But when the multitude contracts the span,
And seats are rare, they settle where they can.
Now the full benches, to late comers, doom
No room for standing, miscall'd standing-room.
Hark! the check-taker moody silence breaks,
And bawling "Pit full," gives the check he takes;
Yet onward still, the gathering numbers cram,
Contending crowders shout the frequent damn,
And all is bustle, squeeze, row, jabbering, jam.
See to their desks Apollo's sons repair;