Читать книгу The Complete Works of Shakespeare онлайн

295 страница из 942

Have no more profit of their shining nights

Than those that walk and wot not what they are.

Too much to know is to know nought but fame;

And every godfather can give a name.

King.

How well he’s read, to reason against reading!

Dum.

Proceeded well, to stop all good proceeding!

Long.

He weeds the corn and still lets grow the weeding.

Ber.

The spring is near when green geese are a-breeding.

Dum.

How follows that?

Ber.

Fit in his place and time.

Dum.

In reason nothing.

Ber.

Something then in rhyme.

King.

Berowne is like an envious sneaping frost

That bites the first-born infants of the spring.

Ber.

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.