DUKE  What letter is this same? What’s here? ‘To Silvia’?

And here an engine fit for my proceeding!

I’ll be so bold to break the seal for once.

[He reads]

‘My thoughts do harbour with my Silvia nightly,

And slaves they are to me that send them flying.

O, could their master come and go as lightly,

Himself would lodge where, senseless, they are lying.

My herald thoughts in thy pure bosom rest them,

While I, their king, that thither them importune,

Do curse the grace that with such grace hath blessed them,

Because myself do want my servants’ fortune.

I curse myself, for they are sent by me,

That they should harbour where their lord should be.’  (3.1.137-149)

 

The game is obviously up, the Duke having discovered not only Valentine’s rope ladder but a letter too; what remains to be seen is how long this is going to be drawn out, how long Valentine is going to be left to squirm, perhaps wondering if he’s still going to be able to explain this away, and then losing hope. Great comic potential, as well as a bit of pathos.

It’s the letter that the Duke comments on first: What letter is this same? (Valentine had said he was in a hurry to catch a messenger to send letters to his family in Verona, so he’s being caught out in that lie first of all.) What’s here? (He turns it over to see the addressee: ‘To Silvia’? Not your family in Verona then? And there an engine fit for my proceeding: the engine is the rope ladder, just like the one Valentine’s described as being what the Duke himself needed; scope for further comedy if it’s tied around Valentine’s waist under cloak or coat, or even swinging from his shoulders or neck, looking ridiculous once the swaggering cloak is pulled aside.

I’ll be so bold to break the seal for once, to read a letter not addressed to me (and again it increases the suspense; Valentine perhaps winces as the seal cracks and the paper is unfolded). It’s not just a letter, it’s a poem! (Shakespeare showing off to comic effect his ability to write inferior poetry in the personas of young men to their beloveds, seen again in Love’s Labour’s Lost, As You Like It, and Hamlet.) This little poem is a neat exercise in iambic pentameter and feminine rhyme, eight lines in alternating rhyme and then a couplet, so, not quite a sonnet (perhaps the sense that it started out wanting to be a sonnet and then gave up?) And its intent and its conceit is not the sort of thing a protective father wants to read being sent to his daughter. My thoughts do harbour with my Silvia nightly; I think of her when I’m in bed, and so in effect my thoughts sleep with her, and slaves they are to me that send them flying—they’re only doing my will, doing what I want them to do. She’s all I can think about (especially at night, when I’m in bed). O, could their master come and go as lightly—I wish that I could fly to her as easily and as undetectably as my thoughts—himself would lodge where, senseless, they are lying. I’d snuggle up with her, I’ll tell you that, and do much better out of that proximity than my thoughts, which can’t really feel, or touch.

My herald thoughts, running ahead of me, acting on my behalf, in thy pure bosom rest them—bosom, oh yes, it’s metaphorical, but actually here it’s mostly literal, my thoughts are mostly lingering on your breasts (or he imagines the poem being hidden down the front of her bodice)… while I, their king, ostensibly in charge of my thoughts, that thither them importune, having sent them there, do curse the grace that with such grace hath blessed them—I’m in this stupid position of cursing my very thoughts, because they’re able to be where I can’t be, my thoughts have all the luck—because myself do want my servants’ fortune. It’s pathetic! I’m jealous of my thoughts, frustrated that I can only imagine, can only do in my imagination what I want to do, only be in my dreams where I long to be for real. And then I curse myself, for they are sent by me—yes I know it’s a paradox, I’m despising and loathing myself for not really being able to control my thoughts at the same time as I’m wallowing in this little fantasy—that they should harbour where their lord should be’. My thoughts are lingering on your breasts, tucked down the front of your dress, in bed with you, basically, and that’s really frustrating, because that’s exactly where I want to be.

AWKWARD.