Conflict

Brutus, bay not me;
I'll not endure it: you forget yourself,
To hedge me in; I am a soldier, I,
Older in practise, abler than yourself
To make conditions.
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Urge me no more, I shall forget myself;
Have mind upon your health, tempt me no further.
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Hear me, for I will speak.
Must I give way and room to your rash choler?
Shall I be frighted when a madman stares?
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All this! ay, more: fret till your proud heart break;
Go show your slaves how choleric you are,
And make your bondmen tremble.
Must I budge? Must I observe you? must I stand and crouch
Under your testy humour? By the gods,
You shall digest the venom of your spleen,
Though it do split you; for, from this day forth,
I'll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter,
When you are waspish.
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When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous,
To lock such rascal counters from his friends,
Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts;
Dash him to pieces.
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