(2009) Bloom's Modern Critical Interpretations - William Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet

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Bloom’s Modern Critical Interpretations
William Shakespeare’s
Romeo and Juliet
New Edition
Edited and with an introduction by

Harold Bloom
Sterling Professor of the Humanities
Yale University
Bloom’s Modern Critical Interpretations:
William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet—New Edition
Copyright ©2009 by Infobase Publishing
Introduction ©2009 by Harold Bloom
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William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet / edited and with an introduction by Harold
Bloom. — New ed.
p. cm. — (Bloom’s modern critical interpretations)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-1-60413-633-3 (alk. paper)
1. Shakespeare, William, 1564–1616. Romeo and Juliet. I. Bloom, Harold. II. Title:
Romeo and Juliet.
PR2831.W552 2009
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Contents
Editor’s Note vii
Introduction 1
Harold Bloom
On Shakespeare’s Informal Language 5

Norman F. Blake
“A Thing Like Death”: Sleeping Potions and Poisons

in Romeo and Juliet and Antony and Cleopatra 29
Tanya Pollard
Shakespeare and Catholicism:

The Franciscan Connection 55
David Salter
Romeo’s “Death-markt” Imagination

and Its Tragic Consequences 79
William M. McKim
Wherefore Art Thou Tereu?

Juliet and the Legacy of Rape 91
Robert N. Watson and Stephen Dickey
“Bodied Forth”: Spectator, Stage,

and Actor in the Early Modern Theater 121
Jennifer A. Low
vi Contents
Toward a Shakespearean “Memory Theater”:

Romeo, the Apothecary,
and the Performance of Memory 147
Lina Perkins Wilder
“Wouldst thou withdraw love’s faithful vow?”:

The Negotiation of Love in
the Orchard Scene (Romeo and Juliet Act II) 169
Thomas Honegger
Motion and Mercutio in Romeo and Juliet 185

Daryl W. Palmer
Chronology 199
Contributors 201
Bibliography 203
Acknowledgments 207
Index 209
Editor’s Note
My introduction briefly analyzes the drama’s four crucial personages: Juliet,

Mercutio, the nurse, and Romeo.
“Informal language” in the play is Norman F. Blake’s concern, while
Tanya Pollard contrasts potions and poisons in Romeo and Juliet and the later,
more vital tragedy, Antony and Cleopatra.
David Salter shrewdly details Shakespearean friars, remarking their pa-
gan quality, after which William M. McKim charts the imaginative differ-
ence between Romeo and Juliet.
Images of rape invoked throughout the tragedy are noted by Robert N.
Watson and Stephen Dickey, while Jennifer A. Low considers the dialectic of
audience and actors in Shakespearean theater.
Memory is the focus of Lina Perkins Wilder, after which the intricacies
of the orchard scene are expounded by Thomas Honneger.
This volume concludes with Daryl W. Palmer’s Platonic account of the
philosophy of motion as embodied in the mercurial Mercutio.
vii
H arold B loom
Introduction
Wil l i a m Sh a k e spe a r e’s R o m e o and Ju l i e t
Harold C. Goddard, in his The Meaning of Shakespeare (1951), remarked

upon how much of Shakespeare turns upon the vexed relationships between
generations of the same family, which was also one of the burdens of
Athenian tragedy. Except for the early Titus Andronicus, which I judge to
have been a charnel-house parody of Christopher Marlowe, Romeo and
Juliet was Shakespeare’s first venture at composing a tragedy, and also his
first deep investigation of generational perplexities. The Montague-Capulet
hatred might seem overwrought enough to have its parodistic aspects, but it
destroys two immensely valuable, very young lovers, Juliet of the Capulets
and Romeo of the Montagues, and Mercutio as well, a far more interesting
character than Romeo. Yet Romeo, exalted by the authentic love between
the even more vital Juliet and himself, is one of the first instances of the
Shakespearean representation of crucial change in a character through
self-overhearing and self-reflection. Juliet, an even larger instance, is the
play’s triumph, since she inaugurates Shakespeare’s extraordinary procession
of vibrant, life-enhancing women, never matched before or since in all of
Western literature, including in Chaucer, who was Shakespeare’s truest
precursor as the creator of personalities.
Juliet, Mercutio, the nurse, and to a lesser extent Romeo are among the
first Shakespearean characters who manifest their author’s uncanny genius
at inventing persons. Richard III, like Aaron the Moor in Titus Andronicus,
is a brilliant Marlovian cartoon or grotesque, but lacks all inwardness,
which is true also of the figures in the earliest comedies. Faulconbridge the
Bastard in King John and Richard II were Shakespeare’s initial breakthroughs
in the forging of personalities, before the composition of Romeo and Juliet.

Harold Bloom
After Juliet, Mercutio, and the nurse came Bottom, Shylock, Portia, and
most overwhelmingly Falstaff, with whom at last Shakespeare was fully
himself. Harold Goddard shrewdly points out that the nurse, who lacks wit,
imagination, and above all love, even for Juliet, is no Falstaff, who abounds
in cognitive power, creative humor, and (alas) love for the undeserving Hal.
The nurse is ferociously lively and funny, but she proves to be exactly what the
supremely accurate Juliet eventually calls her: “most wicked fiend,” whose care
for Juliet has no inward reality. In some sense, the agent of Juliet’s tragedy is
the nurse, whose failure in loving the child she has raised leads Juliet to the
desperate expedient that destroys both Romeo and herself.
Mercutio, a superb and delightful role, nevertheless is inwardly quite
as cold as the nurse. Though he is Shakespeare’s first sketch of a charismatic
individual (Berowne in Love’s Labor’s Lost has brilliant language, but no
charisma), Mercutio is a dangerous companion for Romeo, and becomes
redundant as soon as Romeo passes from sexual infatuation to sincere love,
from Rosaline to Juliet. Age-old directorial wisdom is that Shakespeare
killed off Mercutio so quickly, because Romeo is a mere stick in contrast to
his exuberant friend. But Mercutio becomes irrelevant once Juliet and Romeo
fall profoundly in love with one another. What place has Mercutio in the
play once it becomes dominated by Juliet’s magnificent avowal of her love’s
infinitude:
And yet I wish but for the thing I have.

My bounty is as boundless as the sea,
My love as deep; the more I give to thee,
The more I have, for both are infinite.
Contrast that with Mercutio at his usual bawdry:
If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark.

Now will he sit under a medlar tree,
And wish his mistress were that kind of fruit
As maids call medlars, when they laugh alone.
O, Romeo, that she were, O that she were
An open-arse, thou a poperin pear!
Since Juliet develops from strength to strength, Romeo (who is only partly a
convert to love) is inevitably dwarfed by her. Partly this is the consequence of
what will be Shakespeare’s long career of comparing women to men to men’s
accurate disadvantage, a career that can be said to commence with precisely
this play. But partly the tragic flaw is in Romeo himself, who yields too
readily to many fierce emotions: anger, fear, grief, and despair. This yielding
Introduction
leads to the death of Tybalt, to Romeo’s own suicide, and to Juliet’s own
farewell to life. Shakespeare is careful to make Romeo just as culpable, in
his way, as Mercutio or Tybalt. Juliet, in total contrast, remains radically free
of flaw: she is a saint of love, courageous and trusting, refusing the nurse’s
evil counsel and attempting to hold on to love’s truth, which she incarnates.
Though it is “The Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet,” the lovers are tragic in
wholly different ways. Juliet, in a curious prophecy of Hamlet’s charismatic
elevation, transcends her self-destruction and dies exalted. Romeo, not of
her eminence, dies more pathetically. We are moved by both deaths, but
Shakespeare sees to it that our larger loss is the loss of Juliet.
N orman F . B lake
On Shakespeare’s Informal Language*
1. Introduction
W hen asked to compile a dictionary of Shakespeare’s informal English

within a series published by Athlone Press (now taken over by Continuum
Books), I naturally reviewed what the attraction of compiling such a diction-
ary might be. Informal language is a neglected topic—at least from a historical
standpoint—and it is not well covered in historical dictionaries like the
Oxford English Dictionary [OED] if only because, to illustrate why a word or
phrase may be understood as informal, a much longer context is necessary
than most dictionaries provide. There are dictionaries and glossaries devoted
to other aspects of Shakespeare’s language like legal and military language,
sexual innuendo, and neologisms, but his informal language has not been
covered though it forms so large a part of conversation. As Shakespeare is
primarily a dramatist and he is one of the first dramatists to use informal
language for conversation, his informal English should be a major topic of
investigation. Indeed, his informal language is often ignored by editors and
commentators, who often interpret what could be informal as formal and/or
grammatical. I have had an interest in informal language for some time
(Blake 1981), and through compiling this dictionary I hope to learn more
about Shakespeare, conversational language in the Elizabethan and Jaco-
bean periods, and to what extent we may need to change our views about
Shakespeare through studying this aspect of his linguistic usage. However,
Journal of Historical Pragmatics, Volume 3, Number 2 (2002): pp. 179–204. Copyright © 2002
John Benjamin Publishing Company.

Norman F. Blake
although all dictionaries have fuzzy boundaries, topic-based dictionaries

are especially problematic because the boundaries of any given topic are less
clearly defined than what constitutes the standard forms of a language.
2. The data for a dictionary of Shakespeare’s informal English

Shakespeare wrote both poems and plays. It is in the plays, which are con-
versation based, that one expects to find examples of informal language,
because the poems are rhetorical and elevated in their language, dealing as
they do with love, and in the longer poems this passion is set in a distant past
and treated in an almost epic manner. Although they may contain dialogue,
that dialogue is likely to be idealised. Some of the dialogue in the poems is
inspired by hate, revenge, fear and other emotions which could readily give
rise to less formality in speech. Shakespeare may deliberately set the tone
of this language in direct contrast with that which is both more formal and
elegant. The lover in the Sonnets 1 can exclaim But out alack, he was but one
hour mine (33.11), where out and alack are examples of informal language
with parallels in the plays. When in Venus and Adonis Adonis’s stallion sees
a mare, he cares little for what his master shouts:
(1) What recketh he his riders angrie sturre,

His flattering holla, or his stand, I say, (283–284).
Here, holla, stand, and I say are all examples of informal language—that
language which a rider addresses to his horse or which people use to others
whom they are trying to command or restrain. There is no reason to exclude
poems from the data-base; and it may be that there are interesting parallels
between the poems and some of the plays.
These caveats lead naturally to a consideration of the canon of Shake-
speare’s work. There are two problems here, especially regarding the plays:
they may exist in different formats and they may also have been written by
more than one author. The plays attributed to Shakespeare in the period
c.1582–1608 survive in various copies: (i) the so-called “bad” and “good”
quartos [Q], most of which are dated before 1623, (ii) the First Folio [F], the
first collected edition of Shakespeare’s plays issued by Heminge and Condell
in 1623, and (iii) the Second (1632), Third (1663–1664) and Fourth (1685)
Folios, which are revised versions of the earlier editions, some of which may
have had access to a better text. Although editors of Shakespeare’s plays take
account of these later folios to support emendations, they contain few genu-
ine readings because their editors were influenced by the wish to make the
text intelligible. I do take account of cases where they differ significantly from
F, because this could indicate informal English where their editors found F
difficult to understand.
On Shakespeare’s Informal Language
A lexicographer should work from the original editions. But here there
is a problem arising from the need to fit a dictionary into a publisher’s pro-
gramme. Most publishers want to tie their dictionaries to a modern edition
because they assume that a modern edition is authoritative and widely known
among students and others, and because they assume sales will be better if
their dictionaries are tied to a complete edition of Shakespeare’s works which
is commonly chosen by teachers at institutions of education as their set text
for students, such as the Oxford collected edition (Wells and Taylor 1988).
The problem is that any scholarly work which uses one of these editions for
its data will both omit much of what might be Shakespeare’s language and
become outmoded in the not-too-distant future as a new collected edition
becomes accepted. Thus Spevack’s thesaurus (1993), which is based on the
Riverside Shakespeare, omits many words which occur in less favoured texts,
especially the bad quartos. It is difficult to accept that it encapsulates the
whole of Shakespeare’s world vision and intellectual framework (which is its
aim), as it fails to evaluate the whole of his potential vocabulary. Quite apart
from the bad quartos, there are different versions of the same play as for
example Hamlet and King Lear. With King Lear older editors often amalgam-
ated Q2 and F to form a conflated modern edition. Nowadays, it is thought
that Shakespeare revised the text so that there are two equally valid and au-
thoritative versions of the same play. With Hamlet some editors prefer to
follow F and others Q2, whereas some try to amalgamate the two. Even with
those editions which amalgamate the two texts into a single version, the result
is that only additional, and not variant, lines are included in the final edition.
Where there are variant lines, the editor has to choose between them, for he
or she cannot include them both.
Many of the plays also show evidence of the hands of different authors,
for co-operation in the pressurised life of the theatre may have demanded it.
When a play is announced, it has to be made ready for the first performance.
It is likely that several authors were put to work to get the play ready in time.
When a play went into rehearsal, it might have been adapted, as Philip Gas-
kell (1978:245–262) has shown for the modern theatre, and if the principal
author was not available another dramatist might have stepped in to pro-
vide revised scenes or lines. The manuscript play of Sir Thomas More contains
six hands as well as annotations by the Master of the Revels. It is probable
that the main part of the play was written by Anthony Munday in associa-
tion with Thomas Chettle and possibly one further author. The Master of the
Revels demanded alterations to the first draft and this is one reason why
additional hands are found in the manuscript. Some alterations are Shake-
speare’s, identified as Hand D in the manuscript. This hand wrote a whole
scene (164 lines in Wells and Taylor 1988). In addition, twenty-one lines of
a soliloquy by More, in the hand of a professional scribe, are attributed to
Norman F. Blake
Shakespeare. Quite apart from this play, other plays in the Shakespeare canon
show signs of joint composition, often with Thomas Middleton. When a play
was finished in draft, a fair copy was made to be used as a prompt copy and
another copy may have been in the company’s archives for future use. When
the company travelled, to escape the plague or creditors, they may have taken
a smaller number of actors on tour to keep their costs down and then the
plays in the repertoire would have been adapted to suit a reduced company.
So different versions of the same play may exist, all of which are authoritative
to a greater or lesser extent, though Shakespeare may not have been the au-
thor of the complete text of these versions. The problem is deciding precisely
how much was his—or even if this is something worth trying to establish.
By “Shakespeare’s English” one has to accept anything in the canon of works
attributed to Shakespeare in all their versions up to and including F with the
addition of some plays attributed to him which do not appear in F, such as
Pericles and Two Noble Kinsmen.
This decision is significant for a dictionary which records Shakespeare’s
informal language. Although some informal language may be particularly
Shakespearian, such as the malapropisms used by Dogberry or the idiomatic
phrases used by Mrs Quickly, informal language by its nature is likely to
reflect the colloquialisms and the lower linguistic registers characteristic of
its period. The bad quartos may be memorial re-constructions by an actor.
Each actor would remember his own part or parts, but other parts could be
reproduced in a less authentic form. This could affect examples of informal
language, for there is little reason to suppose that this actor would necessarily
remember the informal utterances exactly as in the prompt copy. For example,
discourse markers express the speaker’s emotional response to the situation
he or she is involved in, but many such discourse markers are freely inter-
changeable—and this is as true today as it was in Shakespeare’s time. When
performing the plays actors might vary the discourse markers or idiomatic
expressions without thinking twice about such variation. A discourse mark-
er like “why” could be readily inserted or omitted depending on how much
emphasis the actor wanted to put on the following utterance (Blake 1992).
Where a character is identified with a particular turn of phrase, as is Nym in
the Henry plays and Merry Wives with that is the humour of it, it is likely that
examples of this phrase were added or deleted by the actor playing this role in
different places in the text and in different performances. This facility to alter
examples of informal English which cannot be detected so easily today may
have been freely exercised, and we are unable to tell what actually started out
as Shakespeare’s own informal English. That is the nature of informal En-
glish. In this area of language we can do little more than use Shakespeare as a
token of the informal language used at his time without claiming that all ex-
amples of informal language actually came from his pen. A dictionary dealing
On Shakespeare’s Informal Language
with this topic will be a snapshot of informal language of the time in which
Shakespeare lived, who would in any case be recording what was commonly
heard at the time rather than necessarily trying to invent new examples of
informal language, as he might have done with some specialised example of
literary or elevated language. Yet, even with new words, older claims that he
introduced so many new ones into the language have been modified by recent
scholarship (Schäfer 1980).
3. Different varieties of Early Modern English

To talk about informal English presupposes that there is a formal language
against which it is compared, and this naturally assumes that people at the
time also understood that there were variations in speech which acted as
markers of social status or of a different environment in which the speech is
found. There is no problem with this concept, for Shakespeare often high-
lights differences in language. Prince Hal refers to the language of drawers
and tapsters in this way:
(2) They take it already vpon their confidence that though I be

but Prince of Wales, yet I am the King of Curtesie: telling me
flatly I am no proud Iack like Falstaffe, but a Corinthian, a lad
of mettle, a good boy, (1H4 2.5.8–12). 2
Similarly, Hotspur rebukes his wife for using oaths which are not appropri-
ate to her status:
(3) Not yours, in good sooth?

