The lists are oped, the spacious area cleared,[90]

Thousands on thousands piled are seated round;

Long ere the first loud trumpet's note is heard,

Ne vacant space for lated wight is found:

Here Dons, Grandees, but chiefly Dames abound,

Skilled in the ogle of a roguish eye,

Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound;

None through their cold disdain are doomed to die,

As moon-struck bards complain, by Love's sad archery.