'Tis Eustache de St. Pierre, I think, they call thee—
Whom all the town, our very children, point at,
As the most growling knave in christendom;—
Yea, thou art he.
Eust. The same. The mongrels, here,
Cannot abide rough honesty:—I'm hated.
Smooth talking likes them better:—You, good sir,
Are popular among them.
All. Silence!