The Two Gentlemen of Verona

I’ve already had to lie to Valentine, and now I must be just as unfair to Thurio. Under the guise of praising him, I now have the ability to express my own feelings of love to Sylvia. But Sylvia is too beautiful, too faithful, too holy to be corrupted by my worthless praises. When I declare my loyalty to her, she criticizes me for being false to my friend, Valentine. When I praise her beauty, she tells me to think about how I’ve been unfaithful to Julia, whom I once loved. And yet, despite all of her scolding, the least of which could kill a lover’s hopes, my love grows and fawns on her like a dog the more she spurns it. But here comes Thurio. Now we must go to her window and play some evening music for her to hear.

How’s it going, Sir Proteus? Did you creep over here before us?

Yes, kind Thurio, because you know that love has to creep where it isn’t allowed to walk.

Yes, but I hope, sir, that you aren’t in love in this situation.

But I am, or else I wouldn’t be here.

Who are you in love with? Sylvia?

Yes, Sylvia—for your sake.

I thank you for your own sake. Now, gentlemen, let’s start playing, and be sure to give it all you’ve got.

Now, my young guest, it seems to me you feel melancholy. Please tell me, why is it?

In fact, my host, it’s because I cannot be happy.

Come, we’ll make you happy. I’ll take you where you shall hear music and see the gentleman that you asked for.

But will I hear him speak?

Yes, you will.

That’s music that I hear.

Listen! Listen!

Is he among these musicians?

Yes, but be quiet! Let’s listen to them.

Who is Sylvia? What is she like,

That all our young men praise her?

She is holy and fair and wise;

And Heaven has lent her such grace

So that she may be admired.

Is she as kind as she is beautiful?

Because beauty and kindness are joined.

Cupid makes visits to her eyes

To cure him of his blindness,

And, being cured, he stays there to live.

Then let us sing to Sylvia,

That Sylvia is superior.

She surpasses every mortal thing

That lives on this dull earth.

Let us bring her flower garlands.

What’s this? Are you sadder than you were before? What’s going on, man? You don’t like the music?

You’re mistaken. The musician doesn’t like me.

Why, my young friend?

He is being false, sir.

How so? Are his instrument’s strings out of tune?

No, but he’s being so false that it hurts my very heartstrings.

You have a good ear.

Yes, but I wish I were deaf. It makes my heart sad.

I see you don’t enjoy listening to music.

Not at all, when it sounds so awful.

Listen, how they change their tune!

Yes, that “change” is the problem.

Would you prefer that they always play just one thing?

I would always have one of them play only one song. But, host, does this Sir Proteus we’re talking about often go to this lady?

I’ll tell you what Lance, his servant, told me: he loved her more than anything.

Where is Lance?

Gone to find his dog, which he must deliver as a present to Sylvia tomorrow upon his master’s command.

Quiet! Step aside. The musicians are leaving.

Sir Thurio, don’t worry. I will plead to Sylvia so effectively that you’ll say my cunning scheme is excellent.

Where will we meet?

At Saint Gregory’s well.

Farewell.

Madame, good evening to your ladyship.

I thank you for your music, sir. Who is that who spoke?

Someone, lady, whom you would quickly learn to recognize by his voice if you knew how he truly felt.

Sir Proteus, I take it.

Sir Proteus, gentle lady, and also your servant.

What do you want?

For you to want me.

Then you have your wish. I want this of you: that you take yourself home to bed. You sly, lying, false, disloyal man! Do you think I’m so shallow, so stupid, that you can seduce me with your flattery when you’ve deceived so many others with your vows? Go back, go back, and apologize to your love. I swear on the moon, I am so far from granting your request that I despise you for your misguided plea. In a moment I intend to scold myself for spending even this much time talking to you.

I admit, sweet love, that I did love a lady. But she is dead.

(aside) That’s false, if I do say so myself, because I’m sure she’s not dead and buried.

Even if she is dead, Valentine—your friend—is still alive, and you know that I’m betrothed to him. Aren’t you ashamed to wrong him with your disrespect?

I also hear that Valentine is dead.

Then consider me dead, too, because you can be sure my love is buried with him in his grave.

Sweet lady, let me dig up your love from the earth.

Go to your lady’s grave and dig up her love then. Or at least bury yours in her tomb.

(aside) He didn’t hear that.

Madame, if your heart is so stubborn, at least indulge my love by giving me a portrait of yourself—the picture that is hanging in your bedroom. I’ll speak, sigh, and weep to that. Since you are completely devoted to someone else, I am nothing, and therefore I will love your image and not you.

(aside) If it were a real woman you would certainly deceive her and make her into nothing, just as I am nothing now.

I don’t want to be your idol, sir. But since it’s appropriate that your deceiving self should worship shadows and adore images rather than the real thing, send your servant to me in the morning, and I’ll send you the portrait. So go on, and good night.

I’ll have as good a night as the condemned man who awaits execution in the morning.

Host, are you leaving?

My goodness, I was fast asleep.

Please, where is Sir Proteus staying?

Why, at my house. Oh my word, I think it’s almost dawn.

No, it isn’t. It’s been the longest night I’ve ever had, and the saddest.