You sweare like a Comfit-makers Wife:
Not you, in good sooth; and, as true as I liue;
And, as God shall mend me; and, as sure as day:
(1H4 3.1.243–246).
We might, in reference to quotation (3), have assumed that all oaths or

asseverations were informal, though we might not so readily accept that ones
like in good sooth were associated with artisans’ wives, i.e. with both a gender
and a class association. In fact, in Shakespeare’s other plays in good sooth is
used by Trinculo in The Tempest (2.2.146), by Lucio in Measure for Measure
(3.1.366), and as Good sooth, by Pericles in Pericles (sc.1.129). Although
Trinculo is a lower-class male and Lucio an affected man about town with
effeminate attitudes, Pericles is an older man of heroic character. Hotspur’s
assessment of these oaths does not tally with their use in other plays. Of the
examples in quotation (2), proud Iack, Corinthian, a lad of mettle and a good
boy, only the last one occurs elsewhere in Shakespeare and there it appears to
10 Norman F. Blake
have no overtones, for it is used by Mrs Page to compliment the young lad,
Robin, for keeping details of her plot secret (MW 3.3.29). Mrs Page would
hardly use the language of tapsters, and presumably it is only in certain con-
texts that this phrase took on a specialised meaning.
At the upper end of the language hierarchy Shakespeare’s contempo-
raries undoubtedly understood that many speakers tried hard to make their
language elegant and fashionable. Mercutio expresses it this way:
(4) The Pox of such antique lisping affecting phantacies, these new
tuners of accent: Iesu a very good blade, a very tall man, a very
good whore. Why is not this a lamentable thing Grandsire,
that we should be thus afflicted with these strange flies: these
fashion Mongers, these pardon-mee’s, who stand so much on
the new form, that they cannot sit at ease on the old bench.
(RJ 2.3.26–33)
Modern affectations are contrasted with old-fashioned values, which are

neglected by such fashionable people. There is no doubt people accepted that
the English of this time contained different levels of language, for although
language at all times is stratified, this is not always readily recognised by the
speakers of that language.
The difficulty with tracing informal language from the past is that it
does not necessarily consist of a specialised vocabulary in the same way that
technical or Latinate words do. The words which make up informal English
are likely, for the most part, to be ordinary words which have been given a
particular connotation or have been drained of their normal semantic mean-
ing. They do not confine themselves to a particular subject, like technical
vocabularies. Equally, one does not expect foreign words to be borrowed for
the purpose of creating informal language, though this can happen with wit-
ticisms and educated playing with words—and such forms might eventually
become informal. In quotation (2) Prince Hal implies that proud Iack, Corin-
thian, a lad of mettle and a good boy are examples of the language of tapsters.
The word Corinthian, although ultimately a foreign loan from Greek possibly
through Latin, was not borrowed into English to mean ‘one of the boys, a
good fellow’ OED “Corinthian B” sb. records the word in the sense ‘A native
or inhabitant of Corinth’ from the early sixteenth century. Towards the end
of that century the sense ‘a shameless or a “brazen-faced” fellow’ is found,
because of Corinth’s reputation as a rich city noted for its luxury and licen-
tiousness; indeed the name Corinth developed the sense ‘brothel’ in English.
Is Corinthian a word used by tapsters and others like them, or is it a word
common among educated people and wrongly attributed by the Prince to
the lower echelons of society? Iack, lad and boy are words which can be used
jocularly or scornfully and are to that extent common in an informal context,

but the expressions proud Iack, a lad of mettle and a good boy are not, as far
as we can tell, specifically informal—or at least are not found elsewhere in this
register. These examples illustrate the problems of tracing informal English.
Some authors may describe certain words or expressions as informal, though
it is difficult to confirm such claims because the words are also found in a
less marked register and it maybe difficult to judge from the context how to
interpret the word. In quotation (2) is Prince Hal a reliable informant when
it comes to reporting the language of tapsters or is he merely reporting what
he thinks the language of tapsters is? It is precisely this difficulty in deciding
whether a given word is used with particular connotations which makes the
study of informal English so fascinating.
How then does one determine which words constitute Shakespeare’s
informal vocabulary? Informal English is often seen as a negative feature, be-
cause it is not part of polite language, for it includes the more colourful words
in the language. Because it is set in contrast with formal English, it may be
easier to think what formal English is. This is the language used in careful
writing and speech, when one is trying to create an impression of education,
standing and respectability. It is usually associated with the standard written
form of a language, that form one would teach to non-native speakers of the
language. Perhaps it is possible to think of formal English as the core of a
language which may be represented as an inner circle, with everything outside
that circle being potentially informal. Outside that circle at its figurative top
could be placed fashionable varieties, that usage employed by speakers trying
to impress others with their savoir faire, although usually they manage to
overdo it. An example of this language is satirised by Mercutio in quotation
(4). But when Cloten, Cymbeline’s rather stupid step-son, says with admirable
rich words (Cym 2.3.17), this is serious, for Shakespeare wants us to under-
stand that this is a dull fellow trying to persuade others that he knows how to
speak in a courtly way. At the bottom of the circle might lie the colloquialisms
and abbreviated forms characteristic of speech, which are most frequently
identified with those who take little care about their enunciation. These forms
at the top and bottom are in principle open to all speakers of the language, for
they can be assimilated with effort as exemplified by Prince Hal. To each side
of the inner core might lie those varieties which are used by native speakers
of English from outside England, the speakers of English dialects, and the
English of foreigners who often mangle the language. Such forms are less
frequently adopted by other speakers because they are part of a wider sys-
tem, and I do not include any of these “lateral” forms within the context of
informal English, which I regard as something available to all speakers of the
language. Sociolinguistics has taught us that we all use informal English from
12 Norman F. Blake
time to time, whereas we do not suddenly break into Scots or Dorset dialect
forms, if only because most of us could not do so with conviction.
4. The different types of Shakespeare’s informal English

I have chosen Romeo and Juliet 2.3.136–160 as a specimen on which to base
the analysis of Shakespeare’s informal English. It is reproduced from F with
some readings from Quarto 1 [Ql] and the Fourth Folio [F4] in square
brackets. Mercutio who has been indulging in witticisms at the Nurse’s
expense has just departed and has left her in an indignant state:
(5) Nur. I pray you sir, what sawcie Merchant was this that was so
full of his roperie? [Ql roperipe; F4 Roguery]
Rom. A Gentleman Nurse, that loues to heare himselfe talke,
and will speake more in a minute [Ql houre], then he will stand
to in a Month.
Nur. And a speake [Q1 stand to] any thing against me, Ile
take him downe, & a were lustier then he is, and twentie such
Iacks: and if I cannot, Ile finde those that shall: scuruie knaue,
I am none of his flurt-gils, I am none of his skaines mates, and
thou must stand by too and suffer every knaue [Ql Iacke] to vse
me at his pleasure.
Pet. I saw no man vse you at his pleasure: if I had, my weapon
[Q1 toole] should quickly haue beene out, I warrant you, I dare
draw assoone as another man, if I see occasion [Q1 time and
place] in a good quarrell, and the law on my side.
Nur. Now afore God, I am so vext, that euery part [Ql member]
about me quiuers, skuruy knaue [Ql Iacke]: pray you sir a
word: and as I told you, my young Lady bid me enquire you
out, what she bid me say, I will keepe to my selfe: but first let
me tell ye, if ye should leade her in a fooles paradise, as they
say, it were a very grosse kind of behauiour, as they say: for
the Gentlewoman is yong: & therefore, if you should deale
double with her, truely it were an ill thing to be offered to any
Gentlewoman, and very weake dealing.
In the opening of the Nurse’s speech there are three expressions which
might be considered informal: I pray you, sawcie Merchant and roperie. The
word Merchant is typically informal in that it has lost almost all its standard
meaning. OED “Merchant A” sb. defines merchant as ‘one whose occupation
is the purchase and sale of marketable commodities for profit; originally
applied gen. to any trader in goods not manufactured or produced by him-
self ’. But when merchant is used informally, this semantic information is
reduced to ‘one . . . himself ’, i.e. a man. The rest of the meaning has been
discarded so that the outer form or surface of the word is retained to add
colour, but its inner semantic core is abandoned. It is not in itself decisive
of informality that the merchant is characterised as sawcie, since a real mer-
chant could easily be “rude”. It is characteristic of informal language that
merchant can be replaced by other words which are also drained of their
semantic meaning so that it would make little apparent difference to the
Nurse’s message if she had referred to him here as scuruie knaue (a phrase
she uses later of Mercutio) rather than sawcie Merchant. There are a large
number of words in Shakespeare’s works whose meaning is no more than
‘man, young man’, especially those used in a jocular or abusive way; they
include kern, knaue, lob, lozel, lubber, milksop, noddy, patch, punk, quat as well
as those which are Christian names such as Jack. But, as we shall see, the
word merchant (which is recorded by OED sb. 3 as ‘A fellow, “chap”’ from
1549 to 1610) may have more resonance than at first seems apparent. Other
concepts for different types of men and for parts of the body such as the head
exist in variant informal forms: block, noddle, mole, pash, pate, poll, sconce, to
mention just a few.
The word roperie illustrates another category of informal word. Many
words or phrases differ between F and Q and this variation may signal that
one edition (usually Q) was trying to make the word more accessible. This
might be the case here, although roperipe could be a simple typographical
variant. However, the word does not fit into the context, because roperipe as an
adjective means ‘Ripe for the gallows’ (OED “Roperipe”), but the syntax de-
mands a noun, and as a noun it means ‘one who is ripe for the gallows’ which
is not semantically appropriate. The change from roperie to roperipe may in-
dicate that some had difficulty understanding roperie—a suggestion which is
strengthened by its change to Roguery in F4. It is possible to take roperie as a
malapropism for roguery, or to assume it was a misprint for roperipe, although
neither explanation is acceptable, and roperie is retained in Q2, F2 and. F3.
OED glosses “Ropery” as ‘1. A place where ropes are made; a rope-walk. 2.
Trickery, knavery, roguery.’ Neither sense is common, with 1 recorded from
1363 and 2 first recorded in this passage. It is claimed by some editors that
rope was slang for penis, but evidence that this was so in the sixteenth century
is absent. Nevertheless, it is likely that both roperie and roperipe were informal
words with a sexual overtone probably implying ‘lewd talk’.
At first sight it seems as though merchant and roperie are introduced
merely as informal words of little semantic content, suggesting “chap, fellow”
for the first and “underhand behaviour, bawdy talk” for the second. But we
need to take account of the form skaines mates a few lines later. OED “Skaines
mate” indicates that its ‘origin and exact meaning [are] uncertain’ and has this
example as its sole quotation. Some editors translate ‘cut-throat companions’
14 Norman F. Blake
by linking it to skene ‘knife’; but others relate it to a dialect form skain ‘rascal’.
Green (1998:1079) defines “skainsmate”, of which this is his only example,
as ‘a prostitute. [ety. unknown. . . . The context seems to indicate a prostitute.
?dial skain, a dagger; thus fig. a penis or skein of thread or wool, and thus
relates to the ‘sewing’ imagery of intercourse (cf. NEEDLE WOMAN)].’
Although Green’s comment is helpful, it may not go far enough. At one level
Shakespeare has taken ordinary words, merchant, roperie and skain, and de-
prived them of their main semantic content. But at another level he has added
to their meaning by linking words together so that merchant, roperie and skains
mate, all connected with merchants and merchandise consisting of rope or
wool, are given a sexual meaning. They are informal, but they also have a witty
resonance which links them together in a quite unexpected way. In addition
to its semantic link with merchant and roperie, skains mates is associated with
flurt-gill, based on the female name Gill/Jill. The name Jill was a common
name for a woman (as in the nursery rhyme Jack and Jill ), often used depre-
catingly, and the verbal noun flirting is recorded from 1593. The compound
flirt-gill is attested here for the first time in the Oxford English Dictionary,
though some examples also occur in the early seventeenth century. It may be a
Shakespearian compound, though both elements were common enough and
the form Gill-flirt is found from 1632 in the Oxford English Dictionary.
Two of the three words in the Nurse’s opening speech, merchant and
roperie, are not only linked but also clearly informal, though more evoca-
tive than the concept “informal” might suggest. They are supported by sawcie,
which is also informal. Numerous other adjectives of this type occur through-
out the plays, and we have noted scuruie in the Nurse’s second speech. Others
include bully, cogging, cony-catching, cozening, lousy, ramping; testy as well as
some which maybe Shakespearian creations.
The third possible informal expression in the opening of this first speech
is I pray you. This phrase also presents problems of interpretation, since it may
be the formal main clause which has a subordinate object clause depend-
ent on it. But F has a question mark at the end of this first sentence and that
question mark is often reproduced in modern editions (Levenson 2000:237).
Most take this to be a robust direct question, with I pray you as a discourse
marker emphasising the question which follows, rather than a main clause
introducing a tentative indirect question. The expression I pray you appears
elsewhere as pray you or prithee, and it fulfils much the same function as mod-
ern please, though these expressions are less formal. There are a number of
verbs which resemble pray in this discourse function, including quoth, say,
speak, tell and think as well as slightly different verbs like see. Say as a discourse
marker occurs in different forms, such as the preterite and past participle. Sev-
eral interesting examples of say in Shakespeare’s works may be misinterpreted
by editors. When in As You Like It Orlando leads in the exhausted Adam, who
can barely walk, Adam prepares to die and says his farewell to Orlando: Heere
lie I downe, And measure out my graue. (AY 2.6.2). Orlando then replies with a
lengthy harangue, in which he says he will bring food shortly and that Adam
must not die in the meantime. In the middle of this speech, he says:
(6) but if thou diest

Before I come, thou art a mocker of my labor.
Wel said, thou look’st cheerely.
And Ile be with thee quickly:
(AY 2.6.11–14)
Although Adam says nothing in response to Orlando’s care of him, Orlando

exclaims Wel said. Some editors assume that Adam has mumbled something,
and Hattaway (2000:115) comments “This either means ‘Well done’, or
indicates that Adam makes some inarticulate response.” Well said is hardly
an appropriate response to some inarticulate mumbling, and this expression
must be a discourse marker equivalent to modern Come on or even Snap out
of it. The other alternative, Well done, suggested by Hattaway and offered by
other editors, does not seem appropriate, since it operates less as a discourse
marker than as a compliment in Modern English.
An equally contentious example occurs at the start of the play where Orlan-
do and Adam come on stage together. Hattaway’s comment “The play begins in
the middle of a conversation between Orlando and Adam.” (2000:73) is charac-
teristic of editors’ comments on this play’s opening, though none actually explain
why they believe these two are in mid-conversation. The opening sentence is:
(7) As I remember Adam, it was vpon this fashion bequeathed

me by will, but poore a thousand Crownes, and as thou saist,
charged my brother on his blessing to breed mee well: and
there begins my sadnesse:
(AY 1.1.1–4)
Presumably, editors accept as thou saist to mean that Adam was speaking to
Orlando about the will before they entered. But Adam is an old servant who
is hardly likely to remind Orlando of the terms of his father’s will and, in the
play, he gives no indication of being informed on such matters. He does not
speak until Orlando has finished his lengthy diatribe and then only to say
that Orlando’s brother is approaching. There is no indication in this opening
of a conversation in any meaningful way. It is better to take as thou saist, as a
discourse marker meaning no more than ‘assuredly, indeed’. A more forceful
marker is not appropriate to Orlando’s character, for he is portrayed as gentle
and cultivated. But he does feel strongly about the position he is in and so
16 Norman F. Blake
this marker is intended not to tell us that Adam has reminded him of the
terms of the will, but of the injustice that he, Orlando, suffers under.
Examples of “say” and other verbs are provided by other plays. When the
Venetians are taunting Shylock that his daughter has run away, he exclaims:
I say my daughter is my flesh and bloud. (MV 3.1.34). Here F has no comma
after I say, and this punctuation is followed in modern editions; but it is an
expression which could readily be replaced by Truly, In sooth etc. and may be
best accepted as a discourse marker. When Portia and Nerissa return home
after the trial scene and are standing before the house, they hear music which
Nerissa says is Portia’s own. To this Portia responds: Nothing is good I see with-
out respect, (MV 5.1.99). Once again F has no commas, but here most editors
do insert them making I see a discourse marker. The marriage of Antony to
Octavia is greeted with surprise by some, for when told by Enobarbus of
this marriage Menas responds: Pray’ye sir. (AC 2.6.113), which is rather like
modern You don’t say. Modern editors often add a question mark, but it could
just as easily be a statement expressing surprise or disbelief.
Discourse markers, a significant feature of conversation, help to em-
phasise certain statements, inject more emotion into a conversation, indicate
some hesitation on the part of the speaker, or act as a hedge in the dialogue.
Although they are found most often at the beginning of a sentence, they can
occupy any position depending on the function they fulfil. Two which occur
at the beginning of a sentence are why and what, and they can cause difficulty
in interpretation since there is uncertainty as to whether they are discourse
markers or interrogative adverbs. Some are clearly discourse markers, though
almost drained of any meaning. When Petruccio’s servants greet the recently
returned Grumio, each utters a greeting in turn, and these consist of Welcome
home or How now or What (TS 4.1.95–99), where What is no different as a
greeting from Welcome home and How now. All three are informal. But why
and what have more significant uses in other contexts. What expresses sur-
prise, impatience or even exultation, whereas why may either introduce a new
topic or else express reluctance or anxiety. These interjections are found on
the lips of members of all classes. Antony can say to Cleopatra: What Gyrle,
though gray Do somthing mingle with our yonger brown, yet ha we A Braine (AC
4.9.19–21), and young Rutland cries out in anguish to Clifford: I neuer did thee
harme: why wilt thou slay me? (3H6 1.3.39). Other words resemble discourse
markers but are not as frequently attested as one might expect with discourse
markers. When Hamlet acknowledges that Polonius has just announced the
arrival of the players, he says: Buzze, buzze. (Ham 2.2.395), which has a wider
range of implications than would be conveyed by a simple discourse marker.
But this is appropriate for someone of Hamlet’s rank, since he is revealing his
wit as well as his linguistic dexterity.
In the foregoing discussion some differences between Q1 and F in quo-

