VALENTINE Then speak the truth by her; if not divine,
Yet let her be a principality,
Sovereign to all the creatures on the earth.
PROTEUS Except my mistress.
VALENTINE Sweet, except not any,
Except thou wilt except against my love.
PROTEUS Have I not reason to prefer mine own?
VALENTINE And I will help thee to prefer her, too.
She shall be dignified with this high honour:
To bear my lady’s train, lest the base earth
Should from her vesture chance to steal a kiss,
And, of so great a favour growing proud,
Disdain to root the summer-swelling flower,
And make rough winter everlastingly. (2.4.143-155)
Valentine can play this lightly, but it’s perhaps more interesting if it becomes apparent that he’s deadly serious, utterly convinced in his obsession with Silvia: no, Proteus, you must speak the truth by her. You have to concede this, there’s no room for evasion: if you won’t call her divine, then you have to agree that she’s the next best thing; let her be a principality, the highest order of angels under God, and so fit to rule over everything else in the world, sovereign to all the creatures on the earth. And Proteus might still be trying to make a joke of it: well, OK, she’s the greatest, nearly, except my mistress. You have to grant me that. Sweet, except not any, except thou wilt except against my love. No, no exceptions at all, and if you try to argue that there might be any, then you’re taking exception against the woman I love, against the intensity of my feelings for her, and against me. Proteus tries again: well, have I not reason to prefer my own? surely you’ve got to permit me to think that my own girlfriend’s the superior to the woman you’ve got such a violent crush on?
Valentine’s tone here can keep going in many directions; is he joking or not when he says, oh, don’t worry, I’ll helpyou to prefer your girlfriend too, in the sense of, advance, do honour to her. She shall be dignified with this high honour: I’ll tell you what, she can have the privilege of bearing my lady’s train, being her lady in waiting—and then he goes off into a little reverie. She can bear my lady’s train, lest the base earth, so lowly, so dull and ordinary, should from her vesture chance to steal a kiss, caress the hem of her garment as it slips by. Because if that happened, well, who knows the chaos it might cause? The earth, having gathered such a great favour, would become altother too proud and forego its proper humility; it might disdain to root the summer-swelling flower, prevent the setting of the blossom in spring, and so make rough winter everlastingly. That’s how cataclysmic the effect might be—were the train of Silvia’s gown merely to skim the ground—the ground would forget its proper place entirely and chaos will ensue!
It’s a pretty conceit. It’s also properly, obsessively mad, even if it’s delivered with a smile, and there’s no guarantee that that’s the case… Valentine has really got it bad!