SPEED [aside] O jest unseen, inscrutable, invisible
As a nose on a man’s face, or a weathercock on a steeple.
My master sues to her, and she hath taught her suitor,
He being her pupil, to become her tutor.
O excellent device! Was there ever heard a better?–
That my master, being scribe, to himself should write the letter!
VALENTINE How now, sir? What are you reasoning with yourself?
SPEED Nay, I was rhyming. ’Tis you that have the reason. (2.1.115-122)
Silvia has exited, leaving Valentine baffled, and Speed can’t believe that his master is quite so stupid. O jest unseen, inscrutable, invisible—what an incredibly subtle joke, unable to be discerned or understood (and his language makes it sound not merely mystical but divine, the language of theology, attributes of God)—yes, about as subtle and hard to miss as a nose on a man’s face, or a weathercock on a steeple. Completely bloody obvious, a baby wouldn’t be taken in by that. The weathercock on the steeple could well be phallic—look at the state you’re in, a meaningful glance at Valentine—but a weathercock is also emblematic of inconstancy, moot in this play.
So, this is the situation—and Speed going into jog-trot rhyme. Well, isn’t this fun? My master sues to her—he’s desperate for her favour, for her to love him back—but she has taught him, her suitor, being her pupil, the child, dominated by the grown-up, eager to do her bidding, instead to become her tutor, speaking on her behalf, and writing on her behalf (as a tutor in a household might do, acting as a secretary). (A glance, too, at the supposed erotics of teaching as in Lucentio’s disguise as Cambio to woo Bianca in Taming of the Shrew, or, later, Rosalind-as-Ganymede schooling Orlando in AYLI.) O excellent device—what a laugh! What a clever scheme! Was there ever heard a better? That my master, being scribe, to himself should write the letter! Amazing! Simple, perfect, ten out of ten, no notes. Valentine is caught, baffled, overcome.
How now, sir? What are you reasoning with yourself? What are you muttering about, arguing with yourself over? Nay, I was rhyming, says Speed, pertly (and indeed he was). ’Tis you that have the reason, invoking the proverbial ‘neither rhyme nor reason’, for something utterly confused and bewildered—ie Valentine. And also, you’re the one who has the reason here, the cause, the purpose—but you’re acting completely irrationally, without reason.