tation (5) are highlighted. These are important not only because they may re-
veal what words were informal, but also because they may indicate that words
dying out of the language survived longest at an informal level. Examples
take several forms. The first is when several examples of a word in Q often,
though not regularly, appear as a different word in the F, or even occasionally
vice versa. Thus afeard in Q is often replaced in F by afraid, as when Costard,
a Clown, says in Q a Conquerour, and a feard to speake? (LL 5.2.573–574),
where F has afraid. Similarly, albeit is often replaced in F by although. Prob-
ably words like afeard and albeit were obsolescent except in the informal
language of less educated people. Likewise Q’s alate may be less formal than
F’s of late, as many forms with initial (a-) representing a reduced preposition
were gradually lost from the language.
The second type is where a form in either Q or F is unique in Shake-
speare and is omitted or replaced in the other text. This may occur either
because a form is otherwise obsolete or because the word is new not only
in Shakespeare, but also in English. Queen Margaret, married by proxy in
France to Henry V I, addresses her husband and sovereign in rather inflated
language, although she refers to her ruder termes, such as my wit affoords (2H6
1.1 [Add.Pass. A7]). In a passage found only in F she addresses Henry as
mine Alder liefest Soueraigne ([Add.Pass. A5]). The word alderliefest, formed
from the Old English genitive plural ealra ‘of all’ and leofost ‘dearest’, was ar-
chaic by the end of the fifteenth century. It is possible that this was regarded
as old-fashioned and hence no longer appropriate in courtly circles; to that
extent it might be regarded as informal. A similar example is the form anchor
‘an anchorite, hermit’, found in Q2 of Hamlet (Add.Pass. E2), where it is
used in the play within a play, where the language is often old-fashioned and
distanced from the rest of the main play’s language.
A different example of this second type is the word answerer with the
meaning ‘one who answers a charge or appeal’ which occurs in the Lear quar-
to, known today as The History of King Lear. Regan taunts Gloucester after his
arrest for helping Lear to escape, and one might expect words from the in-
formal register in such utterances by Regan, because she is being aggressively
rude as part of her attack on the old man. She says Be simple answerer, for we
know the truth. (HL sc.14.42), where F has simple answer’d (3.7.42), which
makes less sense. This word answerer may be an informal variant of defendant.
It occurs only here in Shakespeare, though it is found occasionally in English
from the sixteenth century onwards. In consideration of this example, several
other words in (-er) as an agent noun appear to be less formal, even those
added to a Latinate stem to form a hybrid. Examples which occur only once
in Shakespeare include opener, pauser, perfumer and picker. Pauser, a noun in
the expression the pawser, Reason. (Mac 2.3.111 ‘someone who hesitates to
18 Norman F. Blake
evaluate something fully’), and perfumer in the sense of ‘one who fumigates a
room’ are hapax legomena in English according to the Oxford English Diction-
ary, but opener in the sense of ‘one who reveals something’ was found in the
language from the middle of the sixteenth century. Picker was common in
the informal phrase pickers and stealers ‘thieves, robbers’, but Hamlet extends
the meaning to ‘hands, i.e. which do the stealing’ (Ham 3.2.323). There are
many similar examples, which suggest that answerer might also be informal.
A third type is where Q and F have different words, both of which
are used by Shakespeare elsewhere, so that it is difficult to decide which is
Shakespeare’s original form or even whether both are his. When Slender is
complaining about being ill-treated by Falstaff ’s companions, he refers to
them as your cony-catching Rascalls, (MW 1.1.117) in F, where Q has your
cogging companions. The verb cog and its participle cogging ‘cheating, deceptive’
occurs several times in Shakespeare, usually dismissively, as when Emilia ex-
claims Some cogging, cozening Slaue, (Oth 4.2.136). It also occurs in one other
example in Merry Wives. The verb cony-catch and its past participle form cony-
catched occur elsewhere in Shakespeare, though not so frequently, but this
example of cony-catching is the only time the present participial adjective oc-
curs. The sense of this verb is the same as cog, meaning ‘to cheat, deceive’. Both
words were common at this time and either makes excellent sense in the pas-
sage, so it is difficult to choose between these two informal words as to which
maybe genuine Shakespeare. It probably does not matter, for both have to be
accepted as examples of Shakespearian informal language. Later, Mr Page
says to Mr Ford in F Looke where my ranting Host of the Garter comes: (MW
2.1.179), where Q uses ramping instead of ranting. The participial adjective
ramping is found once elsewhere in Shakespeare in the sense ‘unrestrained,
extravagant’. Constance, in berating the Duke of Austria, says What a foole
art thou, A ramping foole, (KJ 3.1.47–48). This word belongs to the language
of insults. The verb rant occurs in Shakespeare, when Hamlet jumps into
Ophelia’s grave and shouts at Laertes and thoul’t mouth, Ile rant as well as thou.
(Ham. 5.1.280–281), where the sense is ‘talk loudly and boastingy’. This verb
was more common and probably in Merry Wives it replaced ramping, which
was less familiar. Both belong to a specialised vocabulary of insults, with rant
being less hurtful than ramp, and it is often preferred by editors who think of
the Host as loud-mouthed rather than unrestrained, though the difference is
not great. In such cases both words belong to the informal register and the
variation suggests that they were becoming generalised words of abuse which
were losing their primary meanings and thus could be freely exchanged.
In quotation (5) we may note that Q1 has Iacke where F has knaue. The
names, Jack, John and Jill/Gill, are used frequently as terms of contempt. Jack
occurs as a generic name for a man as well as the figure that strikes the bell.
Examples include: Since euerie Iacke became a Gentleman, There’s many a gentle
person made a Iacke. (R3 1.3.72–73), While I stand fooling heere, his iacke o’th’
Clocke (R2 5.5.60), scuruy-Iack-dog-Priest: (MW 2.3.57), I am withered like an
olde Apple Iohn. (1H4 3.3.4), poore-Iohn: (Tem 2.2.27 ‘type of fish’), and Iohn
a-dreames, (Ham 2.2.570). One might also mention Mrs Quickly’s corruption
of genitive to Ginyes case; (MW 4.1.56 ‘Jenny’s case’), since it is not difficult to
imagine this as a typical schoolboy corruption picked up by Shakespeare at
grammar school. Abbreviations of names are also common and belong to the
informal language Nan ‘Anne’, Ned and Yedward ‘Edward’, Hal ‘Henry’, Nick
‘Nicholas’, Nob ‘Robert’ and others. There is also Dame Partlet the Hen, (1H4
3.3.94 ‘Dame Pertilote’, Falstaff to Mrs Quickly).
The use by the Nurse in quotation (5) of a for ‘he’ is a colloquialism,
reflecting informal pronunciation through the dropping of syllables or pho-
nemes. Such forms occur in the speech of all people, and this finds expression
in Shakespeare’s plays in characters of all ranks. Sociolinguistics has revealed
that we all drop initial /h/ in words when we are in an informal mode. Most
people will say /i:/ rather than /hi:/ in an utterance like “What’s he up to”,
although we always write the (h) in representations of our own speech. We
might not, however, include the (h) in any representation in writing of the
speech of lower-class characters. In Shakespeare’s plays this form is repre-
sented by the form (a), in the language of people of high or low status. The
Princess of France in Love’s Labour’s Lost can say Who ere a was, a shew’d a
mounting minde: (4.1.4). Presumably, dropping one’s h’s carried little or no
stigma at the time. This presents a problem for the modern editor of the plays,
who may represent this form by (’a), as though the speaker had dropped the
/h/, which creates an uncomfortable feeling today that the speaker was being
less than polite. It is more probable that at that time people accepted that
there were two forms of this word, an emphatic and an unemphatic (or infor-
mal) form, and that either could be used in writing, though one does find (a)
attributed more frequently to less elevated characters. Other words which fall
into this category include cos, a shortened form of cousin used more frequently
by high-status characters, and many oaths to be considered below.
A more interesting question is the status of aphetic forms of words.
Most survive today only in their longer forms, such as hospital and appren-
tice, which also occur as spital and prentice. In modern editions they may
appear with an apostrophe: ’spital and ’prentice, as though editors think them
non-standard. Certainly today where such forms occur, such as ’fraid (as in
the common phrase ’fraid so), they are colloquial and, previously, writers like
Swift were vehemently opposed to this type of shortening (Blake 1986). But
it is more difficult to be certain what attitudes to such aphetic forms were in
Shakespeare’s time. Some types of shortening were regarded as rhetorically
elegant, but it is doubtful whether this applied to forms like ’spital. Some
examples are found only in the speech of less elevated characters, as when
20 Norman F. Blake
Grumio, Petruccio’s servant, uses lege for allege in Nay ’tis no matter sir, what
he leges in Latine (TS 1.2.28). On the balance of probability such forms may
be considered informal. After all, the omission or addition of a morpheme
at the front of a word often occurs in the speech of those characters who
use malapropisms. Dogberry uses opinioned for pinioned when he says of the
malefactors Come, let them be opinion’d. (MA 4.2.65), which as with many
malapropisms suggests a confusion of words. Both verbs pinion and opinion
were introduced into English in the middle of the sixteenth century. Similarly
the Second Murderer uses passionate as a variant of compassionate when, as
he and his companion are about to murder Clarence in the Tower, he says: I
hope this passionate humor of mine, will change, (R3 1.4.114–115). That is the
reading of F, though Q and some modern editors replace this passionate humor
of mine with my holy humor. OED ‘Passionate” a. 5 records the sense ‘Moved
with sorrow; grieved, sad, sorrowful’ from 1586, but this example from Rich-
ard the Third is its first for the allied sense ‘inclined to pity, compassionate’.
But compassionate was a relatively recent borrowing. Are we to understand
a type of gallows humour here? Would contemporaries have understood
passionate, because the different reading in Q suggests they might not? Is pas-
sionate in this sense an informal usage?
In quotation (5) the Nurse refers to a very grosse kind of behauior, and
intensives like gross are usually part of informal language which may have a
short existence as vogue words. Gross in its meaning ‘glaring, flagrant, mon-
strous’ is recorded only from 1581 (OED “Gross” a. 4a), and should probably
be understood as still informal in this passage. The combination of very with
gross is characteristically informal, and Mercutio makes use of this exaggera-
tion in quotation (4). The use of Latinate adjectives was often regarded as
a sign of excess, though to what extent all such cases should be considered
ironic or humorous is difficult to determine. When Armado uses immaculate
in his My Loue is most immaculate white and red. (LL 1.2.87), this was a way
of satirising the excesses of courtly love language, especially as in this case
Moth responds Most immaculate thoughts Master (LL 1.2.88, often emended
to maculate by modern editors). A word like excellent was over-used at this
time as both adverbial and adjective, but how many of the examples are to be
treated as ironic is more difficult to determine (Blake 2000). When Sir An-
drew Aguecheek exclaims of Feste’s song Excellent good, ifaith. (TN 2.3.44),
he is trying to imitate fashionable language; when Poins responds to Hal’s
question as to whether he should tell him something with Yes: and let it be an
excellent good thing. (2H4 2.2.28), he is aping elegant language, as suggested
by his use of sweet Hony (1H4 1.2.158); and when the Clown in The Winter’s
Tale says thou talkest of an admirable conceited fellow, (WT 4.4.203–204), he
uses admirable to indicate that he knows elegant language, though educat-
ed people would take this as a sign of his ignorance. Other types of word
may also be satirised. The noun humour appears to have been misused as a
fashionable word to judge by the way it is adopted by some of the lower-
class characters. It is used by Pistol in These be good Humors indeede. (2H4
2.4.159) and by Bottom my chiefe humour is for a tyrant. (MN 1.2.24). But it is
particularly associated with Nym. He uses it as both noun and the first ele-
ment of a compound I thanke thee for that humour. (MW 1.3.57), here take the
humor-Letter; (MW 1.3.71–72). The same type of humour is found in the
malapropisms and other misuses of words, associated especially with Mrs
Quickly and others, who use such forms as allicholy for melancholy, Canaries
(possibly for quandary although that word is not used by Shakespeare) and
adultery to mean something like ‘mayhem’. Possibly to be regarded as simi-
lar are idiomatic, semi-proverbial phrases like fooles paradise in quotation (5)
which the Oxford English Dictionary shows was common at this time with
the general sense ‘seduce and abandon’ (Cf. Dent 1981: F523). There are a
number of idiomatic expressions which may be considered informal, though
they also occur in more formal contexts. These include such phrases as Ile goe
wih thee cheeke by iowle. (MN 3.2.339 ‘closely’), I haue tane you napping (TS
4.2.46 ‘caught you unawares in the act’), the new made Duke that rules the rost,
(2H6 1.1.106, usually taken to mean ‘that sits at the head of the table, i.e. to
be top dog’, though the modern equivalent is rule the roost), he is now at a cold
sent. (TN. 2.5.119 ‘gone astray’) and many others. Some of these phrases are
semiproverbial and are found in Tilley’s collection (Tilley 1950).
The spelling and metre in F and Q suggest that some words were pro-
nounced with one or two syllables and that in polysyllabic words a medial
vowel was suppressed in speech. Learned words are abbreviated in informal
language. In Q Mrs Quickly uses atomy as a variant of anatomy in her exple-
tive Thou atomy, thou. (2H4 5.4.29, F has Anatomy), implying someone who is
all bones, but with a further suggestion of atom ‘something diminutive’. Simi-
lar abbreviated forms are found earlier in the language. In The Miller’s Tale in
The Canterbury Tales some manuscripts have astromye for astronomy, and this
may represent an informal usage (Blake 1979). In other cases in Shakespeare
two forms of a word exist side by side relatively commonly, such as parlous and
perilous, and these forms can interchange between F and Q, though whether
the form parlous was becoming old-fashioned and informal is less certain.
Perilous became the standard form, just as perfect had replaced parfait, but
when exactly the change occurred and how speakers regarded the relation
between the two forms is more difficult to determine. Sometimes the reduc-
tion in the number of syllables pronounced was expressed in writing through
omission or an apostrophe: the word listening regularly omits medial (e) in F
no matter who the speaker is, as in Falstaff ’s it is worth the listning too (1H4
2.5.215). Presumably the pronunciation with two syllables was common at
this time and should not be considered informal. But a word like even can
22 Norman F. Blake
be spelt in full or abbreviated to ev’n: Euen so by Loue, (TG 1.1.47), and And
ev’n that Powre (TG 2.6.4). Is this variation significant or not? And if it is,
should the shortened form be regarded as informal? The same can go for the
omission or inclusion of non-lexical words like articles and prepositions. Are
the verbs arrive and arrive at distinguished in their level of formality? There
may be variation with the presence or absence of an article both between Q
and F: as good deede (Q) and as good a deed (F, 1H4 2.1.29); and between the
occurrence of the same phrase in different contexts: What no man at doore (TS
4.1.106) and his Father is come from Pisa, and is here at the doore (TS 5.1.25–
26). In The Taming of the Shrew the first context is distinctly colloquial, as
Petruccio rails at his servants, whereas in the second he is speaking in a more
formal manner. These may be no more than compositors’ preferences, though
such preferences may not be without significance for informal English. There
are also words which are shortened at the end: Proball (Oth 2.3.329 ‘such as
approves itself ’ ), a hapax legomenon, is probably a shortened form of probable,
which Honigmann (1997:201) compares with Dekker’s admiral for admi-
rable. We might remember in this connection that other words like mechanic
and practic from French were varied with the Latinate mechanical and practical
so that speakers of the language were familiar with variant endings, though
whether the forms carried any implication of formality/informality has yet to
be shown.
In quotation (5) the Nurse’s afore God is an oath which fulfils a similar
function to discourse markers. By their nature they are informal and used by
all classes of people, especially in situations of anger and frustration, though
they are especially associated with the everyday conversation of characters of
lower status. They share features with other types of informal language, since
the original words in an oath may be corrupted or abbreviated to prevent
them from being blasphemous, as remains true today where Gee is a clipped
form of Jesus. Consequently some oaths have lost their power to offend and
are little more than discourse markers. The corruption of names of the deity
are common enough. Marry may well be a variant of Mary, the mother of Je-
sus. God is turned into cock in such phrases as By Cocke (Ham 4.5.61 in a song
sung by Ophelia), Cockes passion, (TS 4.1.105, spoken by Grumio), and By
cocke and pie, (MW 1.1.283, spoken by Mr Page), the last being possibly a cor-
ruption of God and the service book of the Catholic Church. Some commen-
tators think it may be literally a cock and pie, though given the frequency of
the corruption of God to Cock, most listeners would think there was more to
this oath than a simple culinary meaning. Jesus is corrupted to Gis in Ophelia’s
song, where it appears as By gis, (Ham 4.5.58). The name of the deity is often
reduced to the possessive singular inflection, represented by initial (s) or (z)
in such forms as sblood ‘God’s Blood’, swounds ‘God’s wounds’, which occur
frequently in the quartos, but which after the blasphemy laws of James I were
often replaced in F by anodyne expressions like heavens or mercy.
There are several phrasal verbs in quotation (5): stand to, take down, stand
by, be out and enquire out. In Modern English phrasal verbs such as to sit
in start life as colloquialisms, though many end up being accepted into the
standard language. The same may apply to Elizabethan English, and some
individual forms which were established by Shakespeare’s time had probably
been accepted into formal language. However, others like stand to and take
down have a secondary, sexual sense and presumably remained informal. A
phrasal verb like stand by has two non-sexual meanings, namely ‘to support,
assist’ and ‘to stand aside as an unconcerned spectator’, both of which could
be invoked here. The status of these phrasal verbs is unclear, but their frequent
use in this type of conversation suggests that the majority were informal.
Insults are another source of informal language, though there are none
in quotation (5). They fall into certain patterns, of which the most common
is the pronoun thou, which expresses contempt or anger, followed by one or
more adjectives which may not in themselves be informal but are made so
by their occurrence in this context, and finally one or more nouns, many of
which may well be rare and belong to the vocabulary of insults. Thus Macbeth
addresses the Messenger who brings news of the English advance against
Dunsinane as thou cream-fac’d Loone: (Mac 5.3.11). As it happens neither
cream-fac’d nor Loone, ‘fellow, wretch’, is found elsewhere in Shakespeare.
Though Loone is colloquial and probably always derogatory (OED “Loon” 1),
cream-fac’d ‘pale, wan’ is a form that one could imagine occurring in neutral or
rhetorical contexts, for pale-faced and white-faced do not have such unfavour-
able connotations. Macbeth also addresses the Messenger as Thou Lilly-liuer’d
Boy. (Mac 5.3.17), though boy is not so derogatory as loon. Another form of
insult is employed by Macbeth in the same scene, for he calls the Messenger a
number of names, consisting either of a simple or compound noun: Patch and
Whay-face (Mac 5.3.17, 19), the latter taking up the sense of cowardice found
in cream-fac’d and Lilly-liuer’d, but the former being a derogatory noun used
several times as an insult in Shakespeare.
Words with sexual implications in quotation (5) are varied in Q1: toole
for weapon, and member for part, though they have the same overtones (Wil-
liams 1997:205, 229, 310, 334). The problem is knowing where to draw the
line in seeing a submerged sexual sense. Double-dealing, recorded in the Ox-
ford English Dictionary from 1529 as a noun and 1587 as an adjective, lies
behind the expression deal double, the first quotation under OED “Double B”
adv. 3. The verb deal has the sense ‘to have sexual intercourse’ (OED “Deal” v.
11b) from 1340 to 1662, which may be implied by the use of the phrase deal
double rather than the less explicit double-dealing. If the noun dealing had as-
sumed a sexual significance from the verb, it could colour our understanding
24 Norman F. Blake
of weak. Some editors accept that Shakespeare wrote wicked instead of weak;
but if dealing has a sexual implication, then weak may be right, for only ‘to
deal double’ might in the Nurse’s view be no more than ‘weak dealing’. If so,
this raises the question how to understand ill thing, which may have the sense
‘wicked matter’, but could also be implying ‘penis’. After all, thing is used by
Shakespeare to suggest someone or something contemptible, O thou Thing,
(WT 2.1.84). The problem of how much of this passage contains sexual in-
nuendo and how many of its words should be included in the category of
informal English may never be resolved.
At the more elevated level of English there are words which may have
been current among certain types of people and which Shakespeare used
ironically to suggest characters who were social climbers with pretensions.
When the Hostess addresses her husband Pistol as ‘Prythee honey sweet Hus-
band, let me bring thee to Staines. (H5 2.3.1–2), she is trying, with the phrase
honey sweet, to ape the language of her betters. Poins reverses the expression
in addressing Prince Hal as my good sweet Hony Lord, (1H4 1.2.158), another
example of a speaker overreaching himself. However, when Helen in Troilus
and Cressida addresses Pandarus as My Lord Pandarus, hony sweete Lord. (TC
3.1.64), it is to suggest that Pandarus uses this type of expression too often in
his conversation, which indeed he does later in the scene addressing Helen as
hony sweete Queene: (TC 3.1.138). It may be difficult to decide in many cases
whether this type of language should be classified as informal, for it is making
fun of the inflated language of gentility.
Other words occur in contexts which are insulting or potentially so. For
example, alias never occurs in a legal, but only in a derogatory context; how-
ever, whenever it occurs, its meaning is ‘otherwise known as’. Lavatch in All’s
Well That Ends Well can say The blacke prince sir, alias the prince of darkenesse,
alias the diuell. (AW 4.5.42–43), and Menenius in Coriolanus can say a brace
of vnmeriting proud, violent, testie Magistrates (alias Fooles) (Cor 2.1.42–44).
Latinate words are used by characters who try to impress, though there is
nothing in the words to indicate they are informal. In such cases, it may be
the general attitude to excessive borrowing which was under attack. For ex-
ample, Pistol, Polonius and various clowns use perpend in the sense ‘pay heed
to, consider’. Thus Pistol says perpend my words O Signieur Dewe, (H5 4.4.8)
to the French soldier he has captured; Polonius says to the king and queen:
Thus it remaines, and the remainder thus. Perpend, (Ham 2.2.105–106); and
Touchstone when addressing Corin in As You Like It says: learne of the wise
and perpend: (3.2.64–65). All are situations where the speaker is trying to
impress the addressee, and we may assume that perpend was associated with
pomposity.
These examples raise the question of the status of foreign words.
I suggested earlier in reference to Corinthian that foreign words were not
borrowed as part of the informal vocabulary, but some do end up as part of

