LUCETTA Alas, the way is wearisome and long.
JULIA A true-devoted pilgrim is not weary
To measure kingdoms with his feeble steps.
Much less shall she that hath love’s wings to fly,
And when the flight is made to one so dear,
Of such divine perfection as Sir Proteus.
LUCETTA Better forbear till Proteus make return.
JULIA O, know’st thou not his looks are my soul’s food?
Pity the dearth that I have pined in
By longing for that food so long a time.
Didst thou but know the inly touch of love
Thou wouldst as soon go kindle fire with snow
As seek to quench the fire of love with words. (2.7.8-20)
Mmmmm, long way to Milan, replies Lucetta, alas the way is wearisome and long. Not easy to get there, tiring trip. (She can play with tone; Lucetta is not necessarily being serious here.) But Julia is—of course—undeterred. A true devoted pilgrim is not weary to measure kingdoms with his feeble steps. It’s not far to me! I’m hopelessly devoted to Proteus! I’d walk a thousand miles, never mind five hundred, I’d crawl, slowly, painfully, just to be with him. That’s what love is! But, in the event, it wouldn’t be a trial at all; I wouldn’t have to be that weary, footsore pilgrim, because I have the wings of love to fly with! Any dangers or tediums of the journey would pass in a flash, would be insignificant, because I would be going to one so dear, of such divine perfection as Sir Proteus. Oh, it’d speed by; I would barely touch the ground, love-fuelled, love-powered, as I flew to Him. (This speech anticipates Juliet, Desdemona, Innogen…)
Hmmmm, says Lucetta, wiser and perhaps more cynical. Better forbear till Proteus make return. Can’t you just wait until he’s back in Verona? (A subtext, perhaps: that’s what good, modest, nicely-brought-up girls do. And also, he’s man, don’t count on his constancy; he might not be thrilled to see you.) But Julia’s not having any of that: o, know’st thou not his looks are my soul’s food? I’m pining away for him, I live to see him, and to have him look at me in that way he does… Pity the dearth that I have pined in by longing for that food so long a time. I’m starving, desperate—he’s all I long for, all I live for. (And also: I want him, I desire him. Julia might not realise, quite, how frank she’s being about desire, but she is. Compare, too, Sonnet 75: ‘So are you to my thoughts as food to life’.) Then a move which Juliet will refine, in her exchanges with the Nurse: didst thou but know the inly touch of love thou wouldst as soon go kindle fire with snow as seek to quench the fire of love with words. You just don’t understand what it’s like to be in love! You’re too old, possibly, although there’s no indication as to Lucetta’s age and she’s usually played the same age as Julia; she’s addressed as girl sometimes. There can be a class dimension too, as is the case elsewhere in Shakespeare’s plays; see As You Like It. The love of ladies and gentlemen is purer, more refined, more intense than that of servants and shepherds. If you were in love like me, if you had any inkling of how I feel, how I go, you’d know that resistance is futile, words are impossible—and you have as much chance of quenching my passion or changing my mind as trying to light a barbecue with a snowball. (The fire/snow near-oxymoron is a nice glance at Petrarch, exhibit A here for unrealistic, immature love as will also be the case in Romeo and Juliet.)