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,