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:
Call her family, summon all the doctors.
Your poor maiden is oddly touch'd; a mirror
Sure would lend her a soberer reflexion.