Cæsar. I do not use to wait, Lady,
Where I am, all the dores are free, and open.
Cleo. I ghess so, by your rudeness.
Cæsar. Ye are not angry?
Things of your tender mold, should be most gentle;
Why do you frown? good gods, what a set-anger
Have you forc'd into your face! Come, I must temper ye:
What a coy smile was there, and a disdainfull!
How like an ominous flash it broke out from ye!
Defend me, Love, Sweet, who has anger'd ye?