Enter Demetrius with a Javelin, and Gentlemen.

3 Em. Choose which you will, or Peace or War, We come prepar’d for either.

1 Ush. Room for the Prince there.

Cel. Was it the Prince they said? how my heart trembled! 
’Tis he indeed; what a sweet noble fierceness
Dwells in his eyes! young Meleager like,
When he return’d from slaughter of the Boar,
Crown’d with the loves and honours of the people,
With all the gallant youth of Greece, he looks now,
Who could deny him love?

Dem. Hail Royal Father.

Ant. Ye are welcome from your sport, Sir, do you see this Gent. 
You that bring Thunders in your mouths, and Earthquakes
To shake and totter my designs? can you imagine
(You men of poor and common apprehensions)
While I admit this man, my Son, this nature
That in one look carries more fire, and fierceness,
Than all your Masters in their lives; dare I admit him,
Admit him thus, even to my side, my bosom,
When he is fit to rule, when all men cry him,
And all hopes hang about his head; thus place him,
His weapon hatched in bloud, all these attending
When he shall make their fortunes, all as sudden
In any expedition he shall point ’em,
As arrows from a Tartars bow, and speeding,
Dare I do this, and fear an enemy? 
Fear your great Master? yours? or yours?

Dem. O Hercules! 
Who saies you do, Sir?  Is there any thing
In these mens faces, or their Masters actions,
Able to work such wonders?

Cel. Now he speaks:  O I could dwell upon that tongue for ever.

Dem. You call ’em Kings, they never wore those Royalties,
Nor in the progress of their lives arriv’d yet
At any thought of King:  Imperial dignities,
And powerful God-like actions, fit for Princes
They can no more put on, and make ’em sit right,
Than I can with this mortal hand hold Heaven: 
Poor petty men, nor have I yet forgot
The chiefest honours time, and merit gave ’em: 
Lisimachus your Master, at the best,
His highest, and his hopeful’st Dignities
Was but grand-master of the Elephants;
Seleuchus of the Treasure; and for Ptolomey,
A thing not thought on then, scarce heard of yet,
Some Master of Ammunition:  and must these men—­

Cel. What a brave confidence flows from his spirit!  O sweet young man!

Dem. Must these, hold pace with us,
And on the same file hang their memories? 
Must these examine what the wills of Kings are? 
Prescribe to their designs, and chain their actions
To their restraints? be friends, and foes when they please? 
Send out their Thunders, and their menaces,
As if the fate of mortal things were theirs? 
Go home good men, and tell your Masters from us,
We do ’em too much honour to force from ’em
Their barren Countries, ruin their vast Cities,
And tell ’em out of love, we mean to leave ’em
(Since they will needs be Kings) no more to tread on,
Than they have able wits, and powers to manage,
And so we shall befriend ’em.  Ha! what does she there?