VALENTINE    Madam, they are for you.

SILVIA             Ay, ay. You writ them, sir, at my request,

But I will none of them. They are for you.

I would have had them writ more movingly.

VALENTINE Please you, I’ll write your ladyship another.

SILVIA And when it’s writ, for my sake read it over,

And if it please you, so. If not, why – so.

VALENTINE If it please me, madam? What then?

SILVIA Why, if it please you, take it for your labour.

And so good morrow, servant.         (2.1.105-114)

Valentine is still baffled; what’s going on, what’s he done wrong? Madam, they are for you! I don’t understand, I don’t want the damn letter back. Silvia explains, as if to a small child: ay, ay. Yes, you writ them, sir, at my request; you wrote the letter because I asked you to. But I don’t want it: I will none of them. They are for you; the letter’s for you! I got you to write to yourself! On my behalf! With a declaration of love, you slow-on-the-uptake idiot! (Beginning to regret this, tbh.) I would have had them writ more movingly; I wish they’d been more passionate, more convincing—because then you might grasp what’s going on here although I have my doubts but it may already be too late now…

It’s not too late, actually; there’s still the chance that Valentine hasn’t twigged yet, although there could be a dawning realization, the delighted, incredulous beginnings of hope as he responds: please you, I’ll write your ladyship another. I could get to like the weird dynamics of this game… I’ll do better next time, promise: more passion in my protestations. So Silvia makes one last attempt, spells it out: and when it’s writ, for my sake read it over, and if it please you, so. OK, write another letter, as if from me to my lover, and when you’ve written it, read it to yourself, and see what you think—and if you finally work out then what’s going on here, that’d be GREAT. If not, why—so. If you don’t grasp the point—or, indeed, if you don’t feel the same way—then let’s just leave it because frankly this is getting ridiculous and also embarrassing.

Valentine—still baffled? Or starting to be a bit knowingly flirty? If it please me, madam—what then? What should I do, if I find myself moved by my own immortal, pleading words? Why, if it please you, take it for your labour. If you like what you read, then the letter’s yours. It’s for you. And so, good morrow, servant. Ball’s in your court. If you have FINALLY worked out my little game here—and I had no idea it would take so long, these unsophisticated boys from Verona, honestly, I ask you—then, well, maybe we’re on. Later!