3 Cit. Tut, we wo'not bear it. 'Tis our Governor is in fault: this way we are certain to perish.
4 Cit. Peste! we'll not endure it. Shut up, near eleven months, within the walls.
2 Cit. In fine weather—no promenade!
3 Cit. No provisions.—We'll to the Governor, force the keys, and surrender the town. Allons! come along, neighbours, to the Governor!
All. Ay, ay—to the Governor. Away!
[Going in a Posse.
Enter Eustache de St. Pierre, carrying a small Wallet.
Eust. Why, how now, ho!—nothing but noise and babble!
Whither away so fast? Stand, rogues, and speak!
3 Cit. Whither away? Marry! we would away from famine: we are for the Governor's, to force the keys of the town.