SILVIA Say that she be, yet Valentine, thy friend,
Survives to whom – thyself art witness –
I am betrothed. And art thou not ashamed
To wrong him with thy importunacy?
PROTEUS I likewise hear that Valentine is dead.
SILVIA And so suppose am I, for in his grave,
Assure thyself, my love is buried.
PROTEUS Sweet lady, let me rake it from the earth.
SILVIA Go to thy lady’s grave and call hers thence,
Or at the least, in hers sepulchre thine.
JULIA [aside] He heard not that. (4.2.99-109)
Say that she be, says Silvia, even supposing—and it’s a big if—that your girlfriend is dead (I have serious doubts)—yet Valentine, thy friend, survives. He’s still very much alive, isn’t he? Your so-called best buddy? And, as you well know, because you were there, thyself art witness: I am betrothed to him. We are actually engaged. And art thou not ashamed to wrong him with thy importunacy? Aren’t you in the least bit embarrassed, indeed properly ashamed, to be going behind his back like this, coming groveling and sniffing around me? You’re despicable!
Proteus’s reply can get a laugh, whether it’s desperation or a kind of monomania: I likewise hear that Valentine is dead. Worth a try? But Silvia’s not having a bar of that: and so suppose am I—right now, as certainly as I stand here, I’m as dead as Valentine and your dead girlfriend—although mostly she’s saying, treat me as though I’m dead, because if Valentine’s dead, and even if his death is only the metaphorical death of banishment—then my love, my love for him and my capacity to love anyone at all, is buried in his grave. Assure thyself. You’d better believe it.
Proteus is incapable of taking no for answer; also, his response is weird and tasteless: well, if your love is buried with Valentine, then, sweet lady, let me rake it from the earth! I’ll dig it up! Never mind the corpse and the whiff of necrophilia… But Silvia is more than a match: no, you creep, go to thy lady’s grave and call hers—her love for you—thence; summon her love from her tomb. Seeing as she’s dead, apparently. Or, even better, at the least, in hers—her grave—sepulchre thine. Go and bury your love with your dead girlfriend. Also, drop dead, weirdo. He heard not that, mutters Julia, bitterly: he’s not going to take any notice…