BEROWNE.
Fit in his place and time.
DUMAINE.
In reason nothing.
BEROWNE.
Something then in rhyme.
LONGAVILLE.
Berowne is like an envious sneaping frost
That bites the first-born infants of the spring.
BEROWNE.
Well, say I am. Why should proud summer boast
Before the birds have any cause to sing?
Why should I joy in any abortive birth?
At Christmas I no more desire a rose
Than wish a snow in May’s new-fangled shows,
But like of each thing that in season grows.
So you, to study now it is too late,
Climb o’er the house to unlock the little gate.
KING.
Well, sit you out. Go home, Berowne. Adieu.
BEROWNE.
No, my good lord, I have sworn to stay with you,
And though I have for barbarism spoke more
Than for that angel knowledge you can say,
Yet confident I’ll keep what I have sworn
And bide the penance of each three years’ day.
Give me the paper, let me read the same,
And to the strictest decrees I’ll write my name.
KING.
How well this yielding rescues thee from shame.
BEROWNE.
[Reads.] Item, That no woman shall come within a mile of my court. Hath this been proclaimed?
LONGAVILLE.
Four days ago.