PROTEUS       Sir Thurio, fear not you, I will so plead

That you shall say my cunning drift excels.

THURIO          Where meet we?

PROTEUS At Saint Gregory’s well.

THURIO Farewell.

[Exit Thurio][Enter Silvia, above]

PROTEUS Madam, good even to your ladyship.

SILVIA             I thank you for your music, gentlemen.

Who is that that spoke?

PROTEUS One, lady, if you knew his pure heart’s truth,

You would quickly learn to know him by his voice.

SILVIA            Sir Proteus, as I take it.

PROTEUS Sir Proteus, gentle lady, and your servant.       (4.2.73-82)

As the music has ended, Proteus and Thurio have been speaking together, unheard, but it’s more or less clear what’s been arranged: Proteus is going to stay behind and woo Silvia on Thurio’s behalf. Or So He Says… Sir Thurio, fear not you, I will so plead that you shall say my cunning drift excels. Irony, of course: he’s going to be far more cunning in his pleading, more fiendish in his scheming than Thurio could ever imagine. (That Thurio has been carefully constructed as both stupid and, perhaps, unworldly, makes sense of this, sort of; it’s also another instance of Proteus’s single-minded obsessiveness and his ability to set aside morality and all other considerations in the pursuit of what he wants, including the deception and betrayal of other men. His polite address to Sir Thurio emphasises, again, that Proteus is Not Acting Like A Gentleman.) And there’s a further dimension to the plot, it seems: where meet we? asks Thurio. Who we might be is unclear at this stage, but Proteus’s answer is precise: at Saint Gregory’s well. Off trots the trusting Thurio, presumably pleased with his performance.

But now Proteus is, as he thinks, alone beneath Silvia’s window. Perhaps she’s been visible; a modern production might have her silhouetted behind a blind, for instance. And so he calls, politely, courteously: madam, good even to your ladyship. She’s polite, non-committal: I thank you for your music, gentlemen (this will get a laugh if the performance has been ridiculous or discordant: no, really, thank you very much, please don’t ever do this again). But—establishing Silvia’s natural caution, as well as that it’s dark, because she can’t see how many people are still present or identify anyone—who is that that spoke? Because it didn’t sound like Thurio, whose attentions she’s perhaps primed to expect. (A London audience in particular would be used to houses with an overhang, so that if Proteus is imagined as being against the house’s wall, at least initially, he would be invisible from the window.) So Proteus declares himself in all but name: one, lady, if you knew his pure heart’s truth, you would quickly learn to know him by his voice. If you knew how he felt, you’d learn to recognise him at once—the implication being, you’d love him back? Pure heart’s truth is ironic, again, from Proteus, the lying cheating deceiver that he is… (And of course this scene is an early version of the ‘balcony’ scene in Romeo and Juliet.) Sir Proteus, as I take it, replies Silvia—and this can drip with disdain, weariness, anger, sarcasm. Oh. You again. He’s not put off, whatever tone she takes: Sir Proteus, gentle lady, and your servant. Yes, it’s me! At your service!