JULIA [giving a letter] Madam, please you peruse this letter.
Pardon me, madam, I have unadvised
Delivered you a paper that I should not.
[Julia takes back the letter and gives Silvia another]
This is the letter to your ladyship.
SILVIA I pray thee, let me look on that again.
JULIA It may not be, good madam, pardon me.
SILVIA There, hold.
I will not look upon your master’s lines.
I know they are stuffed with protestations,
And full of new-found oaths, which he will break
As easily as I do tear his paper.
[Silvia tears the letter] (4.4.107-117)
Julia’s being determined, formal, going through with it: madam, please you peruse this letter. Just read it, please? But the crucial thing is the pause at the end of the line, when she realises that this is the Wrong Letter and that she needs to get it back pronto: pardon me, madam, I have unadvised delivered you a paper that I should not. The implication is that it’s a letter from Proteus to Julia herself; it might even be THE letter that Julia ripped up and then pieced back together. Coloured paper might help make this clear, or sellotape… and there will be more comedy if, in a modern dress production, there are envelopes to extend the delay. Silvia might start to look confused—but the crucial thing is that Julia has to get the letter back otherwise her cover’s blown, the game’s up etc etc. Also: awkward. So, here, look: this is the letter to your ladyship. Julia might snatch, she might just look desperate, pleading. Silvia—of course—knows that something is up. I pray thee, let me look on that again. I can tell that something’s not right here. Oh no no no no no. It may not be, good madam, pardon me. Trust me. You don’t want to read that letter, that wrong letter! Read this one! There, hold, responds Silvia. No. Calm down. Stop. I will not look upon your master’s lines; I’m not going to read a single word that he’s written. Because I know that they are stuffed with protestations, over-the-top declarations of love, and full of new-found oaths, far-fetched, pretentious, new-fangled vows and promises which he will break—oh yes he will, I know (and Julia might flinch, miserably—as easily as I do tear his paper. Rip, rip, rip. Another love-letter torn and scattered. Some comfort, albeit cold, for Julia?