BRUTUS. 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. 

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

BRUTUS. When I spoke that, I was ill-temper’d too. 

CASSIUS. Do you confess so much? Give me your hand. 

BRUTUS. And my heart too. 

CASSIUS. O Brutus! 

BRUTUS. What’s the matter? 

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

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

 Enter Poet, followed by Lucilius, Titinius and Lucius.

Poet,

Lucilius, Titinius

Lucius

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

LUCILIUS. [Within.] You shall not come to them. 

POET. [Within.] Nothing but death shall stay me. 

CASSIUS. How now! What’s the matter? 

POET. For shame, you generals! What do you mean? Love, and be friends, as two such men should be; For I have seen more years, I’m sure, than ye. 

CASSIUS. Ha, ha! How vilely doth this cynic rhyme! 

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