Sheathe your dagger: Be angry when you will, it shall have scope; Do what you will, dishonour shall be humour. O Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb That carries anger as the flint bears fire; Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark, And straight is cold again.

Hath Cassius lived To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, When grief, and blood ill-temper’d, vexeth him?

Have not you love enough to bear with me, When that rash humour which my mother gave me Makes me forgetful?

Yes, Cassius; and, from henceforth, When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, He’ll think your mother chides, and leave you so.

Within. Let me go in to see the generals; There is some grudge between ’em, ’tis not meet They be alone.