_3 Cit._ You! why, Eustache de St. Pierre you are; one of the sourest old crabs of all the citizens of Calais; and, if reviling your neighbours be a sign of ill will to one's country, and ill will to one's country a sign of good will to strangers, why a man might go near to think you are a friend to the English. _Eust._ I honour them. They are our enemy--a gallant enemy; A biting, but a blunt, straight-forward foe: Who, when we weave our subtle webs of state, And spin fine stratagems to entangle them, Come to our doors, and pull the work to pieces; Dispute it fist to fist, and score their arguments Upon our politic pates. Remember Cressy!-- We've reason to remember it--they thump'd us, And soundly, there:--'tis but some few months, back;-- There, in the bowels of our land--at Cressy-- They so bechopp'd us with their English logic. That our French heads ached sorely for it:--thence, Marching through Picardy, to Calais here, They have engirded us; fix'd the dull tourniquet Of war upon our town; constraining, thus, The life blood of our commerce, with fair France, Of whom we are a limb; and all this openly:-- And, therefore, as an open foe, who think And strike in the same breath, I do esteem Their valour, and their plainness. I view them with a most respectful hatred. Much may be learnt from these same Englishmen. _4 Cit._ Ay, pr'ythee, what? Hunger and hard blows seem all we are like to get from them. _Eust._ Courage; which you may have--'twas never tried tho'; Patience, to bear the buffets of the times. Ye cannot wait till Fortune turns her wheel: You'll to the Governor's, and get the keys! And what would your wise worships do with them? Eat them, mayhap, for ye have ostrich stomachs; Ye dare not use them otherwise.--Home! home! And pray for better luck. [_The CITIZENS exeunt severally. An OLD MAN, alone, remains in the Back of the Scene._ Fie, I am faint With railing on the cormorants. Three days, And not break bread--'tis somewhat. There's not one Among these trencher-scraping knaves, that yet Has kept a twenty hours' lent;--I know it; Yet how they crave! I've here, by strong entreaty, And a round sum, (entreaty's weak without it,) E'en just enough to make dame Nature wrestle Another round with famine. Out, provision! [_Takes off his Wallet._ _Old Man._ [_Coming forward._] O, Heaven! _Eust._ Who bid thee bless the meat?--How now old grey beard! What cause hast thou---- _Old Man._ I have a daughter-- _Eust._ Hungry, I warrant. _Old Man._ Dying! The blessing of my age:--I could bear all;-- But for my child;--my dear, dear child!--to lose her To lose her thus!--to see disease so wear her!-- And when a little nourishment----She's starving! _Eust._ Go on;--no tears;--I hate them.