EGLAMOUR Madam, I pity much your grievances,
Which, since I know they virtuously are placed,
I give consent to go along with you,
Recking as little what betideth me
As much I wish all good befortune you.
When will you go?
SILVIA This evening coming.
EGLAMOUR Where shall I meet you?
SILVIA At Friar Patrick’s cell,
Where I intend holy confession.
EGLAMOUR I will not fail your ladyship.
Good morrow, gentle lady.
SILVIA Good morrow, kind Sir Eglamour.
Exeunt (4.3.37-47)
Sir Eglamour is indeed the model of gentlemanly propriety and romantic fellow-feeling: madam, I pity much your grievances—SO sorry for what you’re going through—which, since I know they virtuously are placed—and, because I know you’re ultimately acting in accordance with the highest moral standards, you’re a LADY—I give consent to go along with you; I’ll be your escort, of course, recking as little what betideth me as much I wish all good befortune you. I care as little about what might happen to me as a result as I hope that everything will turn out the best for you. (Sir Eglamour is kind and correct, notably selfless—in comparison to Proteus, again—and syntactically parallel to a fault.) And now to practicalities, no messing around with Feelings or Compromises or Contingencies: when will you go? Tonight. Where shall I meet you, have you thought that through? Oh yes: at Friar Patrick’s cell. (All sounding very familiar… although perhaps this particular friar is on exchange from an Irish house?) Where I intend holy confession, adds Silvia—so, she’s got a plan, and she’s not averse to using the excuse of going to confession. (This is something that is explicitly objected to in the hellfire Protestant preface to Brooke’s Romeus and Juliet, which fulminates against both the practice of auricular confession, in private to a priest rather than in an open congregation, and its abuse.) Sir Eglamour isn’t troubled by this potential deception—after all, Silvia doesn’t say she’s not going to confession, and it’s all in service of True Love… I will not fail your ladyship. I’ll be there. Good morrow, gentle lady. Good morning to you! And she’s definitely still a lady in his eyes. Good morrow, kind Sir Eglamour—because, in a play full of casually thoughtless, petty, immature characters, as well as at least one real stinker, he really is.