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Here is old Corbulus in agonies for his febrifuge, and a slave of his is in high words with the market-carrier, who tells him that Mago, who supplied it, is dead of a worse fever than his master’s. “The rogue,” cried the slave, “my master has contracted with him for the year, and has paid him the money in advance.” A jeering and mocking from the crowd assailed the unfortunate domestic, who so truly foreboded that his return without the medicine would be the signal for his summary committal to the pistrinum. “Let old Corbulus follow Mago in his passage to perdition,” said one of the rabble; “let him take his physic with Pluto, and leave us the bread and wine on which he’s grown gouty.” “Bread, bread!” was the response elicited by this denunciation, and it spread into a circle larger than that of which the slave and the carrier were part.
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