PROTEUS       Those at her father’s churlish feet she tendered,

With them upon her knees, her humble self,

Wringing her hands, whose whiteness so became them

As if but now they waxed pale, for woe.

But neither bended knees, pure hands held up,

Sad sighs, deep groans, nor silver-shedding tears

Could penetrate her uncompassionate sire

But Valentine, if he be ta’en, must die.

Besides, her intercession chafed him so

When she for thy repeal was suppliant

That to close prison he commanded her,

With many bitter threats of biding there.  (3.1.222-233)

Proteus is moved by the recollection of Silvia’s distress but, even more, moved by his own evocation of it—and there’s also a kind of voyeuristic pleasure, a kind of arousal, in the description of this weeping woman, kneeling in despair in front of her father. Those—her tears—at her father’s churlish feet she tendered, offering them as prayers, as pearls—with them (her tears) upon her knees, her humble self, abased on the ground, and wringing her hands, clasping and reclasping them in desperation. And her hands were white and looked, actually, really attractive, because their whiteness so became them as if but now they waxed pale, for woe. Proteus pauses on the pale hands, bloodless, cold, their colour and warmth shocked out of them, and zooms in on this sensual little detail, which perhaps imagines touch as well as conventional beauty. (White hands a conventional attribute of the Petrarchan beloved. And these hands are implicitly gloveless; perhaps there’s a swift recollection of Valentine’s sensual delight in Silvia’s glove.)

Silvia’s been on her knees before her father, begging for Valentine, but neither bended knees, pure hands held up, sad sighs, deep groans, nor silver-shedding tears—all of these supplications, this whole tempest of grief, sights and sounds—could penetrate this uncompassionate sire. The Duke stands like a stone, impervious to his daughter’s importunate suffering. He’s merciless, pitiless: but Valentine, if he be ta’en, must die. If he’s found in the court, or in Milan—that’s it, it’s a death sentence. (Proteus can be moved; he can also enjoy the drama, the vividness of the scene he’s describing, as if a tableau, a painting, a statue.)

And Proteus turns the knife—although he’s also, mostly, feeling sorry for Silvia, and for himself, because this is going to make things even harder: besides, her intercession chafed him so when she for thy repeal was suppliant that to close prison he commanded her with many bitter threats of biding there. The Duke didn’t take Silvia’s attempt to intercede on Valentine’s behalf at all well; in fact it annoyed him that he sent her to her room, to be shut up (is the implication) with the threat of having to remain there indefinitely, in seclusion, near-imprisonment.

Oooo, interestingly complex for Proteus. Amazement, perhaps, at what he’s engineered so successfully and swiftly, and that he’s capable of such cynical manipulation. Pity for his friend, still, and for Silvia. Satisfaction, that Valentine will be out of the way. A kind of sadistic pleasure, even, in the spectacle of Silvia’s suffering, the power that he has over her, albeit indirectly, imagining her, even, pleading with him in the same way. There’s definitely an erotic charge in his account of the scene he’s just, apparently, seen.