On that island we’ll land! there our standard we’ll raise!
We will there plant our jack, if the island should blaze!’
The gods, in great wrath, heard all this contention:
‘Dear Neptune,’ said Vul., ‘this has spoiled our invention.’
‘It has,’ said the god, ‘but, I swear by my trident,
The proud sons of Britain shall never abide on ’t!
It was raised for a god, and no vile worthless mortal
On that island shall dwell, to eat oysters and turtle.
Down! down with it, Vul., that will best end the quarrel,
And I’ll be content with my old bed of coral.’