The face of heaven with fewer stars is crowned, Than beauties in the Roman sphere are found. Whether thy love is bent on blooming youth, On dawning sweetness in unartful truth, Or courts the juicy joys of riper growth; Here may'st thou find thy full desires in both. Or if autumnal beauties please thy sight, (An age that knows to give, and take delight,) Millions of matrons of the graver sort, In common prudence, will not baulk the sport. In summer heats thou need'st but only go To Pompey's cool and shady portico; Or Concord's fane; or that proud edifice, Whose turrets near the bawdy suburb rise; Or to that other portico, where stands The cruel father urging his commands, And fifty daughters wait the time of rest, To plunge their poniards in the bridegroom's breast; Or Venus' temple, where, on annual nights, They mourn Adonis with Assyrian rites. Nor shun the Jewish walk, where the foul drove, On Sabbaths, rest from every thing but love: Nor Isis' temple; for that sacred whore Makes others what to Jove she was before. And if the hall itself be not belied, Even there the cause of love is often tried; Near it at least, or in the palace-yard, From whence the noisy combatants are heard. The crafty counsellors, in formal gown, There gain another's cause, but lose their own. There eloquence is nonplust in the suit, And lawyers, who had words at will, are mute. Venus, from her adjoining temple, smiles, To see them caught in their litigious wiles. Grave senators lead home the youthful dame, Returning clients, when they patrons came. But, above all, the play-house is the place; There's choice of quarry in that narrow chace. There take thy stand, and, sharply looking out, } Soon may'st thou find a mistress in the rout, } For length of time, or for a single bout. } The theatres are berries for the fair, Like ants on mole-hills thither they repair; Like bees to hives, so numerously they throng, It may be said, they to that place belong. Thither they swarm, who have the public voice; There choose, if plenty not distracts thy choice. To see, and to be seen, in heaps they run; Some to undo, and some to be undone. From Romulus the rise of plays began, To his new subjects a commodious man; Who, his unmarried soldiers to supply, Took care the commonwealth should multiply; Providing Sabine women for his braves, Like a true king, to get a race of slaves. His play-house not of Parian marble made, Nor was it spread with purple sails for shade; The stage with rushes, or with leaves, they strewed, No scenes in prospect, no machining god. On rows of homely turf they sat to see, Crowned with the wreaths of every common tree. There, while they sat in rustic majesty,