PROTEUS       Why, Valentine, what braggartism is this?

VALENTINE    Pardon me, Proteus. All I can is nothing

To her whose worth makes other worthies nothing.

She is alone.

PROTEUS Then let her alone.

VALENTINE Not for the world. Why, man, she is mine own,

And I as rich in having such a jewel

As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl,

The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold.                      (2.4.156-163)

Why, Valentine, what braggartism is this? Bloody hell, mate. Bit over the top. Rude, too, frankly. But, even more, in braggartism—a strange, excessive, almost diagnostic word—there’s a sense of trying to capture just how extreme, and how unseemly Valentine’s boasting is. He sounds desperate, mad, off-key. Perhaps he realises that, at least fleetingly: pardon me, Proteus. (That they both address each other by name here has a sense of attempting to keep it real, to remind themselves and each other of their long-standing and close friendship.) But all I can is nothing—anything I say, it’s no use, it’s nowhere near good enough—to her whose worth makes other worthies nothing. Silvia’s so amazing, so far the superior of every other woman, that they’re not even in the picture; they don’t count at all. That’s the simple truth. She is alone, a paragon, unique, one of a kind. Then let her alone. Give over, stop this madness.

Oh, not for all the world, protests Valentine. She’s everything. And—big revelation incoming—why, man, she is mine own. This isn’t just a hopeless crush, you know. We’re—together? And I as rich in having such a jewel as twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl, the water nectar, and the rocks pure gold. That’s how amazing it is, loving and being loved by Silvia, riches beyond any reckoning, beyond imagination.