XLI.

Ameana, the maiden of the people, Asks me sesterces, all the many thousands.

Maiden she with a nose not wholly faultless, Bankrupt Formian, your declar'd devotion.

Wherefore look to the maiden, her relations: 5 Call her family, summon all the doctors.

Your poor maiden is oddly touch'd; a mirror Sure would lend her a soberer reflexion.