Biron. Well, say I am; why should proud summer boast,
[103] Before the birds have any cause to sing?
Why should I joy in any abortive birth?
105 At Christmas I no more desire a rose
[106] Than wish a snow in May’s new-fangled shows;
But like of each thing that in season grows.
[108] So you, to study now it is too late,
[109] Climb o’er the house to unlock the little gate.
[110] King. Well, sit you out: go home, Biron: adieu.
Biron. No, my good lord; I have sworn to stay with you: