JULIA  This babble shall not henceforth trouble me.

Here is a coil with protestation.

[She tears the letter]

Go, get you gone, and let the papers lie.

You would be fing’ring them to anger me.

LUCETTA        She makes it strange, but she would be best pleased

To be so angered with another letter.

[Exit]

JULIA Nay, would I were so angered with the same.

O hateful hands, to tear such loving words;

Injurious wasps, to feed on such sweet honey

And kill the bees that yield it with your stings.

I’ll kiss each several paper for amends.     (1.2.99-109)

This babble shall not henceforth trouble me, both Lucetta’s babble and back-chat (but Julia is babbling far more) and the letter itself, which might also be a bauble, a trifle, a toy. And so here is a coil with protestation, a lot of fuss about a love letter, declaration of love. I’ve had enough. Go, get you gone—to Lucetta—and let the papers lie. Julia doesn’t just drop the letter, she tears it up (it becomes apparent), leaving the fragments scattered on the ground. What a lot of fuss and upset indeed! Go on, leave me, get out, and don’t you go picking up the pieces; you would be fingering them to anger me. I’m not having you touching them, looking at them, reading them just because I’ve torn them up and thrown them all over the place… (And yes, fingering can be obscene here, as can bauble.) Whatever, says Lucetta. Protesting too much, much? She makes it strange—she’s making a big deal out of all of this, pretending not to care—but she would be best pleased to be so angered with another letter. That’s what she really wants. And she wants this letter. And Proteus. So that she can get annoyed about everything all over again…

As Lucetta leaves, Julia makes her concession: nay, would I were so angered with the same. This is the letter I want, this one—the one that I’ve just ripped up. Oh dear. O hateful hands, to tear such loving words! Why am I like this? Injurious wasps—not the lovely friendly helpful bees, and also ridiculous, imagining her hands as wasps—to feed on such sweet honey and kill the bees that yield it with your stings. I am an IDIOT, so ungrateful, so cruel, lashing out, pretending I don’t care, spurning this declaration of love. I’ll kiss each several paper for amends, pick up the pieces from the ground, grovelling around, chasing the fragments, and do penance by kissing them. Oh ridiculous pathos. Is Lucetta watching from a safe distance?