In reason nothing.

BEROWNE.
Something then in rime.

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 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 swore,
And bide the penance of each three years' day.
Give me the paper; let me read the same;
And to the strict'st decrees I'll write my name.