that vocabulary. There are several ways in which this could happen. Because
foreign words and morphemes are often considered affected and ridiculous by
speakers of a language, the corruption of a word by adding a foreign morpheme
to it may lead to its isolation from the rest of the context. In Modern English
the addition of final (-a) is designed to add humour by suggesting words are
Italianate, as in the old advertisement Drinka pinta milka day. This is found
in Shakespeare in older songs, but whether the morpheme was introduced
for the same reason is less certain. In Q2 the Gravedigger in Hamlet sings
O me thought there a was nothing a meet. (5.1.64). Moustache is a French loan
in English, but when it is given the form mustachio, which is either Spanish
or Italian, it is humorous and is used only by characters who are extrava-
gant in their language. Gadshill uses it as part of a derogatory expression
(these mad Mustachio-purple-hu’d-Malt-wormes 1H4 2.1.74–75) and Armado
as part of his attempt to enrich his language: with his royall finger thus dal-
lie with my excrement, with my mustachio: (LL 5.1.98–99). The malapropisms
noted earlier involve foreign, usually Latinate, words and fulfil much the same
function. Some words are given an apparently English form, but retain their
foreign look, as with Sir Toby’s he’s a Rogue, and a passy measures panyn: (TN
5.1.198), where passy measures is a corruption of Italian passamezzo. In other
cases a foreign word is introduced into English by a member of the upper
class to create an affectionate, but quizzical, tone or simply to create confu-
sion. Lady Hotspur addresses her husband Come, come, you Paraquito, (1H4
2.4.83), whereas Hamlet answers Ophelia’s request for an interpretation of
the dumb-show prologue to the play within a play with: Marry this is Miching
Malicho, that meanes Mischeefe. (Ham 3.2.131–132), which may well be de-
signed to confuse her. The origin of Malicho (the quartos spell it Mallico) is
uncertain, though it is usually understood as a form of Spanish malhecho, the
form adopted in some editions. Otherwise, foreign words are mostly used
by braggarts like Pistol and Armado who want to boast or by pedants like
Holofernes who wish to impress others with their learning and sophisti-
cation. The former use words from modern European languages, as Sly does
with Paucas pallabris, (TS Ind.1 5, a corruption of Spanish) and Sir Toby does
with Cubiculo: (TN 3.2.50), but the latter words from the classical languages.
However, the influence of foreign languages goes deeper than that, for some
morphemes may have become anglicised, as is true of the Dutch diminutive
-kin, which is used to create a suggestion of affectionate familiarity. This is
found in Fabian’s This is a deere Manakin to you (TN 3.2.51) and by Edgar as
Mad Tom in for one blast of thy minikin mouth, (HL sc.13.39).
Reduplicating forms are traditionally regarded as informal, though some
do appear in more formal writings and to that extent are like phrasal verbs
which are also gradually accepted into the standard language. Thus hurly burly
26 Norman F. Blake
is used by the witches in the sense ‘battle, tumult’: When the Hurley-burley’s
done, (Mac 1.1.3), and in this sense it was used by historians and others at
the time. Henry IV uses it to Worcester, one of the rebels, as an adjective in:
Of hurly-burly Innouation: (1H4 5.1.78), referring to ‘warlike insurrection’,
though doubtless using hurly-burly deliberately (because of its informal
nature) to get across his displeasure and sense of outrage. Other forms of
this type are simply informal: hugger mugger ‘secretly’ (Ham 4.5.82), kickie
wickie (AW 2.3.277), otherwise unknown but assumed to be a humorous
term for ‘mistress’ and later Folios have kicksie wicksie, and Pell, mell, ‘in a
confused melee’ (LL 4.3.344). One might include in this group linsie wolsy
(‘nonsense, hodge podge of words’ AW 4.1.11). The reduplication may be
expressed as two words, as in Evan’s pribbles and prabbles, ‘useless chat’
(MW 1.1.50). Other pairs like this include flout ’em, and cout ’ em: (Tem
3.2.123, in a song), snip, and nip, (TS 4.3.90) slish and slash, (TS 4.3.90), he
scotcht him, and notcht him (Cor 4.5.191–192), to say nothing of the Prouer-
bes, and the No-verbes. (MW 3.1.96), and Cesar, Keiser and Pheazar (MW
1.3.9). Many of these forms are said by lower-class characters, but by no
means all of them. Some of these words on their own are part of ordinary
vocabulary, and it is only when they are paired in this way that they become
informal. Others are invented words for the occasion, like No-verbes and
Pheazar.
The authenticity of a word like prenzie, in the phrases The prenzie, Ange-
lo? (MM 3.1.92) and In prenzie gardes; (MM 3.1.95), is questioned by OED
“Prenzie” and by some editors (Bawcutt 1991:234), though no satisfactory
emendation is found (Wells & Taylor 1988:802 emend to precise). Its mean-
ing appears to be something like ‘prim, precise’ and its context suggests a
derogatory word, even possibly an insult, for in the first example it is used by
Claudio who has been condemned to death by Angelo and in the second by
his sister Isabella, who uses it in association with the cunning Liuerie of hell and
presumably picked it up from him. It is not unexpected that such informal
words may not appear elsewhere and we may accept the word as genuine,
even though we do not know its precise meaning. Other words are of uncer-
tain origin, although they occur more frequently. Old Capulet dismisses Ty-
balt, who shows signs of disobedience with you are a Princox, goe, (RJ 1.5.85).
This word, meaning ‘disobedient fellow’, is a hapax legomenon in Shakespeare,
but is found occasionally in English, spelt either in -cox or -cock, from 1540
(OED “Princock, -cox”).
While it is impossible to cover all aspects of Shakespeare’s informal
English in this article, I have tried to show the interest that exists in compil-
ing a dictionary of this sort and to illustrate some of the difficulties that lie in
wait for those trying to tackle this area of lexicography.
No t e s
* This article is based on a shorter paper delivered at a conference of the
Dictionary Society of North America held at the University of Michigan, Ann
Arbor, on 6-10 May 2001. I am indebted to the participants, especially Professor
Eric Stanley, for their comments and suggestions made after my talk.
1. The Sonnets are quoted from Booth 1977, the plays from the First Folio
(Hinman and Blayney 1996) unless a quarto text is specified (Allen and Muir 1981,
where available, or other facsimiles). However, line references are to Wells and
Taylor 1988.
2. The following abbreviations of Shakespeare’s works are used: Antony and
Cleopatra AC; As You Like It AY; All’s Well That Ends Well AW; Coriolanus Cor;
Cymbeline Cym; Hamlet Ham; Henry IV Parts I and II 1H4/2H4; Henry V H5; Henry
VI Parts II and III 2H6/3H6; The History of King Lear (Q ) HL; The Tragedy of King
Lear (F) KL; Love’s Labour’s Lost LL; Much Ado About Nothing MA; Macbeth Mac;
Measure for Measure MM; A Midsummer Night’s Dream MN; The Merry Wives of
Windsor MW; Othello Oth; Richard II and III R2/R3; Romeo and Juliet RJ; Troilus
and Cressida TC; The Tempest Tem; Twelfth Night TN; The Taming of the Shrew TS;
The Winter’s Tale WT.
Wor k s Ci t e d
Allen, Michael J. B., and Kenneth Muir. 1981. Shakespeare’s Plays in Quarto. A Facsimile
Edition. Berkeley, Los Angeles, London: University of California Press.
Bawcutt, Nigel W. 1991. Measure for Measure. The Oxford Shakespeare. Oxford. Oxford
University Press.
Blake, Norman F. 1979. “Astromye” in “The Miller’s Tale”. Notes and Queries 224: 110–111.
——— . 1981. Non-standard Language in English Literature. London: Deutsch.
——— . 1986. Jonathon Swift, and the English language. Englisch Amerikanische Studien 8:
105–119.
——— . 1989. Standardizing Shakespeare’s non-standard language. In: Joseph B. Trahern Jr.
(ed.). Standardizing English: Essays in the History of Language Change in Honor of John
Hurt Fisher. Tennessee Studies in Literature 31. Knoxville: University of Tennessee
Press, 57–81.
——— . 1992. Why and what in Shakespeare. In: Toshiyuki Takamiya and Richard Beadle
(eds.). Chaucer to Shakespeare: Essays in Honour of Shinsuke Ando. Cambridge: Brewer,
179–193.
——— . 2000. Excellent in Shakespeare. In: Dieter Kastovsky and Arthur Mellinger (eds.).
The History of English in a Social Context: A Contribution to Historical Sociolinguistics.
(Trends in Linguistic Studies and Monographs 129). Berlin and New York: Mouton
de Gruyter, 1–23.
Booth, Stephen. 1977. Shakespeare’s Sonnets Edited with Analytic Commentary. New Haven:
Yale University Press.
Dent, R.W. 1981. Shakespeare’s Proverbial Language: An Index. Berkeley, Los Angeles,
London: University of California Press.
Edelman, Charles. 2000. Shakespeare’s Military Language; A Dictionary. London, New
Brunswick, NJ: Athlone.
Gaskell, Phillip. 1978. From Writer to Reader: Studies in Editorial Method, Oxford. Clarendon
Press.
28 Norman F. Blake
Green, Jonathon. 1998. Cassell’s Dictionary of Slang. London: Cassell.

Hattaway, Michael. 2000. As You Like It. The New Cambridge Shakespeare. Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press.
Hinman, Charlton, and Peter W. M. Blayney. 1996. The First Folio of Shakespeare. The
Norton Facsimile. 2nd edn. New York and London: W. W. Norton.
Honigmann, Ernst A. J. 1997. Othello. The Arden Shakespeare 3rd series. Walton-on-
Thames: Thomas Nelson.
Levenson, Jill L. 2000. Romeo and Juliet (The Oxford Shakespeare). Oxford: Oxford
University Press.
Rubinstein, Frankie. 1984. A Dictionary of Shakespeare’s Sexual Puns and their Significance.
London, Basingstoke: Macmillan.
Schäfer, Jürgen. 1980. Documentation in the O.E.D.: Shakespeare and Nashe as Test Cases.
Oxford: Clarendon Press.
Sokol, B. J. and Mary Sokol. 2000. Shakespeare’s Legal Language: A Dictionary. London, New
Brunswick, NJ: Athlone.
Spevack, Marvin. 1993. A Shakespeare Thesaurus. Hildesheim, Zürich, New York: Georg
Olms.
Tilley, Morris P. 1950. A Dictionary of Proverbs in England in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth
Centuries. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press.
Wills, Stanley, and Gary Taylor (gen. eds.). 1988. William Shakespeare, The Complete Works,
Compact Edition. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
Williams, Gordon. 1997. A Glossary of Shakespeare’s Sexual Language. London and Atlantic
Highlands, NJ: Athlone.
T anya P ollard
“A Thing Like Death”:

Sleeping Potions and Poisons in
Romeo and Juliet and Antony and Cleopatra
R omeo and Juliet and Antony and Cleopatra abound in references to

potions, both soporific and poisonous. These ambivalent drugs suspend
the plays uneasily between competing plot trajectories, calling attention
to other rifts and tensions. As Shakespeare’s only double tragedies and,
along with Othello, his only ventures into the Italianate “tragedy of love,”
the plays represent a hybrid genre intrinsically divided between the domain
of tragedy (death) and that of comedy (erotic desire).1 Both plays, accord-
ingly, toy with genres, veering sharply between almost slapstick comedy
and unsettling tragic intensity.2 Although critics have noticed the generic
ambivalence that characterizes these plays, its significance has not received
much discussion, perhaps in part due to lack of attention to the curious
potions that correspond to the plays’ many oppositions. In the context of
early modern pharmacy, the narcotic soporific drink, with its ambiguous
position between medicine and poison, reflects and comments on the plays’
uncertain generic status. If the promise of ease, pleasure, and reawakening
links sleeping potions with the realm of comedy, their implicit threat of
death evokes the specter of tragedy as well. While the nature of potions is
uncertain for much of these plays, their final casting as poisons upholds the
plays’ generic status as tragedy, and yet it suggests that the poison of tragedy
may be, in its own paradoxical way, medicinal.
Renaissance Drama, Volume 32 (2003): pp. 95–121. Copyright © 2003 Northwestern

University Press.
29
30 Tanya Pollard
The juxtaposition of narcotic potions and generic oscillation in the two

plays also raises larger questions about the significance of these potions and
their relationships to the plays in which they appear. As Derrida has observed,
the disturbingly uncertain nature of drugs has offered a vocabulary for the
ambiguous status of language and literature at least since Plato’s time.3 In his
notorious attack on poetry in The Republic, Plato refers to literature as a phar-
makon, a dangerous blend of poison and remedy. Aristotle turned a similar
vocabulary toward a different end, arguing that plays could have a medicinal
value by bringing about a katharsis, or purgation, of the emotions they elicit.
In early modern England, writers echoed and varied this debate by drawing
on the language of pharmacy to describe the effects of theater on spectators.
Disapproving moralists referred to plays as “charmed drinkes, & amorous
potions,”4 “vigorous venome,” and “Soule-devouring poyson.”5 Supporters,
meanwhile, described playwrights as “good Phisitions” and mulled over the
various effects of theatrical “potions.”6 In the context of these literary attacks
and defenses, what does it mean for Shakespeare to juxtapose narcotic and
poisonous drugs and align them with generic oscillations? And further, why,
after experimenting with this juxtaposition in an early play, repeat it late in
his career? Shakespeare’s treatment of ambiguous potions and their relation-
ship to the world of the play in Romeo and Juliet and Antony and Cleopatra
offers insights into their meaning in his theatrical vocabulary.
***
The device of the sleeping potion in Romeo and Juliet occupies a crucial
intersection between the play’s twin poles of desire and death and, similarly,
between its warring genres of comedy and tragedy.7 While many critics
see Mercutio’s death as the dividing point between the play’s comic begin-
ning and tragic ending, early foreshadowing and ongoing elements of farce
suggest that the play’s generic fortunes stay intertwined much longer. The
sleeping potion and, by association, the imaginative realm of sleep and
dreams temporarily suspend the play’s identity, holding out the possibility of
a return to comedy by offering the lovers the means to escape a tragic end-
ing. The foreclosure of this possibility, and accordingly the play’s resolution
into a tragedy, does not become final until the intermediate mode of the
sleeping potion is replaced by Romeo’s actual poison.
From the outset, the romantic love that is the focus of the play is directly
associated with poison. In an attempt to divert Romeo from his unrequited
yearning for Rosaline, Benvolio counsels,
Tut, man, one fire burns out another’s burning;

One pain is lessn’d by another’s anguish;
Turn giddy, and be holp by backward turning.
“A Thing Like Death”: Sleeping Potions and Poisons 31
One desperate grief cures with another’s languish;

Take thou some new infection to thy eye,
And the rank poison of the old will die.
(1.2.45–50)8
Even before Juliet has entered the play, her imminent appearance in Romeo’s
life is identified with the effect of a poison, albeit a curative one. Despite
the comic case and apparently pragmatic intentions of Benvolio’s advice,
the solution he offers has a distinctly negative ring. His easy symmetries
and correspondingly neat rhymes suggest that his cure will only replace one
“anguish” and “desperate grief ” with another: Juliet, this model implies, will
ultimately cause as much pain as does Rosaline.
The dark undertones of the poisonous love cure proposed by Benvolio
are echoed in Friar Lawrence’s meditations on the powers and perils of me-
dicinal herbs. Musing over the “baleful weeds and precious-juiced flowers” he
collects (2.3.4), the Friar considers the double-edged potential of his plants:
Within the infant rind of this weak flower

Poison hath residence, and medicine power:
For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part;
Being tasted, stays all senses with the heart
Two such opposed kings encamp them still
In man as well as herbs: grace and rude will;
And where the worser is predominant
Full soon the canker death eats up that plant.
(2.3.19–26)
In explicating how herbal concoctions contain the potential for both poison
and medicine, the Friar can be seen as unwittingly describing the play itself,
or the erotic passion that the play dramatizes. The flower’s “infant rind”
evokes the extreme youth associated with the lovers; Shakespeare point-
edly makes Juliet even younger than the already young girl of his source,
and both of the protagonists are portrayed as distinctly adolescent, still
tended and controlled by their parents.9 The Friar’s emphasis on the tension
between the two “opposed kings,” similarly, calls to mind the feud that lies at
the core of the play. His reduction of the conflict, however, to an opposition
between grace and “rude will,” or lust, offers too simple an understanding
of passion, one at odds with the portrait offered by the play itself. By dif-
ferentiating between the scent, which cures, and the taste, which kills, the
Friar suggests that the primary distinction between cordial and poison
is one of degree: love may be broached, but not consumed. Although his
identification of desire with the triumph of “the canker death” accurately
32 Tanya Pollard
foreshadows the play’s ending, his moralistic condemnation of passion runs

counter to the play, both in the jubilant celebrations of love endorsed by its
comic moments and in the dignity ultimately bestowed on the lovers in the
tragic close.
Beyond its relevance within the world of the play, the Friar’s meditation
on the proximity of medicine and poison would have resonated with broader
contemporary concerns. In Shakespeare’s time, as now, the line between med-
icine and poison was a fine one, largely defined by degree: as the physician
Paracelsus (1493–1541) famously asserted, “Poison is in everything, and no
thing is without poison. The dosage makes it either a poison or a remedy.”10
This ambiguous potential was particularly unsettling in the rapidly chang-
ing and controversy-ridden state of contemporary medical opinion, in which
consensus regarding the correct contents, preparation, and dosage of remedies
was hard to come by.11 New diseases and medicines from the New World
and new translations of classical medical writings threatened the already
tenuous stability of medical knowledge. Most significantly, the widespread
impact of Paracelsus and the rapidly growing use of chemical medicine in the
sixteenth century posed a severe challenge to the medical establishment.12
Drawing on highly toxic chemicals such as mercury and arsenic, as well as
many of the magically inflected remedies of the folk tradition, Paracelsus
advocated a homeopathic doctrine of treating like with like, or poisons with
poisons, directly contradicting the accepted Galenic model of curing through
contraries, using herbal purgatives and expulsives to cleanse the body of its
excessive humors. The emergence of increasingly potent drugs into the
medical marketplace, combined with shrill accusations of pharmaceutical
poisonings from each side, heightened consumers’ fears about the reliability
of medicines of any sort.
The Friar’s speech on poison and medicine draws on contemporary fears
of uncertain medicines, implicitly highlighting the precariousness of Romeo’s
position. Framed between Romeo’s unseen entrance and his interruption to
announce his love for Juliet and his request to be wed, the speech implicitly
associates the lovers’ fate with the equivocal effects of medicinal herbs. Ro-
meo echoes this vocabulary in his plea for the Friar’s support of his marriage:
“Both our remedies,” he tells the Friar, “Within thy help and holy physic lie”
(2.3.47–48). Unfortunately, as the Friar’s musings have just shown, the “rem-
edies” of his “holy physic” are distinctly risky. Not only are his professional
judgment and authority shown to be questionable, casting doubt on his fit-
ness to diagnose and cure the problems of the play, but his ingredients are in
themselves profoundly ambivalent, as capable of killing as of curing.
The overlay of pharmacy, desire, and death in the Friar’s speech is echoed
in the following act, when he and his holy physic are called upon for another
remedy: this time to the lovers’ enforced separation after Romeo’s banishment
for Tybalt’s death. In its presentation of one lover’s apparent death and the
other’s readiness to die in response, this curious middle act provides an odd,
almost farcical, foreshadowing of the play’s ending; it also offers a comic al-
ternative to such an ending. After Romeo’s duel with Tybalt, Juliet’s query
for news of her love elicts a characteristically confused and frantic exclama-
tion from her nurse: “he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead! / We are undone, lady,
we are undone. / Alack the day, he’s gone, he’s kill’d, he’s dead” (3.2.37–39).
Despite the conventional understanding that the play becomes a tragedy after
Mercutio’s death, the nurse’s breathless and repetitive hysteria, framed by the
audience’s comfortable knowledge that Romeo is alive, makes this scene a
comic parody of a death announcement.13 Following immediately upon the
poetry of Juliet’s erotic epithalamium, the nurse’s misinformation introduces
anxiety but fails to undermine the elated freedom of the lovers’ comic world.
The woefully underinformed Juliet, however, responds to Romeo’s hypo-
thetical death by taking it as a figurative poison:
Hath Romeo slain himself? Say thou but “Ay”

