Where all Arabia's spices breathe,
The envious glove, the melting eye;
Nor dare the heaving neck descry,
Nor quiv'ring ancle's sprightly bound
To Harmony's enraptured sound—
Or, vent'rous youths, too sure you'll find
Your hearts and souls are left behind.
Did Anstie's Muse to me belong,
Brighton should rival Bath in song;
Since, ocean sprung, great Beauty's Queen