Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

   The lists are oped, the spacious area cleared,
   Thousands on thousands piled are seated round;
   Long ere the first loud trumpet’s note is heard,
   No 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.