FERDINAND                                       Full many a lady

I have eyed with best regard, and many a time

Th’harmony of their tongues hath into bondage

Brought my too diligent ear. For several virtues

Have I liked several women; never any

With so full soul but some defect in her

Did quarrel with the noblest grace she owed

And put it to the foil. But you, O you,

So perfect and so peerless, are created

Of every creature’s best. (3.1.39-48)

Ah, the slightly backhanded compliment of the eager lover: I’ve known lots of other girls! (I have! I have!) and I have regarded them favourably, esteemed them. I’ve even talked to girls before! (I have!) and I have allowed myself to be charmed by the harmony of their tongues, such that I might profess myself their servant. (Immature love as bondage, just glancing at other ideas of servitude in this play.) I was easily distracted by all sorts of different and attractive qualities – for several virtues have I liked several women. But there was always something wrong with them… (Ferdinand, you need to take your foot out of your mouth, although fortunately Miranda has no basis of comparison here.) None of the women was virtuous, noble, beautiful – full-souled, admirable – enough to compensate for the fact that some defect in her detracted from her good qualities, set them off like the foil of a gemstone, but to their disadvantage (or, possibly, defeated them, like a foil, a rapier, in a fencing match). (Not that you’re hard to please, Ferdinand.) But you, O you – you’re perfect. You’re unique, peerless. You’re not like other girls… You’re like the best of all of them, all brought together in one person. Miranda. (I think he gets away with it, just about. John Donne did: ‘If ever any beauty I did see, | Which I desired, and got, ’twas but a dream of thee’.)