My language to you Prince, you foreign man.
Ne're stare nor put on wonder, for you must
Indure me, and you shall. This earth you tread upon
(A dowry as you hope with this fair Princess,
Whose memory I bow to) was not left
By my dead Father (Oh, I had a Father)
To your inheritance, and I up and living,
Having my self about me and my sword,
The souls of all my name, and memories,
These arms and some few friends, besides the gods,
To part so calmly with it, and sit still,
And say I might have been! I tell thee _Pharamond_,
When thou art King, look I be dead and rotten,
And my name ashes; For, hear me _Pharamond_,
This very ground thou goest on, this fat earth,
My Fathers friends made fertile with their faiths,
Before that day of shame, shall gape and swallow
Thee and thy Nation, like a hungry grave,
Into her hidden bowels: Prince, it shall;
By _Nemesis_ it shall.

_Pha_. He's mad beyond cure, mad.

_Di_. Here's a fellow has some fire in's veins:
The outlandish Prince looks like a Tooth-drawer.

_Phi_. Sir, Prince of Poppingjayes, I'le make it well appear
To you I am not mad.

_King_. You displease us.