What ill-set mind, poor little Ravidus, thrusts you headlong at my iambics? What god, none advocate of good for you, stirs you to a senseless quarrel? That you may be in the people's mouth? What do you want? Do you want to be famous, no matter in what way? You will be, but by our long-drawn vengeance, since you wanted to love my lover.

Ameana, a love-worn girl, asks me for a whole ten thousand, that girl with an ugly little nose, wench of the bankrupt Formian. You near of kin in whose care the girl is, summon both friends and doctors: for the girl is not sane, and is not accustomed to ask her mirror how she looks.