The Citizen.
I am Medon, the corn-merchant. Oh, if my love for you, exalted and divine Emperor
Julian.
Come to your case, man!
Medon.
I have a neighbour, Alites, who for many years has done me every imaginable injury; for he, too, is a dealer in corn, and takes the bread out of my mouth in the most shameful way
Julian.
Aha, my good Medon; yet you look not ill-fed.
Medon.
Nor is that the matter, most gracious Emperor! Oh, by the august gods, whom every day I learn to love and praise more highly—his affronts to me I could overlook; but what I cannot suffer
Julian.
He surely does not insult the gods?
Medon.
He does what is worse,—or at least equally shameless; he—oh, I scarce know whether my indignation will permit me to utter it,—he insults you yourself, most gracious Emperor!
Julian.
Indeed? In what words?
Medon.
Not in words, but worse—in act.
