PROTEUS       Methinks my zeal to Valentine is cold,

And that I love him not as I was wont –

O, but I love his lady too-too much,

And that’s the reason I love him so little.

How shall I dote on her with more advice,

That thus without advice begin to love her?

’Tis but her picture I have yet beheld,

And that hath dazzled my reason’s light.

But when I look on her perfections

There is no reason but I shall be blind.

If I can check my erring love I will,

If not, to compass her I’ll use my skill.

Exit                  (2.4.195-206)

Proteus observes that his zeal to Valentine is cold and that he loves him not as he was wont; his affection towards his friend has cooled, it seems, he’s not as well-disposed towards as he used to be. Is he speaking in wonder, or even self-reproach, or self-disgust, amazed or aghast at this change in his disposition? or is he being a dispassionate observer of his own temperament? lots of possibilities. The reason for this change is obvious, however: I love his lady too-too much—a cry of desperate realization, putting it into words so explicitly—and that’s the reason I love him so little. (So, the nail or the fire of love for Silvia has driven out two others, Proteus’s former love for both Julia and for his friend.) Enough of that, though: how shall I dote on her with more advice, that thus without advice begin to love her? What am I going to do? How can I hope to be more moderate, more reasoned, in my love for her, when I’ve fallen for her so precipitately, so recklessly? After all, ’tis but her picture I have yet beheld (some editors suggest a revision, whereby Silvia didn’t appear at all in this scene but Proteus fell for her portrait, shown to him by Valentine—recalling the love-by-portrait in Sidney’s Arcadia, perhaps?—although her picture here could refer simply to the brief, superficial nature of the meeting) and that hath dazzled my reason’s light. Even just a first impression, barely any acquaintance at all with her—that’s been enough, I’m bewitched, overcome, completely unable to think rationally any longer. (Love as a different kind of blindness, dazzled to the point of being unable to see, or think, straight.) But when I look on her perfections there is no reason but I shall be blind. Even just a glimpse of her, she’s so amazing, such a paragon—well, there’s no hope, no other possibility—I’m blinded, love-struck, smitten.

If I can check my erring love I will—Proteus gestures, vaguely, conditionally, at the possibility of getting a grip on himself; I’ll see if I can get myself under control, have a word with myself, nip this wandering of my affection in the bud. But the second half of the couplet, rather than confirming this attempt at moral rectitude and common sense, throws it all away: if not, to compass her I’ll use my skill. Assuming I can’t talk myself out of it—well, in that case I’ll do everything I can, everything in my power, employing every ounce of cunning and every single talent I possess, to win her. That’s what I have to do. That’s what I’m going to do.