And that bare vowel “I” shall poison more
Than the death-darting eye of cockatrice.
(3.2.45–47)
As long as Romeo’s death remains in the realm of language—and uncertain

language at that—Juliet’s poisons remain limited to language as well. The
wounding power of the letter “I” goes deep, however, evoking the play’s
broader concerns with the vulnerability of the eye—and, correspondingly,
the “I,” or subject—to the darts of love. The letter’s poisons prove powerful;
in response to the nurse’s confirming chorus of “I’s”,14 Juliet immediately
leaps to proclamations of suicide: “Vile earth to earth resign, end motion
here, / And thou and Romeo press one heavy bier” (3.2.59–60). Even when
it becomes clear that Romeo is still alive, news of his banishment and her
wedding to Paris is enough to inspire doom: “I’ll to the Friar to know his
remedy. / If all else fail, myself have power to die” (3.5.241–242). The Friar’s
remedy is presented as an alternative, and perhaps an uneasy twin, to death.
Once again, both the lovers’ remedies lie within the Friar’s help and holy
physic; Juliet’s figurative poisons hover uneasily between the threat of liter-
alization and the promise of being replaced with medicinal cures.
Juliet echoes the association between remedy and death when she con-
fronts the Friar himself. “If in thy wisdom thou canst give no help, / Do
thou but call my resolution wise, / And with this knife I’ll help it present-
ly” (4.1.52–54). “I long to die,” she repeats shortly, “If what thou speak’st
speak not of remedy” (4.1.66–67). In introducing the sleeping potion, Friar
34 Tanya Pollard
Lawrence, like Juliet, links it with death. If she has the strength of will to kill
herself, he suggests,
Then is it likely thou wilt undertake

A thing like death to chide away this shame,
That cop’st with death himself to scape from it.
And, if thou dar’st, I’ll give thee remedy.
(4.1.73–76)
As a “thing like death,” the potion—or the comatose state it will induce—is
intended to divert Juliet from “death himself,” functioning as an apotropaic
remedy.15 But the likeness is so persuasive that the distinction becomes
uncomfortably blurred. Even Juliet questions the drug’s reliability, wonder-
ing, “What if it be a poison, which the Friar / Subtly hath minister’d to have
me dead . . . ?” (4.3.24–25). This threat becomes a certainty to her audience
the following morning: unable to wake her, the nurse cries hysterically:
“Lady! Lady! Lady! / Alas, alas! Help, help! My lady’s dead!”; and, “She’s
dead, deceas’d! She’s dead! Alack the day!” (4.5.13–14, 23).
While the nurse’s grief is sincere—and the audience, in fact, cannot be
sure that she is mistaken in believing Juliet dead—the echoes of farce in her
frenzied interjections remind us that the idea of the contrived false death as
a plot device is typically a motif of comedy, or tragicomedy.16 Typically, the
eventual discovery that the death is not real provides renewed grounds for
festive celebration; Juliet’s temporary belief in Romeo’s death, shortly fol-
lowed by both the discovery that he was alive and the consummation of the
lovers’ marriage, partly fits this model. With the advent of the sleeping po-
tion, however, the generic rules change: the nurse’s wails are simultaneously
wrongheaded and prophetic, and our laughter is uneasy. While false deaths
in comedy tend to be constructed of rumor only, Juliet’s is built of the more
binding force of chemical intervention, a more dangerous realm for experi-
mentation. The nurse’s mistaken assumption will become true: Juliet’s am-
biguous potion ultimately, if indirectly, proves fatal.
Juliet’s sleep has an uneasy dramatic status: as a likeness or imitation of
death, it looks ahead to the tragedy of the play’s ending, yet as an apotropaic
substitute for actual death, it suggests the prototypically comic possibility of
young lovers’ triumph over adversity. In the first half of the play, sleep is as-
sociated with the carefree world of comedy. The Friar explicitly identifies it
with the comforts of youth: “But where unbruised youth with unstuff ’d brain
/ Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign” (2.3.33–34). Similarly,
Romeo associates sleep with serenity and ease. “Sleep dwell upon thine eyes,
peace in thy breast,” he calls to the departing Juliet, “Would I were sleep and
peace so sweet to rest” (2.2.186–187).
Juliet’s artificial sleep, the pivot of the play’s action, becomes the occa-
sion for her own private theater. “My dismal scene I needs must act alone,”
she comments before drinking the Friar’s potion (4.3.19). On the threshold of
sleep, she is assailed by waking dreams, or nightmares, of its consequences:
Alack, alack! Is it not like that I

So early waking, what with loathsome smells
And shrieks like mandrakes torn out of the earth,
That living mortals, hearing them, run mad. . . ?
(4.3.45–48)
Juliet’s terror of the uncertain state which she will be entering leads her
aptly to thoughts of mandrakes. A source of much fascination in the Renais-
sance, the mandrake, like Friar Lawrence’s herbs, was understood to be both
poisonous and medicinal.17 As a medicine, it was attributed soporific and
aphrodisiac powers, linking it with Juliet’s sleeping potion as well as with
the love that necessitates it.18 As the name suggests, mandrakes were also
considered quasi-human: popular lore held that the plant sprung from the
seed of a hanged man, and that when the root was dug up, it would emit
screams that would kill or madden anyone within hearing distancc.19 Simul-
taneously animate and inanimate, fertile and fatal, medicine and poison, the
mandrake that haunts Juliet’s imagination on the verge of her sleep suggests
the suspended play of oppositions that her artificial sleep embodies.
Just as Romeo’s false death is succeeded by Juliet’s false death, Juliet’s
nightmarish intimations are followed by Romeo’s dream of his own death. “If
I may trust the flattering truth of sleep,” Romeo rather inauspiciously opens
the final act,
My dreams presage some joyful news at hand.

My bosom’s lord sits lightly in his throne
And all this day an unaccustom’d spirit
Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.
I dreamt my lady came and found me dead—
Strange dream that gives a dead man leave to think!—
And breath’d such life with kisses in my lips
That I reviv’d and was an emperor.
Ah me, how sweet is love itself possess’d
When but love’s shadows are so rich in joy.
(5.1.1–11)
Romeo’s naive faith in “the flattering truth of sleep” continues his belief,
expressed earlier to Mercutio, in a dream as a negative omen.20 This second
36 Tanya Pollard
dream marks a curious half-truth; as Marjorie Garber points out, it is true

that he will die and that Juliet will kiss him, although unfortunately he will
not revive nor become an emperor.21 Romeo’s dream, like those Mercutio
attributes to Queen Mab, seems to represent a wish rather than a true pre-
diction. Just as Juliet’s sleep is arranged to evade the catastrophe of having
to marry Paris, so Romeo’s sleep offers an escape from the doom he has
envisioned, replacing the tragic ending of death with the comic ending of
an erotic consummation.
Both of the lovers’ sleeps, however, are only temporary; far from fulfill-
ing the positive transformation they promise, they eventually bring about that
which they sought to avert. Juliet’s artificial death leads to its actuality. News
of her death reaches Romeo through an unwittingly accurate euphemism:
“Her body sleeps in Capels’ monument” (5.1.18). In response, Romeo vows
to enter the same figurative sleep, cast in erotic terms: “Well, Juliet, I will lie
with thee tonight. / Let’s see for means” (5.1.34–35). While the false report
of Romeo’s death led to figurative and false poisons, and eventually to Juliet’s
false death, Juliet’s more persuasive counterfeit of death leads to real poisons
and Romeo’s real death, which will itself be reflected back in her own actual
death. Dangerous potions here become the middle term in a mimetic tri-
angle: pretense inspires the accessories that bring greater authenticity to the
next imitation.
The poisons Juliet invokes upon believing Romeo dead, as well as the
pseudopoisons of her sleeping potion, become literal when Romeo believes
her dead. Romeo’s encounter with the apothecary parallels Juliet’s visit to
Friar Lawrence, but at an even higher pitch of desperation. Unlike the Friar,
who volunteers his drugs, the apothecary sells his poisons under pressure and
against his will, and whereas Juliet sought a temporary solution for temporal
problems—exile, imposed marriage—Romeo seeks a final remedy for an ap-
parently permanent ending:
Let me have
A dram of poison, such soon-speeding gear
As will disperse itself through all the veins,
That the life-weary taker may fall dead,
And that the trunk may be discharg’d of breath
As violently as hasty powder fir’d
Doth hurry from the fatal cannon’s womb.
(5.1.59–65)
Romeo’s odd assimilation of poison to gunpowder conveys an eroticized

urgency, likening death to an explosive sexual consummation. The figure
closely recalls the Friar’s early concern over the intensity of the lovers’
infatuation: “These violent delights have violent ends / And in their triumph
die, like fire and powder, / Which as they kiss consume” (2.6.9–11). In
evoking this earlier reference, Romeo’s words appropriate the scale and force
of a cannon for his own humbler means of death; they also serve to identify
his suicidal frenzy with the passion that spawned it.
Romeo explicitly links death with marriage in his suicide, which he casts
as a reunion with Juliet. “Here’s to my love,” he cries before drinking his
poison; “O true apothecary, / Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die”
(5.3.119–120). As M. M. Mahood notes, these final lines embody their own
paradox; the apothecary’s drugs are “quick” in the sense both of speedy and of
life-giving, in that they return him to Juliet.22 Moments later a horrified Juliet
echoes him both in action and in words:
What’s here? A cup clos’d in my true love’s hand?

Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end.
O churl. Drunk all, and left no friendly drop
To help me after? I will kiss thy lips.
Haply some poison yet doth hang on them
To make me die with a restorative.
(5.3.161–166) 23
Like Romeo’s “quick” drugs, Juliet’s hope to “die with a restorative” high-
lights the paradoxical status of poisons and pseudopoisons throughout the
play. The Friar’s mock poison is intended as a kind of love potion. Ultimate-
ly, though, it robs her of her love by bringing about his suicide. Similarly, the
apothecary’s real poison purports to offer Romeo a reunion with his wife in
death but prevents him from a reunion while still living.
After an uneasy rivalry between tragedy and farce for the soul of the play,
tragedy suddenly, and rather surprisingly, wins, recalling the warning with
which the Chorus opened the play. Yet despite, or perhaps because of, this ge-
neric resolution, these ultimately poisonous potions confer on the lovers what
seemed out of their reach when alive: their star-crossed and convention-laden
love acquires dignity, pathos, and immortality, even acknowledgment from
their embattled parents. Poison is Romeo’s “timeless end” not only because (as
editors tend to gloss the term) it is untimely, cutting him off unexpectedly in
youth, but also because the ending it gives him places him outside and above
time, into the space of legend.
***
Although Romeo and Juliet may offer the most famous dramatization of the
confusion of narcotic with poison and of artificially induced sleep with death,
the device recurs throughout contemporaneous plays. Barabas, in Marlowe’s
38 Tanya Pollard
Jew of Malta, recounts employing such a potion to escape notice, and punish-
ment: “I drank poppy and cold mandrake juice; /And being asleep, belike
they thought me dead” (5.1.81–82). Similarly, the queen in Shakespeare’s
Cymbeline is foiled in her attempt to poison Imogen when it turns out that her
doctor substituted a sleeping potion for a poison. In Edward Sharpham’s The
Fleire, the Knight’s attempt to poison Sparke and Ruffel is later revealed as
unsuccessful when they awaken; in John Day’s Law Tricks, the Counts Lurdo
and Horatio are surprised when Lurdo’s wife reappears to confront them
after apparently having been poisoned by them; and Don John in Dekker’s
Match Me in London is similarly confronted with Don Valasco’s survival of
his poisoning. Throughout these generically unstable plays, as in Romeo and
Juliet, the sleeping potion becomes a pivot on which the play’s ambiguity
turns: it suspends the plot, holding out the simultaneous possibilities of death
and rebirth. The recurrence of the motif suggests that narcotics held a special
appeal and metatheatrical significance for the drama: the sleep they induce
parallels the suspension of time and identity produced by plays themselves.
Playwrights’ interest in the ambivalent pleasures of sleeping potions was
informed by radical shifts in early modern pharmacy. Epidemics of plague
and syphilis, combined with escalating interest in the chemical medicine of
Paracelsus and other Continental scientists, led to a surge in the use of pow-
erful, though often toxic, remedies. Medical accounts of the seductive overlay
of pleasure and danger associated with soporific drugs, in particular, offered
a compelling vocabulary for a theatrical establishment fascinated by this jux-
taposition, especially in light of similar characterizations of the theater itself.
Describing the increased use of opium during the plague, for example, Dr.
Eleazer Dunk wrote in 1606 that the drug “was very acceptable to patients
for a while, for it stayed the violent flowing of the humors, it procured present
sleepe, and mitigated paine.”24 Yet its ultimate effect, he claimed, was death:
“a great number had their lives cut off; some died sleeping, being stupied
with that poisoned medicine.”25 Dunk’s dismay toward the growing popular-
ity of an often fatal drug was echoed throughout the medical community,
which drew on opium’s dangers to emphasize a line of continuity between
sleep and death. Bulleins Bulwarke of Defence (1579) claims of poppy that “it
causeth deepe deadly sleapes.”26 Similarly, in 1580 the physician Timothy
Bright warned that opium must be taken in very small doses, “least it cast the
patient into such a sleepe, as hee needeth the trumpet of the Archangell to
awake him.”27 Philip Barrough echoed, in 1596, that with these drugs, “you
may cause him to sleepe so, that you can awake him no more.”28 And lastly, in
1599 André Du Laurens wrote,
in the vse of all these stupefactiue medicines taken inwardly; wee

must take heed to deale with very good aduise, for feare that in
stead of desiring to procure rest vnto the sillie melancholie wretch,

wee cast him into an endless sleepe. 29
The recurring medical pronouncements on this topic both testify to

anxieties about the use (and overuse) of narcotic drugs and emphasize the
perceived fragility of the boundary between ordinary sleep and the end-
less deep of death. Once the patient falls asleep, they suggest, the force of
inertia, if given any assistance, will keep him that way. Shakespeare, whose
son-in-law John Hall was a prominent physician, could hardly help but be
aware of these concems.30 In the context of these portraits of sleeping drugs,
Juliet’s decline from slumber into death seems an inevitable response to Friar
Lawrence’s would-be remedy.
As the emphasis on the link between sleep and death suggests, fears
about artificial sleeping drugs drew on concerns not only about pharmacy, but
about sleep itself, widely seen as a near relation to death.31 Medical accounts
of sleep refer to its capacity for enervation as well as restoration; Du Laurens
describes it as “the withdrawing of the spirits and naturall heate, from the
outward parts, to the inward, and from all the circumference vnto the cen-
ter.”32 Paré expands on this definition, depicting sleep as
the rest of the whole body, and the cessation of the Animall facultie
from sense and motion. Sleepe is caused, when the substance of
the brain is possessed, and after some sort overcome and dulled by
a certaine vaporous, sweete and delightsome humidity; or when
the spirits almost exhaust by performance of some labour, cannot
any longer sustaine the weight of the body. 33
Paré’s description, like that of Du Laurens, portrays sleep as a temporary

death, a cessation from sense and motion. The mind slips into suspension—
possessed, overcome, and dulled, losing any possibility of control—while
simultaneously the spirits lack the strength to sustain the body. In fact, the
medical disorder of excessive sleep is explicitly linked with the idea of death;
Barroughs lists a lengthy catalog of sleep disorders that, somewhat monoto-
nously, all come to be equated with death.34 Like soporific drugs, sleep is
understood as containing both medicinal and poisonous potential.
The representation of sleep in the theater shares these doctors’ emphasis
on the proximity of sleep and death and the fragility of the boundary be-
tween them. David Bevington notes that both characters and audiences have
difficulties at times distinguishing between the two states.35 In A Midsum-
mer Night’s Dream, Helena wonders, upon seeing Lysander spread out on
the ground, “Dead, or asleep?” (2.2.101); later, in a mock-tragic mirror image
of this scene, which arguably parodies Romeo and Juliet, Thisbe interrogates
40 Tanya Pollard
Pyramus’s body, “Asleep, my love? / What, dead, my dove?” (5.1.324–325).

