Those Greeks, where'er they go, will turn the scale.
Ptol. What think you, Cleomenes?
Cleom. He says true.
Ptol. Then Magas must not live.
Cleom. That does not follow.
Fear not those mercenaries: they are mine,
Devoted to my interest, commanded by my nod:
They are my limbs of war, and I their soul.
Were they in arms against you at your gates,
High in their rage, and fixed upon the spoil,