Berowne is like an envious sneaping frost

King
Berowne is like an envious sneaping frost
That bites the firstborn 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.