VALENTINE I have loved her ever since I saw her, and still I see her beautiful.
SPEED If you love her, you cannot see her.
VALENTINE Why?
SPEED Because Love is blind. O that you had mine eyes, or your own eyes had the lights they were wont to have when you chid at Sir Proteus for going ungartered!
VALENTINE What should I see then?
SPEED Your own present folly and her passing deformity; for he, being in love, could not see to garter his hose; and you, being in love, cannot see to put on your hose.
VALENTINE Belike, boy, then you are in love, for last morning you could not see to wipe my shoes.
SPEED True sir, I was in love with my bed. I thank you, you swinged me for my love, which makes me the bolder to chide you for yours. (2.1.55-69)
Valentine continues to be the adamant, defiant romantic, and also to be decidedly slow on the uptake: I have loved her ever since I saw her, and still I see her beautiful. She’s not deformed at all; she’s entirely lovely to me, and it was love at first sight! So Speed jabs from a different angle, yet again: if you love her, you cannot see her. Valentine, mystified? (or else, possibly, enjoying the banter?) Why? Aha, says Speed, because Love is blind! O that you had mine eyes, or your own eyes had the lights they were wont to have when you chid at Sir Proteus for going ungartered! You ought to see yourself as others see you—and take a good look at yourself—in the same way as you scrutinized, and mocked, your mate Proteus when he was mooning around, his clothes all in a state of artful disarray, being the Lover. (Stockings ungartered, and so fallen down around the ankles, were a sign of the lover—as with Hamlet, when he visits Ophelia.)
Oh OK, tell me, Valentine pushes back: what should I see then? Well, your own present folly—the fact that you’re currently making a fool of herself—and her passing deformity—the fact that she’s not all that, really. He, Proteus, being in love, could not see to garter his hose; and you, being in love, cannot even see to put on your hose. You’re in an even worse state than him; you need to get a grip. Love is blind indeed; you’re blundering around, a total hot mess.
A touch of acid: belike, boy, you are then in love, for last morning you could not see to wipe my shoes. Blind too, are you? Neglecting your valet duties? But he can’t win, Speed is just—well, quicker on his feet. True, sir, I was in love with my bed; that was what was preventing me from cleaning your shoes the other day. And, I thank you, you swinged me for my love—clouted me, gave me a beating—which makes me the bolder to chide you for yours. I’ve got to get my own back—and also, love (mine for a lie-in, yours, apparently, for Silvia) seems to be something that is deserving of punishment, a moral duty even. So that’s what I’m doing! Happy to oblige, sir!