern crags like beetling turrets stand,
And countless ports in safe embrace expand?
Look to thy southern waves, to Devon’s fields,
Or where green Vectis[[304]] trusty harbour yields,
Spreading her friendly arms; or Dover’s height
Looks on the sea with widespread canvas white,