This confusion, which can be seen in countless other dramatic examples,36
highlights a metatheatrical resonance: in the suspended reality of the stage,
all deaths are feigned, as are all sleeps, living out Lady Macbeth’s maxim that
“The sleeping and the dead / Are but as pictures”(2.2.50–51). Shakespeare’s
recurring trope of the play as a dream, staged while the audience sleeps,
suggests that images of sleepers onstage can be understood to reflect the un-
certain status of the play’s spectators as well.37
In the light of medical accounts of sleep and sleeping drinks, the com-
parison is a dangerous one. In the theater as well, sleep is not only similar to
death but susceptible to it. Just as Juliet’s deep sleep unwittingly catalyzes both
her own death and Romeo’s, sleeping in plays often proves fatal. Recounting
his “foul murder” to his son, the ghost of King Hamlet repeatedly dwells on
his oblivion to the murderer: “sleeping in my orchard, / A serpent stung me”;
“Sleeping within my orchard, / My custom always of the afternoon, / Upon
my secure hour thy uncle stole”; “Thus was I, sleeping, by a brother’s hand
/ Of life, of crown, of queen once dispatch’d” (1.5.35–36; 59–61; 74–75).38
Lady Macbeth facilitates the murder of the sleeping Duncan by making the
guards sleep soundly: “I have drugg’d their possets / That death and nature do
contend about them, / Whether they live or die” (2.2.6–8).39 Even in the safer
contexts of comedy or romance, sleeping is risky: in The Taming of the Shrew,
Christopher Sly is tricked into a new identity after succumbing to drunken
oblivion; the sleeping lovers in A Midsummer Night’s Dream are medicined
with troublemaking love potions; and Caliban schemes to murder Prospero
while he sleeps. If sleep can be a figure for the world of the play, theatergoers
are, by analogy, depicted as being at risk when they surrender themselves to
it. The vulnerability associated with the passivity of sleep may be implicitly
identified with the position of the spectator.
Renaissance antitheatricalists drew precisely this comparison, identifying
the suspended quality of theatrical performances with sleep and its concor-
dant threatening associations of pleasure, sin, and death. “Stage-haunters are
for the most part lulled asleepe in the Dalilaes lappe of these sinfull pleasures,”
William Prynne writes, “yea they are quite dead in sinnes and trespasses.”40
The biblical reference offers a resonant image of both the seductive tempta-
tion and the catastrophic results of surrender to sleep. Accordingly, just as
medical writers insist on the necessity of moderating both sleep and intake of
soporific drugs, Prynne suggests that exposure to the theater must be limited
in order to avoid dangerous consequences:
the recreation must not be overlong, not time-consuming; it must be

onely as a baite to a traviler, a whetting to a Mower or Carpenter, or
as an houres sleepe in the day time to a wearied man; we must not
spend whole weekes; whole dayes, halfe dayes or nights on recreations as

now too many doe, abundance of idlenesse in this kinde, being one of
Sodomes hainous sinnes.41
Prynne distinguishes between the potentially reviving capacity of a brief

rest and the danger of excessively long leisure. For other moralizing crit-
ics, however, exposure to the theater operates on a continuum, defying safe
containment in small quantities. Stephen Gosson invokes a model of incre-
mental gradations to illustrate the contagious force of the theater, which, he
writes, takes the audience “from pyping to playing, from play to pleasure,
from pleasure to slouth, from slouth to sleepe, from sleepe to sinne, from
sinne to death, from death to the Divel.”42
If the stage lulls its spectators into the deathlike state of excessive sleep,
the theater itself can be seen as a sleep-inducing drug. Prynne explicitly links
theatrical idleness with toxic potions. “Such prevalency is there in these be-
witching Stage-playes,” he writes, “to draw men on to sloth, to idlenesse, the
very bane, the poyson, and destruction of mens peerelesse soules” (506). Stage plays,
according to his model, parallel the function of drugs in drawing spectators
to sloth, a poisonous state. The transformation effected in spectators by plays
claims the potency of a permanent, and fatal, chemical reaction and suggests
that the ambiguous status of the sleeping potion onstage could ultimately
reflect the impact, as well as the form, of the play that features it.
***
In the world of the theater, the ambivalent interweaving of sleep, potions,
poisons, and plays is perhaps most fully dramatized in Antony and Cleopatra.
Just as it revisits the structural pattern of Romeo and Juliet, the play explores
a similar confusion between sleeping potions and poisons.43 Throughout
the play, Cleopatra and Egypt are associated with pleasurable narcotics,
both figurative and literal. Rooted in Rome and the apparent genre of his-
tory, Antony wavers between grasping at comedy—in which the languorous
hedonism of Cleopatra’s world brings pleasure and ultimately marriage—
and tumbling into tragedy, where sinister charms mesmerize him into a
sleepy incapacitation and ultimately death. By the end of the play, Egypt’s
ambiguous sleepy drugs, like Friar Lawrence’s potion, prove officially poi-
sonous, killing the protagonists and defining the play as a tragedy. As in
Romeo and Juliet, however, the evolution of soporifics into poisons ultimately
serves to rescue the lovers rather than to destroy them. Antony’s death gives
rise to Cleopatra’s imaginative production of a more heroic Antony, and her
own suicide elevates her theatrical power, which often provoked skepticism
and suspicion while she lived, to the realm of myth. Although the raucous
42 Tanya Pollard
comedy of Cleopatra’s Egypt evolves steadily into tragedy, the play closes on
a note of triumph.
Despite the play’s parallels with Romeo and Juliet, however, there are im-
portant changes. The lovers’ roles are redistributed: as the entranced consumer
of dreams, spectacles, sleeping potions, and poisons, Antony plays both Ro-
meo and Juliet, whereas Cleopatra, like Friar Lawrence and the apothecary,
is more source than recipient of the play’s intoxicating potions. She occupies,
moreover, the center of the play’s explicit meditations on dramatic spectacles.
Accordingly, the play is significantly more self-conscious than Romeo and Ju-
liet in its examination of drugs and their relationship with the theater, and its
closing celebration of the lovers is both more problematic and more telling.
In the play’s opening act, Cleopatra echoes Juliet by seeking refuge from
her lover’s absence in sleep-inducing potions. “Give me to drink mandra-
gora,” she orders Charmian, “That I might sleep out this great gap of time
/ My Antony is away” (1.5.4–6). Cleopatra’s choice of sleeping potion links
her with Juliet, identifying Cleopatra’s daydreams with the nightmare vision
of Juliet’s mandrake-surrounded tomb. Yet mandragora, with its ambiguous
conflation of sleeping potion, aphrodisiac, and poison, is here presented as a
remedy to the unsettling emptiness created by Antony’s departure, becoming
a replacement or double for Antony himself. The sleep it offers suggests both
an erotically pleasurable idleness and a deathlike retreat, which suspends time
during Antony’s absence.
Despite her call for mandragora, however, Cleopatra medicines herself
with daydreams rather than drugs. Distracting herself from her distress, she
luxuriates in pleasurable fantasies:
O Charmian,
Where think’st thou he is now? Stands he, or sits he?
Or does he walk? or is he on his horse?
O happy horse to bear the weight of Antony!
Do bravely, horse, for wot’st thou whom thou mov’st
The demi-Atlas of this earth, the arm
And burgonet of men. He’s speaking now,
Or murmuring, “Where’s my serpent of old Nile?”
For so he calls me. Now I feed myself
With most delicious poison.
(1.5.18–27)44
Cleopatra represents the absent Antony in her own internal theater, fill-
ing the empty horizon with a catalog of his imagined places, postures, and
thoughts. Neatly inverting her own lack, she scripts him as looking for an
absent Cleopatra. With its erotic charge and comforting reversal of roles,
the private theater of her daydreams serves a pharmaceutical function,

constructing the sleepy oblivion she craves. Her remedy, though, has
ambiguous effects: she describes her reveries as “most delicious poison,”
linking her escapist pleasures with corrosive perils. Cleopatra is simulta-
neously patient and pharmacist, consumer and producer of the drugs she
craves. Her request for the sleepy aphrodisiac poison of the mandrake is
answered in her erotic fantasies.
Although in this scene Cleopatra is drugged by her own sleepy rever-
ies, throughout the play it is primarily Antony and his Roman soldiers who
consume the pleasurable but poisonous soporifics associated with Egypt and
its queen. Just as she herself confines fantasy with narcotic drugs, so the Ro-
mans are seduced by a combination of Cleopatra’s dramatic spectacles and
her wine-seeped feasts, underlining the parallel between theatricality and
sleepy potions.45 Enobarbus’s tales of Egyptian extravagance are laced with
references to drunken somnolence. “We did sleep day out of countenance,” he
vaunts to Maecenas and Agrippa, just before describing Cleopatra’s perfor-
mance at Cydnus, “and made the night light with drinking” (2.2.177–178).
Scenes of drinking seem inevitably to conjure up Egypt, theatricality, and
oblivion: after negotiations with Pompey, Caesar, and Lepidus, Enobarbus
asks Antony, “Shall we dance now the Egyptian Bacchanals / And celebrate
our drink?” (2.7.101–102). “Come, let’s all take hands,” Antony responds,
“Till that the conquering wine hath steeped our sense / In soft and delicate
Lethe” (2.7.104–106).
Although Enobarbus describes Egypt’s alcoholic and theatrical revels
in festive terms, Antony’s allusion to Lethe, the river of forgetfulness, points
to darker aspects of the surrender of consciousness that they represent. Som-
nolence, and the potions that produce it, threatens not only to suspend the
self but to dissolve it.46 Antony’s dependence on the sleepy calm brought on
by drink becomes more desperate as the play progresses. Wine allays ten-
sions with Cleopatra: amid their post-Actium reconciliation, Antony calls,
“Some wine within there, and our viands!” (3.11.73). Later, after forgiving
Cleopatra’s conference with Caesar’s deputy Thidias, he calls for “one other
gaudy night . . . Fill our bowls once more” (3.13.183–184). Just as Juliet’s
sleeping potion held out the promise of reuniting her with Romeo, the sleepy
potions of wine offer to bring Antony back to Cleopatra and the comedic
goal of marital bliss. While Juliet and Romeo each drink only a single draft
of their respective potions, however, Antony’s self-medication is ongoing and
apparently insatiable. Rather than killing at once, his soporifics draw him into
a self-perpetuating addiction that slowly and gradually destroys him.
From a Roman perspective, Antony’s constant consumption of sleep-
inducing drink signals his broader surrender to the dangerously seductive
44 Tanya Pollard
charm of Egypt. “Let witchcraft join with beauty, lust with both,” Pompey
exults to Menocrates,
Tie up the libertine, in a field of feasts,

Keep his brain fuming; Epicurean cooks
Sharpen with cloyless sauce his appetite,
That sleep and feeding may prorogue his honour,
Even till a Lethe’d dullness—
(2.1.22–27)
Antony’s surrender to sleep, according to Pompey, suggests he is victim to

a form of witchcraft: he is lured into oblivion, a “Lethe’d dullness,” by an
inexorable assault on his appetites. Antony becomes an object rather than
a subject, tied up, fumed, and, most important, prorogued: suspended,
deferred, kept in abeyance.47
Cleopatra and her performances are at the center of this luxurious but
unsettling languor: in response to her faltering attempts to delay his depar-
ture for Rome, Antony chides, “But that your royalty / Holds idleness your
subject, I should take you / For idleness itself ” (1.3.91–93). The paradoxical
structure of his assertion captures an essential aspect of Cleopatra’s nature:
she seems simultaneously to embody somnolence and to control it, both to be
implicated in an Egyptian passivity and to manipulate it, actively, for her own
gains. The soporific drug for which she calls is both a potion at her disposal
and an emblem of her own effect on others.
As Antony’s response to this scene of Cleopatra’s suggests, his consump-
tion of Egypt’s soporific food and drink is paralleled with his spectatorship
of Cleopatra’s performances. Cleopatra’s primary power lies in her ability to
draw all eyes to her: describing her spectacular arrival at Cydnus, Enobar-
bus claims that the city’s rush to view her on the barge left behind only air,
“which, but for vacancy / Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too, / And made
a gap in nature” (2.2.216–218). Antony is hardly immune to her magnetic
pull: in a disconcerting reversal of roles, she turns down his dinner invitation
to insist that he come to her, where he “for his ordinary, pays his heart, / For
what his eyes eat only” (2.2.225–226). Visual consumption is equated with,
and substituted for, oral and is in both cases costly.
This pattern, of gazing on Cleopatra and subsequently losing himself, is
repeated at Actium. Upon seeing Cleopatra withdraw from the battle, An-
tony “(like a doting mallard) / Leaving the fight in heighth, flies after her”
(3.10.20–21). His will is no longer his own: “My heart was to thy rudder tied
by the strings,” he tells Cleopatra (3.11.57). The scene depicts the culmina-
tion of a process that began at Cydnus, the dissolution of his autonomous self.
“I never saw an action of such shame,” Scarus tells Enobarbus; “Experience,
manhood, honour, ne’er before / Did violate so itself ” (3.10.23–24). Antony’s

surrender to Cleopatra’s spectacles parallels, and extends, his surrender to the
oblivion of drink and sleep, implicitly suggesting that spectators of the play
(who also, of course, gaze on Cleopatra) share, at least temporarily, the loss of
self the play dramatizes.48
This surrender, the play insists, is dangerous. Despite his enchantment
with Cleopatra, Antony himself links her narcotic pleasures with the threat of
poison. Early in the play, he worries that “Much is breeding, / Which like the
courser’s hair, hath yet but life / And not a serpent’s poison” (1.2.190–192).
While he holds back from attributing poison to the magically animated hair,
his choice of image and cautionary “yet” imply that it is only a matter of
time. Shortly after this, he echoes Pompey’s skeptical account of his Egyp-
tian subjection by apologizing to Caesar that “poisoned hours had bound me
up / From mine own knowledge” (2.2.90). Even Cleopatra echoes the as-
sociation, identifying herself as Antony’s “serpent of old Nile” (1.5.25). These
foreshadowings of the poison that will later bring about the play’s tragic end
offer a physical correlative for the corrosion of Antony’s will; they remind the
audience from early on that the bawdy jests and playful banter of Cleopatra’s
court are not without troubling side effects.
The idea of Cleopatra’s seductive appeal as a type of poison was explic-
itly encoded in Shakespeare’s sources. North’s translation of Plutarch’s Life
of Marc Antonie describes Antony’s falling off from martial greatness as a
kind of poisoning: Antony was “so rauished & enchaunted with the sweete
poyson of her love, that he had no other thought but of her, & how he might
quickly returne againe . . .”49 Later he writes similarly that Caesar claimed
“that Antonius was not Maister of him selfe, but that Cleopatra had brought
him beside him selfe, by her charmes and amorous poysons.”50 North’s “sweet
poyson” and “amorous poysons” stem in both cases from Plutarch’s “pharma-
koi,” evoking, like Cleopatra’s mandrake, an ambiguous array of meanings:
poison, remedy, drug, and aphrodisiac.51 The embedded presence of North’s
language and its attendant ambiguities can be seen in the play’s recurring
imagery of poison, and particularly in its emphasis on the literal poison with
which Cleopatra kills herself.
As in Romeo and Juliet, the play’s closing suggests that its near poisons,
or figurative poisons, metamorphose into literal and fatal poisons, that Lethe
becomes lethal. The play’s oscillations between farce and fear settle formally
into tragedy as its ambiguous potions become firmly defined. Shakespeare
presents the long, slow drama of the lovers’ deaths as beginning after the
final lost battle, with Antony’s rage at his perceived betrayal by Cleopatra.
“The shirt of Nessus is upon me,” he laments; “teach me, / Alcides, thou mine
ancestor, thy rage” (4.12.43–45). Antony’s reference to the shirt of Nessus is
the last, and least heroic, of the allusions that throughout the play link him
46 Tanya Pollard
with Hercules.52 Referring to the poisoned shirt with which Hercules’ wife
Deianeira brought about his death, the allusion suggests that Antony’s death
is already under way, brought about by Cleopatra’s poisonous treachery.53
Antony’s claim that he is dying of Cleopatra’s poisons proves quickly, if
indirectly, to be true. Alarmed by his accusations and threats, Cleopatra imi-
tates Juliet in feigning death. Like Juliet, Cleopatra does not conceive of the
idea independently; in response to her plea, “Help me, my women!” (4.13.1),
Charmian suggests that she lock herself in her monument and send word to
Antony that she is dead. Unlike Juliet, however, Cleopatra seems to be aware
that her ruse will hurt her lover, even that it may bring about his death. Dio-
medes announces to the dying Antony that his mistress “had a prophesying
fear / Of what hath come to pass,” and that she has sent him, “fearing since
how it [her ruse] might work” (4.14.120–121, 125).54 Cleopatra, in fact, seems
more certain than fearful; when Diomedes returns from bearing the message,
she immediately inquires, “How now? is he dead?” (4.15.6). Just as Juliet’s
imitation of death mimetically re-created itself in Romeo’s actual death,
Cleopatra’s staging immediately brings about Antony’s suicide. While Juliet’s
death was undertaken with reassurances that Romeo would be warned, how-
ever, Cleopatra’s relies for its efficacy precisely on Antony believing it true.
Cleopatra’s theatrical imagination, the metaphorical mandragora that she fed
herself in act 1, ultimately acts as a poison that brings about Antony’s death.
Fittingly, Cleopatra’s performance of death leads Antony to a death en-
visioned as a long-awaited slumber. “Unarm, Eros,” he responds, “the long
day’s task is done, / And we must sleep” (4.14.35–36). Death offers Antony
a purer version of the escapist oblivion he has courted in Egypt; like the
drunken revels, it imitates and intensifies, it also seems to promise a return
to Cleopatra, and erotic union. “I will be / A bridegroom in my death,” he
pronounces, “and run into’t / As to a lovers bed” (4.14.99–101). Like Romeo,
he fuses together tragedy and comedy by identifying the defeat of death with
the triumph of marriage.
Just as Antony’s temporary disappearance to Rome became the occasion
for Cleopatra’s dreamlike reveries and calls for mandragora, his permanent
disappearance to death brings on a literal dream, leading her to call again for
both sleep and poison. “I dreamt there was an Emperor Antony,” Cleopatra
tells Dolabella. “O such another sleep, that I might see / But such another
man!” (5.2.76–78). Cleopatra’s resurrection of an “Emperor Antony” can be
seen as the belated fulfillment of Romeo’s dream “that I reviv’d, and was an
emperor” (4.1.9). Although the narcotic enchantment of her theatrical spec-
tacles worked to undo the literal Antony, the same soporific imagination offers
recompense by reconstituting his image in fantasy.
Having brought about Antony’s death and resurrection through the
force of her theatrical imagination, Cleopatra sets about attending to her
own. The play seems to begin anew, as she stages a reproduction of the
spectacle that started her romance: “I am again for Cydnus,” she tells her
women, “To meet Mark Antony” (5.2.227–228). In an ironic juxtaposition
of genres, the asp that literalizes the play’s figurative poisons is conveyed
by an emblem of comedy: a clown. “What poor an instrument,” Cleopatra
comments, “May do a noble deed!” (5.2.235–236). As the carrier of the
poisons that will fulfill Cleopatra’s tragic final scene, the clown’s presence
implicitly suggests that the play’s earlier scenes, with their bawdiness and
farce, were a necessary vehicle for what would follow: her playfully ambig-
uous mandragora has evolved into literal poisons with final and permanent
effects.
Like Antony, and Romeo and Juliet before him, Cleopatra paradoxically
looks to dying as revivification and reunion: “I have / Immortal longings in
me,” she pronounces; “Husband, I come, / Now to that name, my courage
prove my title!” (5.2.279–280, 286–287). Watching Iras die after a farewell
kiss, Cleopatra again conflates poison with pain-alleviating, and even seduc-
tive, pleasures:
Have I the aspic in my lips? Dost fall?

