SPEED            Marry, by these special marks: first, you have learned, like Sir Proteus, to wreathe your arms like a malcontent; to relish a love song like a robin redbreast; to walk alone like one that had the pestilence; to sigh like a schoolboy that had lost his ABC; to weep like a young wench that had buried her grandam; to fast like one that takes diet; to watch like one that fears robbing; to speak puling like a beggar at Hallowmas. You were wont, when you laughed, to crow like a cock; when you walked, to walk like one of the lions; when you fasted, it was presently after dinner; when you looked sadly, it was for want of money; and now you are metamorphosed with a mistress, that when I look on you I can hardly think you my master.            (2.1.17-27)

But how do you know that I’m in love? Valentine has asked. I thought I was being so subtle and secret. Marry, by these special marks, retorts Speed; you’re showing all the signs and symptoms. First, you have learned, like Sir Proteus—whom you mocked for being a lover—to wreathe your arms like a malcontent. Like the stereotype of the melancholic, you fold your arms across your chest and look moody. You relish a love song like a robin redbreast, nodding along—even catawauling yourself—to all the sentimental schmaltz like the birdbrain you are (rather than, implicitly, more lively or even martial music: in a similar passage in Much Ado Benedick laments that Claudio no longer listens to the drum and the fife). You walk alone like one that had the pestilence, seeking out solitude as if you had the plague and were shunning society, still social distancing… You sigh like a schoolboy that had lost his ABC, you sad little boy, crying over a misplaced book (a lot of these are infantilising Valentine). Sighing, gales of sighs, is typical of the lover. (Ah me.) You weep like a young wench that had buried her grandam, immoderately, pathetically, perhaps with the implication of, out of all proportion. You fast like one that takes diet, eating barely anything at all, as if the doctor had told you to abstain, cut down, and you watch like one that fears robbing, staying wide awake at night. You speak puling like a beggar at Hallowmas, whining like a child, like those who go door to door asking for soul cakes (perhaps even referring to their traditional dirge-like song). It’s embarrassing, frankly, and beyond cliché, this transformation you’ve undergone. Because you were wont, when you laughed, to crow like a cock: you used to be loud and joyous, even raucous. You used to walk like one of the lions, proud and confident and rampant (this is probably a heraldic lion). When you fasted, it was presently after dinner: that was the only time you were definitely not eating, immediately after you’d eaten. And it used to be that the only time you looked sad and sorry for yourself was for want of money, when your wallet was empty. And now you are metamorphosed with a mistress, that when I look on you I can hardly think you my master.

How can I tell you’re in love? Because it’s totally bloody obvious, you sad git; you’re completely transformed, and it’s all a bit embarrassing.