VALENTINE. Now trust me, madam, it came hardly off, For, being ignorant to whom it goes, I writ at random, very doubtfully. SILVIA. Perchance you think too much of so much pains? VALENTINE. No, madam; so it stead you, I will write, Please you command, a thousand times as much. And yet— SILVIA. A pretty period. Well, I guess the sequel; And yet I will not name it. And yet I care not. And yet take this again. [_Offers him the letter._] And yet I thank you, Meaning henceforth to trouble you no more. SPEED. [_Aside_.] And yet you will; and yet another “yet”. VALENTINE. What means your ladyship? Do you not like it? SILVIA. Yes, yes, the lines are very quaintly writ, But, since unwillingly, take them again. Nay, take them. [_Offers the letter again._] VALENTINE. Madam, they are for you. SILVIA. Ay, ay, you writ them, sir, at my request, But I will none of them. They are for you. I would have had them writ more movingly. VALENTINE. Please you, I’ll write your ladyship another. SILVIA. And when it’s writ, for my sake read it over, And if it please you, so; if not, why, so. VALENTINE. If it please me, madam? What then? SILVIA. Why, if it please you, take it for your labour. And so good morrow, servant. [_Exit._] SPEED. [_Aside_.] O jest unseen, inscrutable, invisible, As a nose on a man’s face, or a weathercock on a steeple! My master sues to her, and she hath taught her suitor, He being her pupil, to become her tutor. O excellent device! Was there ever heard a better? That my master, being scribe, to himself should write the letter? VALENTINE. How now, sir? What are you reasoning with yourself? SPEED. Nay, I was rhyming. ’Tis you that have the reason. VALENTINE. To do what? SPEED. To be a spokesman from Madam Silvia. VALENTINE. To whom? SPEED. To yourself. Why, she woos you by a figure. VALENTINE. What figure? SPEED. By a letter, I should say. VALENTINE. Why, she hath not writ to me. SPEED. What need she, when she hath made you write to yourself? Why, do you not perceive the jest? VALENTINE. No, believe me. SPEED. No believing you indeed, sir. But did you perceive her earnest? VALENTINE. She gave me none, except an angry word. SPEED. Why, she hath given you a letter. VALENTINE. That’s the letter I writ to her friend. SPEED. And that letter hath she delivered, and there an end. VALENTINE. I would it were no worse. SPEED. I’ll warrant you, ’tis as well. For often have you writ to her, and she, in modesty Or else for want of idle time, could not again reply, Or fearing else some messenger that might her mind discover, Herself hath taught her love himself to write unto her lover. All this I speak in print, for in print I found it. Why muse you, sir? ’Tis dinner time. VALENTINE. I have dined. SPEED. Ay, but hearken, sir, though the chameleon Love can feed on the air, I am one that am nourished by my victuals, and would fain have meat. O, be not like your mistress! Be moved, be moved. [_Exeunt._]