If thou and nature can so gently part,
The stroke of death is as a lover’s pinch,
Which hurts, and is desir’d.
(5.2.292–295)
Cleopatra’s attribution of erotic pleasure to death draws on the play’s fre-

quent punning on dying as orgasm. In fact, the speed of Iras’s death evokes
sexual jealousy: “If she first meet the curled Antony,” Cleopatra worries,
“He’ll make demand of her, and spend that kiss / Which is my heaven to
have” (5.2.300–302). Death, as she conceives it, will return her to Antony
and erotic fulfillment. By staging her suicide as a marriage, Cleopatra con-
founds generic rules: although the play ends as a tragedy, it also stages the
traditionally comic celebration of a wedding and new life.
Shakespeare’s detailed description of Cleopatra’s death represents an
imaginative interpolation from his source. Plutarch refers to the idea of the
asp conveyed in a basket of figs as only one of a number of possible manners
of Cleopatra’s death.55 In contrast to Shakespeare’s dramatization of the con-
veyance and biting of the asp, Plutarch insists that we will never know exactly
how she died. He emphasizes, however, her ingenuity and preparations in
researching her means of death. In a particularly intriguing passage, Plutarch
relates that, since early in the troubles with Rome, Cleopatra had been experi-
menting with the effects of various poisons on condemned prisoners in order
to find the most painless form of death:
48 Tanya Pollard
So when she had dayly made diuers and sundrie proofes, she found
none of all them she had proued so fit, as the biting of an Aspicke,
the which only causeth a hauines of the head, without swounding
or complaining, and bringeth a great desire also to sleepe, with
a little swet in the face, and so by litle and litle taketh away the
sences and vitall powers, no liuing creature perceiuing that the
pacients feele any paine. For they are so sorie when any bodie
waketh them, and taketh them up: as those that being taken out
of a sound sleepe, are very heauy and desirous to sleepe.56
Cleopatra’s means of suicide, then, was chosen particularly for its resemblance
to a sleeping potion; her death can be seen as a carefully choreographed
extension of her earlier soporific pleasures.
Shakespeare essentially omits this striking anecdote from his play, limit-
ing its mention to an afterthought by Caesar that “her physician tells me /
She hath pursued conclusions infinite / Of easy ways to die” (5.2.352–354).
Its residual echoes, however, can be seen not only in the play’s recurring refer-
ences to narcotics but in Shakespeare’s association of Cleopatra’s death with
the peace and pleasure of sleep. “O for such another sleep,” she muses af-
ter her dream of Mark Antony, “that I might see / But such another man!”
(5.2.77–78). And the play suggests that her desire for sleep is granted. “Peace,
peace,” she bids Charmian, as she hovers on the brink of dying, “Dost thou
not see my baby at my breast, / That sucks the nurse asleep?” (5.2.307–309).
Poison, ultimately, is her sleeping potion: upon viewing her dead body, Caesar
eulogizes that “she looks like sleep, / As she would catch another Antony / In
her strong toil of grace” (5.2.344–346). In her death, Cleopatra captures that
aspect of sleep which differentiates it from death and gives it the pleasure
of comedy: its promise of waking. The images of renewal—the baby at her
breast, another Cydnus, the catching of another Antony—suggest that her
play is suspended rather than over.
***
Antony and Cleopatra, like Romeo and Juliet before them, find a monument
in death: “She shall be buried by her Antony,” Caesar specifies; “No grave
upon the earth shall clip in it / A pair so famous” (5.2.356–358). As their
monuments suggest, both plays end on a note of awe. Despite the ambiguous
interferences of comedy and farce, with their ongoing threat of ridicule, the
deaths with which the plays close confer a measure of dignity on not only
the lovers but the plays themselves. The intermediate, uncertain generic
mode of the sleeping potion settles into the poison of tragedy, but even this
poison turns out to be ambiguous in function. While it takes away the lovers’
lives, it also gives them back their marriage, leaving doubt as to the ultimate
nature of the ending.
Despite the uncannily similar patterns these plays follow, the differences
between them are significant. Youthful and star-crossed, Romeo and Juliet
prove almost accidental consumers of the ambiguous and disturbing potions
that pervade their play. Their uncertain drugs guide their oscillations between
comedy and tragedy, but the parallelism the play establishes between types
of plays and types of potions offers only tentative implications as to its sig-
nificance. Cleopatra, on the other hand, is the font of her play’s poisons. Her
dreamlike imagination and dramatic performances are explicitly identified
with the potions that pervade the play, and she exerts an intoxicating, nar-
cotic effect on all of her audiences, including Antony and, ultimately, herself.
Antony, accordingly, offers a model for the spectator as consumer of dan-
gerous remedies: mesmerized, ensnared, undone, even annihilated, but—in
the end—triumphantly reborn in the imagination. By identifying the play’s
ambivalent potions with dramatic spectacles, Shakespeare suggests that the
dangerous seduction of enchanting potions is akin to that of the theater it-
self; he presents a complex and sophisticated model of theatrical agency as
seeping into audiences and transforming them with a chemical force. Going
beyond a simple revisitation of the earlier play, Antony and Cleopatra exploits
and advances the juxtapositions set up in Romeo and Juliet, transforming its
insights about the ambivalence of narcotic potions into a broader reflection
on the suspended reality of the theater.
No t e s
For reading and commenting on versions of this essay, I would like to thank
David Quint, Jennifer Lewin, Raphael Falco, Katharine Craik, Will Stenhouse, and
members of the inter-disciplinary works-in-progress group at Macalester College. I
would also like to thank the Wellcome Institute for Medical History, the Warburg
Institute, and the Folger Shakespeare Library for support with research.
1. I use the term “double tragedy” to refer to tragedies with two protagonists
of equal stature, both named in the title. The term could also, however, describe
the many other forms of generic and thematic doubleness encompassed in these
particular plays. On the rise of love tragedy in this period, and its intrinsic generic
complications, see especially Martha Tuck Rozett, “The Comic Structures of
Tragic Endings: The Suicide Scenes in Romeo and Juliet and Antony and Cleopatra,”
Shakespeare Quarterly 36:1 (1985): 152–164; and Charles Forker, “The Love-Death
Nexus in English Renaissance Tragedy,” in Skull Beneath the Skin: The Achievement
of John Webster (Carbondale and Edwardsville: Southern Illinois University Press,
1986), 235–253. As Rozett observes, the genre was new in the 1590s, and Romeo
and Juliet seems to have been the first English play in which love was the subject of
tragedy (152).
2. On the mixing of genres in Romeo and Juliet, see especially Susan Snyder,
The Comic Matrix of Shakespeare’s Tragedies (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University
50 Tanya Pollard
Press, 1979), 56–70. On Antony and Cleopatra, see Janet Adelman, The Common
Liar: An Essay on Antony and Cleopatra (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press,
1973), esp. 1–52; J. L. Simmons, “The Comic Pattern and Vision in Antony and
Cleopatra,” English Literary History 36 (1969): 493–510; and Barbara C. Vincent,
“Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra and the Rise of Comedy,” English Literary
Renaissance 12:1 (1982): 53–86. Rozett treats the two plays together in “Comic
Structures of Tragic Endings.”
3. Jacques Derrida offers a provocative account of the complexities of
the term pharmakon and its relationship to writing in “Plato’s Pharmacy,” in
Dissemination, trans. Barbara Johnson (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1981),
63–171. “There is no such thing as a harmless remedy,” he asserts, reflecting on
Plato’s uneasiness with the word’s irreducible ambiguity; “The pharmakon can never
be simply beneficial” (99).
4. Anthony Munday, A second and third blast of retrait from plaies and Theaters
(London, 1580), 101.
5. William Prynne, Histriomastix: The Player’s Scourge (London, 1633),
467, 38.
6. Thomas Lodge, A Defence of Poetry, Music and Stage-Plays (London,
1579), 5.
7. On genre, see Snyder, Comic Matrix. Much has been written on the play’s
yoking of love and death; see, for example, Marilyn Williamson, “Romeo and
Death,” Shakespeare Studies 14 (1981): 129–137; and Lloyd Davis, “‘Death-marked
love’: Desire and Presence in Romeo and Juliet,” Shakespeare Survey 49 (1996):
57–67.
8. All references to Romeo and Juliet are from the Arden edition, edited by
Brian Gibbons (London: Methuen, 1980).
9. Snyder comments on the play’s emphasis on extreme youth; see “Ideology
and the Feud in Romeo and Juliet,” Shakespeare Survey 46 (1998): 87–88.
10. Paracelsus, Selected Writings, vol. 1, ed. Jolande Jacobi, trans. Norbert
Guterman (New York: Pantheon, 1958), 107.
11. See, for example, Andrew Wear, “Epistemology and Learned Medicine in
Early Modern England,” in Knowledge and the Scholarly Medical Traditions, ed. Don
Bates (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 151–173.
12. On Paracelsus, see especially Walter Pagel, Paracelsus: An Introduction to
Philosophical Medicine in the Era of the Renaissance (Basel: Karger, 1958), Charles
Webster, From Paracelsus to Newton: Magic and the Making of Modern Science
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982); and Henry Pachter, Paracelsus: An
Introduction to Philosophical Medicine in the Era of Guterman (New York: Pantheon,
1958). On the impact of Paracelsus in England, see Allen Debus, The English
Parascelsans (London: Oldbourne, 1965); and Paul Kocher, “Paracelsan Medicine in
England,” Journal of the History of Medicine 2 (1947): 451–480. Jonathan Gil Harris
offers a suggestive analysis of the relationship between Paracelsan conceptions of
pharmacy and early modern political models in Foreign Bodies and The Body Politic
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998).
13. The ambivalent comedy of the nurse’s response is echoed by the musicians’
banter after Juliet’s apparent death; both scenes are replayed, more darkly, with
Balthasar’s false report of Juliet’s death to Romeo at the beginning of act 5.
14. “I saw the wound, I saw it with mine eyes . . . I swounded at the sight”
(3.2.52–56).
15. The Friar similarly tells the families, at the end of the play, that his sleeping
potion achieved his intended aim in giving her “the form of death” (5.3.246).
16 Snyder points out that the reputed deaths of Hero in Much Ado About
Nothing, Helena in All’s Well That Ends Well, Claudio in Measure for Measure, and
Hermoine in A Winter’s Tale all succeed in their goal to avert or resolve a conflict
by effecting a transformation in other characters (Snyder, Comic Matrix, 67). The
generic ambivalence in each of these plays could be seen to identify them with
tragicomedy, where the same motif is prevalent; see, for example, Philaster, King and
No King, and Match Me in London. On characteristics and motifs of tragicomedy,
see, for example, Gordon McMullen and Jonathan Hope, The Politics of Tragicomedy:
Shakespeare and After (London and New York: Routledge, 1992), and Marvin T.
Herrick, Tragicomedy: Its Origins and Development in Italy, France, and England
(Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1955).
17. On the range of associations with mandragora, see C. J. S. Thompson, The
Mystic Mandrake (London: Rider and Co., 1934). Other noted literary references
to mandrake in the period include John Donne’s poems “Song” (“Go, and catch a
falling star”) and “Twicknam Gardens,” as well as Webster’s The Duchess of Malfi,
in which Ferdinand describes his discovery of his sister’s marriage as having “digg’d
up a mandrake” (2.5.1).
18. On its soporific powers, Ambroise Paré writes, “Mandrage taken in great
quantity, either the root or fruit causeth great sleepinesse, sadnesse, resolution, and
languishing of the body, so that after many scritches and gripings, the patient falls
asleep in the same posture as hee was in, just as if hee were in a Lethargie” (The
Workes of that famous Chirurgion Ambroise Parey, trans. Thomas Johnson [London,
1634], 806) William Bullein remarks that it is “properly geuen to helpe conception,
some say, as it appeereth by the Wyues of the holy Patryarche Iacob, The one was
fruictful, the other did desire help, by the meanes of Mandracke, brought out of the
fyeldes, by the handes of Ruben Leas sonne” (Bulleins Bulwarke of Defence against All
Sicknesse, Soarenesse, and Woundes that doe dayly assuaulte mankinde [London, 1579],
41v–42).
19. Bullein writes, “Many . . . doe affyrme, that this herbe commeth of the
seede of some conuicted dead men,” and goes on to describe “the terrible shriek
and cry of thys Mandrack. In which cry, it Doth not only dye it selfe, but the feare
thereof kylleth the Dogge or Beast, whych pulled it out of the earth. And this hearbe
is called also Anthropomorphos because it beareth the Image of a man” (Bulleins
Bulwarke, 41v).
20. In response to Mercutio’s claim “That dreamers often lie,” he rebuts, “In
bed asleep, where they do dream things true” (1.4.51–52).
21. See Marjorie Garber, “Dream Language in Romeo and Juliet,” in Dream
in Shakespeare: From Metaphor to Metamorphosis (New Haven and London: Yale
University Press, 1974), 44–47. Garber suggests, however, that Romeo’s dream is not
false, as the resurrection it envisions is metaphorically borne out in the monuments
that enshrine the lovers’ memory.
22. M. M. Mahood, Shakespeare’s Wordplay (London: Methuen, 1957), 72.
23. This passage must have hung in the mind of Anthony Munday when he
was composing the ending of The Death of Robert Earl of Huntington (London, 1601):
“See how he seekes to suck, if he could drawe, / Poyson from dead Matildaes ashie
lips” (3005–3006).
52 Tanya Pollard
24. Eleazer Dunk, The Copy of a Letter written by E. D. [Eleazer Dunk] Doctour
of Physicke to a Gentleman (London, 1606), 31.
25. Ibid.
26. Bullein, Bulleins Bulwarke, 25v.
27. Timothy Bright, A Treatise: Wherein is declared the sufficiencie of English
Medicines, for cure of all diseases, cured with Medicine (London, 1590), 15–16.
28. Philip Barrough, The Method of Phisick, Containing the Causes, Signes,
and Cures of Inward Diseases in Mans Body from the Head to the Foote (London,
1596), 24.
29. André Du Laurens, A Discourse of the Preservation of the Sight: of Melancholike
diseases; of Rheumes, and of Old age, trans. Richard Surphlet (London, 1599), 115.
30. Although Shakespeare’s writings are not as saturated with medical imagery
and references as are some of his contemporaries’ plays, such as those of Jonson
and Webster, doctors and apothecaries appear in a number of his plays, including
Cymbeline, King Lear, Macbeth, and All’s Well That Ends Well. Interestingly, in
contrast to most contemporary literary portrayals of doctors as sinister and malicious,
Shakespeare’s doctors tend to be competent and kindly, and his observations about
current medical treatments are for the most part very accurate. For more background
on Shakespeare’s medical knowledge and representations of doctors, see Robert
Simpson, Shakespeare and Medicine (Edinburgh: E. & S. Livingston, 1959); and
Herbert Silvette, The Doctor on the Stage: Medicine and Medical Men in Seventeenth-
Century England, ed. Francelia Butler (Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press,
1967).
31. For an overview of medical perspectives on sleep in this period, see Karl
H. Dannenfildt, “Sleep: Theory and Practice in the Late Renaissance,” Journal of the
History of Medicine and Allied Sciences 41 (1986): 415–441.
32. Du Laurens, Discourse, 95.
33. Paré, Workes, 35.
34. He describes, for example, “the Lethargie,” “Carus or Subeth,” “Congelation or
taking,” and “dead sleepe, or, Coma” (Barrough, Method of Physick, 24, 29, 30).
35. See David Bevington, “Asleep Onstage,” in From Page to Performance:
Essays in Early English Drama, ed. John A. Alford (East Lansing: Michigan State
University Press, 1995), 51–83.
36. To point to merely a few other instances in Shakespeare, in The Taming of
the Shrew a Lord asks of Christopher Sky, “What’s here? One dead, or drunk” (Ind.
1.30); in Henry IV, Part Two, Hal mistakes his sleeping father for dead (4.5.21–47);
and in Cymbeline, Lucius, like many others, wonders of Imogen, “Or dead or
sleeping . . . ?” (4.2.356).
37. Puck in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, for instance, encourages the audience
to think “That you have but slumb’red here / While these visions did appear / And
this weak and idle theme, / No more yielding but a dream” (5.1.425–428). The
framing device for The Taming of the Shrew and Prospero’s comments on sleep and
theater at the end of The Tempest suggest the same model.
38. George Walton Williams comments on the play’s uneasiness toward
sleep in “Sleep in Hamlet,” Renaissance Papers 1964, ed. S. K. Heninger, Peter G.
Phialas, and George Walton Williams (Durham, N.C.: Southeastern Renaissance
Conference, 1965), 17–20.
39. Other examples abound; in Richard III, the young princes are killed while
sleeping in the tower (4.3.1–22).
40. Prynne, Histriomastix, 956.

41. Ibid., 946–947, emphasis in original.
42. Stephen Gosson, The Schoole of Abuse (London: Shakespeare Society,
1841), 14.
43. Antony and Cleopatra can be seen as reenacting essential aspects of Romeo
and Juliet with older and more seasoned lovers. In both plays, lovers from opposing
camps cross a political divide for the sake of a grand passion, yet the scheme
undertaken to circumvent obstacles to their union—the female lover staging her
own apparent death—leads to her lover’s suicide and ultimately her own.
44. All references to Antony and Cleopatra are from M. R. Ridley’s Arden
edition (London: Methuen, 1954).
45. Cleopatra’s theatricality has been discussed by a number of critics. For a
sampling of arguments about their uses and effects, see Adelman, Common Liar;
Jonathin Dollimore, “Shakespeare, Cultural Materialism, Feminism, and Marxist
Humanism,” New Literary History 21 (1990): 471–493; Heather James, “The Politics
of Display and the Anamorphic Subjects of Antony and Cleopatra,” in Shakespeare’s
Late Tragedies, ed. Susanne Wofford (Upper Saddle River, N.J.: Simon and Schuster,
1996), 208–234; Phyllis Rackin, “Shakespeare’s Boy Cleopatra, the Decorum of
Nature and the Golden World of Poetry,” PMLA 87 (1972): 201–212; and Jyotsna
Singh, “Renaissance Anti-Theatricality, Anti-Feminism, and Shakespeare’s Antony
and Cleopatra,” Renaissance Drama, n.s., 20.
46. On imagery of dissolution and deliquescence, see especially Adelman,
Common Liar.
47. The verb “prorogue” offers an interesting link with Romeo and Juliet,
where it is used twice, both times in connection with the lovers’ trials; at 2.2.78
Juliet declares dying preferable to postponing death for a life without Romeo, and at
4.1.48 the friar refers to the apparent impossibility of postponing Juliet’s marriage
to Paris. Shakespeare’s only other use of the word comes after Antony and Cleopatra,
in Pericles.
48. It should be noted that the audience does not, in fact, witness these
two particular spectacles; both of them, like so much of the play, are reported
secondhand. Perhaps Cleopatra’s most effective performances, like a basilisk or
Gorgon, can only be withstood through an oblique view.
49. Plutarch, “The Life of Marcus Antonius,” The Lives of the Noble Grecians
and Romanes, trans. Thomas North (London, 1579), 987.
50. Ibid, 998.
51. Plutarch, “Antony,” Plutarch’s Lives, ed. Bernadotte Perrin (London:
William Heinemann, 1920), 37.4, 60.1.
52. On Antony’s explicit links to Hercules throughout the play, see especially
Eugene M. Waith, The Herculean Hero in Marlowe, Chapman, Shakespeare, and
Dryden (New York: Columbia University Press, 1962).
53. According to myth, the shirt was given to Deianeira by the centaur Nessus,
who was shot by Hercules with a poisoned arrow. Believing the shirt to be a love
charm, Deianeira gave it to Hercules, unwittingly causing his death. The allusion
represents the tragic culmination of Antony’s Herculean unmanning, comically
depicted earlier in the scene in which Cleopatra trades clothing with Antony (“I
drunk him to his bed; / Then put my tires and mantles on him, whilst / I wore his
sword Philippan” [2.5.21–23]), which alludes to Hercules’s bondage to Omphale.
54 Tanya Pollard
54. Arguing that Cleopatra’s theatrical feigning is malicious, Laura Levine

cites this scene as the basis for broader claims about the theater’s dramatization
of its own dangers: “Such a moment seem to cast theatre itself as something so
potent and so dangerous it has the capacity to make its spectator go home and kill
himself. It casts theatre, in other words, in terms much more bleak than the terms
of the attacks.” See Men in Women’s Clothing: Anti-Theatricality and Effeminization,
1579–1642 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 2.
55. “Others say againe, she kept it in a boxe, and that she did pricke and
thrust it with a spindell of golde, so that the Aspicke being angerd withal, lept out
with great furie, and bitte her in the arme. Howbeit fewe can tell the troth. For
they report also, that she had hidden poyson in a hollow raser which she caried in
the heare of her head: and yet was there no marke seene of her bodie, or any signe
discerned that she was poysoned, neither also did they finde this serpent in her
tombe” (Plutarch, “Marcus Antonius,” 1010).
56. Ibid, 1004. Interestingly, Cleopatra’s experiments with poisons make an
implicit reappearance in Cymbeline, when the physician Cornelius describes how the
queen (probably played by the same boy actor who played Cleopatra) had practiced
poisoning animals in preparing her attempted murder of Imogen (5.4.249–258).
D avid S alter
Shakespeare and Catholicism:

