JULIA  Here is her picture. Let me see, I think

If I had such a tire, this face of mine

Were full as lovely as is this of hers.

And yet the painter flattered her a little,

Unless I flatter with myself too much.

Her hair is auburn, mine is perfect yellow;

If that be all the difference in his love,

I’ll get me such a coloured periwig.

Her eyes are grey as glass, and so are mine;

Ay, but her forehead’s low and mine’s as high.

What should it be that he respects in her

But I can make respective in myself,

If this fond Love were not a blinded god?   (4.4.170-182)

A good moment: Julia comparing Silvia’s picture—given to her to deliver to Proteus—with her own looks, dispassionately and candidly, at least relatively speaking (a bit of pettiness does creep in). Here is her picture. OK, let’s have a good look. Let me see, I think if I had such a tire—if I had a headdress, a hair ornament, a tiara, even, as flash as that, if I had her kind of money and her hairdresser, this face of mine were full as lovely as is this of hers. I’m every bit as pretty as she is, and you’d see that if I were able to have my hair done and ornamented like that! A bit more grit: and yet the painter flattered her a little—he’s definitely giving her best side, bit of soft focus—unless I flatter with myself too much. Of course, I could just be talking myself up here. But I think my point stands: I think I’m as pretty as she is! I really do! Her hair is auburn (which in early modern usage suggests strawberry blonde), mine is perfect yellow: I’m a proper blonde! But, if that be all the difference in his love, if that’s the only thing that means she’s edging ahead of me in Proteus’s affections, well—I’ll get me such a coloured periwig! I’ll get an auburn wig! (The boy actor will most likely be wearing a wig, and Julia has explicitly not cut her hair to appear as Sebastian.) Her eyes are grey as glass—the Elizabethan ideal, perhaps grey-blue—and so are mine. We’re even on that score. Ay, but her forehead’s low and mine’s as high: I beat her soundly in that respect! (Low foreheads were, as it were, frowned upon, hence the fashion—at least in Italy—for plucking the hairline to make the forehead appear higher.) What should it be that he respects in her but I can make respective in myself—there’s no quality of hers that he can like that I can’t also claim as my own! I’m as good as she is, in every possible way—if this fond Love were not a blinded god? Love is stupid as well as blind… (But also: why doesn’t he love me anymore?)