SILVIA             A fine volley of words, gentlemen, and quickly shot off.

VALENTINE    ’Tis indeed, madam, we thank the giver.

SILVIA             Who is that, servant?

VALENTINE Yourself, sweet lady, for you gave the fire. Sir Thurio borrows his wit from your ladyship’s looks, and spends what he borrows kindly in your company.

THURIO          Sir, if you spend word for word with me, I shall make your wit bankrupt.

VALENTINE I know it well, sir. You have an exchequer of words, and, I think, no other treasure to give your followers, for it appears by their bare liveries that they live by your bare words.

SILVIA No more, gentlemen, no more. Here comes my father.     (2.4.29-40)

It’s perhaps striking, here, that Silvia’s speaking in prose—and also, as in her previous appearance, that she’s unaccompanied. There could be a silent waiting gentlewoman, but the whole exchange has a slight aura of indecorousness, as Silvia plays her suitors off against each other.

And her first line is even louche: a fine volley of words, gentlemen, and quickly shot off—not only commending, sarcastically, their blustering banter, but also picking up on Valentine’s unsubtle aspersion, that Thurio is likely to suffer from premature ejaculation (quickly shot off). Valentine presses his advantage: ’tis indeed, madam, we thank the giver. This deathless repartee is only possible through the generosity of someone else: and who is that, servant? (She might already know what’s coming, smirk, or play faux innocent.) Yourself, sweet lady, for you gave the fire. You loaded the gun, lit the touch paper, and pulled the trigger. Pop. Sir Thurio borrows his wit from your ladyship’s looks—double-edged compliment, suggesting that Thurio’s wit is pretty, sweet, womanish—and spends what he borrows kindly in your company. What little wit he has is wholly inspired by you, and he’s just reflecting it back to you, as you’d expect. (Spend is also the word used for ejaculation. Ben Jonson disparages a ‘songster’ who ‘chanced the lace laid on a smock to see | And straightway spent a sonnet’, that is, was moved to premature poetic ejaculation by the merest hint of women’s underwear.)

Thurio tries again, but he’s only picked up the financial conceit: sir, if you spend word for word with me, I shall make your wit bankrupt. I can match you and outdo you in a combat of wit—and, incidentally, I’m richer than you anyway. But Valentine continues smooth, condescending: I know it well, sir. Oh, absolutely, you keep telling yourself that. You have an exchequer of words—you certainly brag and talk yourself up—and, I think, no other treasure to give your followers, for it appears by their bare liveries that they live by your bare words. You keep talking and behaving as if you’re a wealthy man, but look at the state of your servants! they’re threadbare. (Servants would expect to be dressed by their masters, in livery, especially at court.) Words are all that you can give them, it seems; you’re perhaps not even paying their wages or providing their meals, if that’s the way you clothe them.

No more, gentlemen, no more. Here comes my father. Silvia has to recompose herself (there might be a touch of embarrassment, a recognition that she’s been slightly out of order in the liberty of these exchanges), and Valentine and Thurio have to shift their focus to attempting to impress—to wooing—Silvia’s father, the Duke of Milan, rather than his daughter.

Of course Silvia can be arch, clever, powerful, entirely in control and sure of what she wants—and a trophy heiress, making the most of what little power she’s got. But there’s an edge to her here. Echoes of Bianca in the Shrew? Much may depend on the period in which a production is set.