The Franciscan Connection
I n the early months of 1598, Thomas Speght, a relatively obscure En-

glish schoolmaster and antiquary, published a new edition of the Works of
Geoffrey Chaucer: the first to appear in almost forty years.1 With a few
exceptions, Speght simply reproduced what he found in the earlier printed
versions of Chaucer’s Works, but his edition is notable for the fact that it
is the first to employ (albeit in a rudimentary form), the beginnings of a
critical, scholarly apparatus, designed to help overcome the difficulties that
sixteenth-century readers were increasingly coming to experience when
confronted by the obscurity of Chaucer’s language, and more generally by
the historical remoteness of his time.2 Among the explanatory material that
Speght included in his edition is a short biographical sketch of Chaucer, in
which he outlined what he believed to be the principal facts of the poet’s
life.3 While its relevance to the subject of Shakespeare’s religious affiliations
may not be immediately apparent, one particular incident from Speght’s
Life of Chaucer casts an unexpected light on the ways in which Catholicism
was discussed and understood in the closing years of the sixteenth century.
For this episode—a supposed encounter between Chaucer and a Franciscan
friar—not only reflects the pervasive hostility to the Catholic Church that
was the dominant discourse in England during Shakespeare’s time, but it
also highlights the important rhetorical role that the Franciscan Order had
Cahiers Élisabéthains: Late Medieval and Renaissance Studies, Volume 66 (Autumn 2004): pp.
9–22. Copyright © 2004 David Salter.
55
56 David Salter
unwittingly come to play in anti-Catholic polemic. By considering the ways

in which Shakespeare responds to this contemporary anti-Franciscan rheto-
ric we can shed some new light on the increasingly contested question of his
own religious sensibilities and sympathies.
In the first instance, then, I shall approach the question of Shakespeare’s
relationship to Catholicism indirectly, through a consideration of this anecdote
from Speght’s biography of Chaucer. And I hope that this initial discussion,
however tangential it might at first appear, will both clear the ground for, and
provide a point of entry into, a more informed exploration of the tradition
of anti-Franciscan writing—a tradition to which Shakespeare responded in
such an original and singular way. I shall then, in the third and final part of
this essay, turn to the plays themselves, examining the prominent Franciscans
who figure in three of Shakespeare’s best-known works: Romeo and Juliet,
Much Ado about Nothing (which was written just a few months after the ap-
pearance of Speght’s edition of Chaucer), and Measure for Measure.
***
The relevant section of Speght’s biography deals with Chaucer’s education.
After spuriously identifying the poet as an alumnus of the universities of
both Oxford and Cambridge, he goes on to discuss what might now be
called Chaucer’s postgraduate studies:
About the latter end of King Richard the seconds daies he

[Chaucer] florished in Fraunce, and got himselfe great comendation
there by his diligent exercise in learning. After his returne home,
he frequented the Court at London, and the Colledges of the
Lawyers, which there interprete the lawes of the lande, and among
them he had a familiar frend called John Gower [ . . . ] It seemeth
that both these learned men [Chaucer and Gower] were of the
inner Temple: for not many yeeres since, Master Buckley did see a
Record in the same house, where Geoffrey Chaucer was fined two
shillings for beating a Franciscane fryer in Fleetstreete.4
Although it is rather appealing to think of Chaucer as an impetuous young

student, brought before the college authorities for brawling in the street,
unfortunately—like virtually every other claim made by Speght in his
short biography—it has no basis in fact.5 Even if we simply consider the short
extract just quoted, it is inaccurate in almost every detail. We now know that
contrary to Speght’s contention, Chaucer attended neither the University of
Oxford nor Cambridge.6 While Chaucer is known to have visited France on
a number of occasions, he never lived there for a prolonged period of time.7
And during the latter years of the reign of Richard II, far from being a
Shakespeare and Catholicism 57
student prone to youthful pranks—as Speght suggests—Chaucer was in fact

well into middle age, and a highly respected public servant who had connec-
tions with some of the most powerful and influential figures in the land.8
What is more, the claim that Chaucer was a student at the Inner Temple
seems to be based on an anachronistic misreading of the history of that
institution.9 For although the Inns of Court—that is, Lincoln’s Inn, Gray’s
Inn, the Inner Temple, and the Middle Temple—did indeed provide young
students with a formal training in the law during Speght’s lifetime (thereby
assuming a function analogous to that of the two universities), recent studies
have suggested that they had not developed this role at the end of the four-
teenth century. At that time they simply acted as residences for practising
lawyers from the provinces, who needed accommodation near Westminster
during the law terms.10 So, not only was Chaucer entirely the wrong age to
be engaged in youthful high jinx at the time that Speght alleges, it would
also seem that during his lifetime the Inner Temple did not even function
as an educational institution, making it extremely unlikely, to say the least,
that Chaucer was ever in attendance there as a student.11
But, if the incident reported by Speght could not possibly have occurred
(or at least not in the way that he suggests), how can it advance our knowl-
edge of Shakespeare’s relationship to Catholicism, the subject of this essay?
What new light might it cast upon the question of Shakespeare’s religious
convictions? Although not immediately apparent, the answer to these ques-
tions lies with the unfortunate Franciscan friar whom Chaucer is alleged to
have beaten up on Fleet Street. For whatever the source of Speght’s story, it
is no coincidence that the victim of Chaucer’s supposed attack—and, pre-
sumably, the source of his antipathy—was a member of that religious Order
which later-sixteenth-century English Protestants had come to regard as the
embodiment of everything that was wrong with the Church of Rome.12 It is
worth noting in this regard that throughout the second half of the sixteenth
century, as Chaucer’s reputation as the founding father of English poetry
was repeatedly asserted, so too were his supposed sympathies for many of
the causes that the Protestant reformers espoused.13 So taking just one ex-
ample among many, writing in the 1570 edition of his Ecclesiastical History,
John Foxe, the great propagandist of the English Reformation, felt able to
appropriate Chaucer on behalf of the Protestant cause by claiming that the
poet “saw in Religion as much almost as we do now”.14 Ironically, Chaucer’s
reputation as a fierce critic of the Catholic Church, and as a figure whose
works brought his readers—again to quote Foxe—“to the true knowledge
of religion”,15 was based in part on two violently anti-Catholic satires that
were falsely attributed to him during the sixteenth century: Jack Upland and
The Plowman’s Tale, of which the first is a virulent attack on none other than
the Franciscan Order.16 Viewed in this context, then, it would seem that for
58 David Salter
Chaucer’s sixteenth-century Protestant readers, beating up a Franciscan friar

was no mere random or casual act of violence, but a calculated and highly
charged political statement, to be seen as a natural continuation or extension
of the poet’s writing. For Speght’s anecdote would appear to suggest that such
was Chaucer’s hostility to the Catholic Church, that he could not confine
his criticism of it simply to the realm of satire. Rather, his antagonism was
so virulent that he expressed it in the form of a violent physical assault on
that most representative of Catholic figures—a Franciscan friar. While the
pen maybe mightier than the sword, Speght’s thinking seems to run, it is no
substitute for the fist.
At the time that Shakespeare was working as a playwright in London,
then, the Franciscan Order fulfilled a distinct and well-recognised role in
Protestant discourse. How the Order came to assume this function is a ques-
tion to which I shall turn shortly, but what is worth noting at the moment
is that for sixteenth-century English Protestants, writing about Franciscans
had become an established shorthand way of attacking, satirising, and gener-
ally pillorying the Catholic Church. And as noted earlier, this is of particular
relevance to a discussion of Shakespeare because three of his plays—Romeo
and Juliet, Much Ado about Nothing, and Measure for Measure—feature promi-
nent Franciscan characters. Gauging the extent to which, and the manner
in which, Shakespeare’s sympathies are genuinely engaged by his Franciscan
figures, will thus provide us with one means of assessing his relationship more
generally towards the religious controversies of his time.
Until recently, the question of Shakespeare’s religious affiliations pro-
voked relatively little interest from critics—at least compared to other areas
of his life and work—although there is a long-standing (if somewhat mar-
ginal) critical tradition that has identified him as a Catholic. Perhaps the
principal reason why this issue was relegated to the critical sidelines was
because Shakespearean drama was generally seen as a predominantly secu-
lar form.17 Indeed, the whole history of the English theatre in the sixteenth
century has traditionally been viewed as a kind of evolutionary narrative, in
which—with the exception of a brief period in the middle of the century
dominated by religious plays—succeeding generations of playwrights were
thought to have progressively freed themselves from the influence of religion
and the Church. Thus, the so-called “primitive” religious drama of the early
1500s is said to have given way to ever more secular and sophisticated forms,
culminating at the end of the century with the entirely secular theatre of
Shakespeare and his contemporaries.18 And this Whiggish interpretation of
sixteenth-century literary history is one that has cast Shakespeare—however
implicitly—in a Protestant mould, in that it has aligned him with the forces
of progress and reform, and in opposition to what came to be seen as the ir-
rational and superstitious tendencies manifest in the earlier drama associated
with Catholic ritual and practice. What is more, Shakespeare’s identification

as the national poet has further consolidated his association with the national
religion. And the fact that Shakespearean drama tends to steer clear of reli-
gious controversy—unlike the militantly Protestant writings of such figures
as Spenser and Milton—only bolstered the view that his was the kind of re-
strained and understated Protestantism that is now so closely identified with
the Anglican Church.19
However, while mainstream critical opinion labelled Shakespeare a
Protestant, albeit one of a secular bent, a succession of opposing voices going
all the way back to Shakespeare’s own lifetime, identified him as a Catholic.20
Among the best-known exponents of this view were Thomas Carlyle, who
famously described Shakespeare in his 1840 lecture on “The Hero as Poet”
as the noblest product of the Catholicism of the Middle Ages, and Cardi-
nal John Henry Newman, who in 1873 declared that Shakespeare was “at
heart a Catholic”. This is a view that has been enthusiastically taken up in
recent years, based in part on newly interpreted biographical evidence sug-
gesting that Shakespeare’s family remained loyal to the old faith in the later
sixteenth-century, despite suffering persecution.21 Moreover, Shakespeare’s
personal allegiance to the old faith may have been further consolidated if we
are to accept the increasingly popular theory that he entered the service of the
Catholic Houghton family in Lancashire during the 1580s.22 And in addi-
tion to the biographical evidence pointing to a Catholic affiliation—or at the
very least association—on Shakespeare’s part, a number of recent studies have
argued that his Catholic sympathies are reflected in the plays themselves.23
While offering some support to this Catholic interpretation of Shake-
speare and his work, the approach I shall be adopting here is somewhat different
from those that I have outlined above. For, whatever the methods they em-
ploy and the conclusions they ultimately reach, debate on Shakespeare and
religion—not surprisingly or unreasonably—has focused on the figure of
Shakespeare himself. Where my approach differs, a difference that I hope is
reflected in the title of my essay, is that I shall be examining Shakespeare’s
treatment of Franciscans not only as a means of gauging his own religious
sympathies and convictions, but also to throw light upon the use that Shake-
speare (and a number of his contemporaries) made of the Franciscan Order.
In this way we will gain a better understanding of its broader cultural signifi-
cance in post-Reformation England. In so doing, I shall consider what it was
about the Order that appealed so greatly to Shakespeare. For if, as I shall ar-
gue, he stands outside the Protestant tradition of anti-Franciscan writing—a
tradition evident in Speght’s Life of Chaucer—why did he choose to present
such highly controversial figures in his plays? What artistic opportunities did
the Franciscan Order offer him? Was his use of Franciscans ideologically
60 David Salter
motivated? What areas of human experience did their presence in the plays
allow him to explore?
In the pages that follow, I shall consider each of Shakespeare’s three
“Franciscan” plays in the order in which they were produced, starting with
Romeo and Juliet (which is believed to have been written in 1594), moving
onto Much Ado about Nothing (composed approximately four years later in
1598), and concluding with a discussion of Measure for Measure (which is
thought to have been completed either in late 1603 or early 1604). But, in
order to understand the nature of Shakespeare’s engagement with the Fran-
ciscan movement, it is first necessary to look briefly at the set of literary and
artistic conventions that were associated with the Order in the Renaissance,
and that shaped the ways in which it was represented and understood. For,
although I shall argue that Shakespeare’s Franciscans constitute a radical de-
parture from the way in which the Order was conventionally depicted, the
novelty and originality of his Franciscan protagonists can only fully be ap-
preciated when they are set alongside the stereotypical figures that represent
the norm.
Perhaps the best way to describe the complex amalgam of conventions
and protocols that governed literary depictions of the Franciscans is to ex-
plain how they came into force. For the turbulent history of the Order lies
behind and feeds into the literary representations of its members.
***
The famous fresco of The Dream of Innocent III in the basilica of the
Upper Church of San Francesco in Assisi (a work that is often attributed
to Giotto) provides a useful point of entry into the cultural history of the
Franciscan Order (see p. 13). Although the veracity of Innocent’s dream
has often been called into question, an event of great historical significance
nonetheless lies behind the image. 24 In 1210, Francis of Assisi—accompa-
nied by his first twelve followers—travelled to Rome to seek approval and
official sanction from Pope Innocent III for the religious Order that he
was hoping to establish. Adopting the name fratres minores, or lesser broth-
ers, Francis required members of his Order to observe literally and in every
degree the life of preaching and absolute poverty, which—according to the
Gospels—was followed by Christ and his disciples. Innocent was said to
have been impressed by Francis’s piety and sincerity, but he feared that the
Rule he was proposing was too austere. However, the fresco depicts the
divinely inspired dream Innocent is said to have experienced that night,
which convinced him to grant his approval to the Order. Hence, in the
fresco, on the right of the composition Innocent can be seen lying asleep
in bed, while on the left the artist has represented his dream. In the latter
a church (which the legend identifies as the papal basilica), is in a state
of near ruin, and only the presence of Francis—who can be seen physi-
cally supporting the building with his shoulder—prevents its complete
collapse. 25
The Dream of Innocent III brings together a number of important factors
that were to prove crucial in determining how the Order was subsequently
perceived and understood, by both its supporters and its detractors. Clearly,
the basilica’s unstable edifice is a particularly apt metaphor for the allegedly
ruinous spiritual state of the Church, and Francis—and by implication the
Order he founded—is seen to play a crucial role in restoring its integrity and
stability. However, from the point of view of the present discussion, what is
of even greater significance is that the image reveals just how intimately the
history of the Order was bound up with that of the Papacy. From its very in-
ception—and often to the dismay of Francis himself—the Order functioned
as the instrument of papal policy.26 The popes of the early thirteenth century
saw that the Church was in desperate need of reform (or, to adopt the sym-
bolic language of Innocent’s dream, perilously close to collapse), and Francis
and his followers provided them with the ideal means of tackling the crisis
that they faced.27
Paradoxically, however, the power and prestige that the Papacy con-
ferred on St Francis and his followers acted as a source of conflict within
the wider Church. The bishops and priests in whose diocese and parishes the
Franciscans were sent often resented the intrusion into their jurisdiction, and
the competition that these interlopers provided. And because the Order was
founded on such high and exacting ideals, any suggestion of moral compro-
mise on the part of the friars laid them open to accusations of hypocrisy. For
although they were supposed to lead lives of mendicancy and itinerancy, it
was claimed that in reality the friars were far from sparing in their pursuit of
material comforts.28
Such charges gave rise to a critical discourse which ossified into partic-
ular tropes highlighting a popular view of Franciscan corruption, typically
including traits such as hypocrisy, greed, carnality, and lechery. While it
had its origins in clerical controversy, such a disparaging construction of
the Franciscan friar swiftly found its way into popular literary forms such
as comic tales and satires.29 What it is important to note, however, is that
this was a Catholic literary tradition, arising out of a particular conflict
between two competing models of Church governance. On the one hand,
there was the traditional understanding of ecclesiastical organisation based
on bishops holding—through apostolic succession—autonomy within their
own dioceses, free from interference from Rome. On the other hand, there
was a more centralised and centralising conception of the Church, with
the Pope claiming the right to intervene in all ecclesiastical affairs. Be-
cause the Franciscan Order was perceived as a tool of this centralising papal
62 David Salter
tendency, it became a natural target of wider resentment within the Church

as a whole. Therefore, one obvious way to attack papal policy was by attack-
ing the Franciscans.
It is important to realise that Catholic writing critical of the Franciscan
Order was not simply a response to the fact that the Order failed to live up
to the ideals it espoused—it often reflected fundamental differences in the
ecclesiology of the Catholic Church. So in the Catholic tradition, Franciscans
could be attacked for not being Catholic enough, in that they were seen to
exist outside existing structures, hierarchies, and identities. According to their
critics, they were neither priests nor monks, and so both literally and figura-
tively they had no fixed abode within the Church.30 In this context, far from
Innocent III’s original vision, the Order was perceived in many quarters not as
the mainstay of the Church, but as the most obvious threat to its stability.
It is not surprising that in the wake of the Reformation this tradi-
tion of anti-Franciscan writing appealed to and was appropriated by English
Protestant writers, although the transition from a Catholic to a Protestant
milieu reveals both continuities and differences. On one level, the reformers
were able simply to repeat the criticisms of Franciscans that they found in
Catholic works, albeit applying them to radically different ends. The corrup-
tions and abuses that Catholic critics accused the Franciscans of committing
could now profitably be turned against the Roman Church as a whole. As
a result, Protestant polemic was able to take advantage of this ready-made
mode of attack.
Although the Order was suppressed in England in the early years of the
Reformation, Franciscan friars continued to maintain a visible presence in
Protestant literature, with attacks on Franciscans forming a commonplace of
anti-Catholic polemic from Bale to Milton and beyond. Among the better-
known instances of such writing is Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus. When initially
confronted by Mephistophiles, the devil’s appearance is too awful for Faustus
to bear, so he dismisses the spirit with the command: “Go and return an old
Franciscan friar / That holy shape becomes a devil best” (3, 26–27).31 And
this disparagingly comic attack on the Order of St Francis is of a piece with
the strongly anti-Catholic tone of the play as a whole, particularly given the
jokes Faustus plays upon the Pope in Rome, who is, of course, surrounded by
a retinue of friars.
In John Webster’s The White Devil, once again we find the Franciscan
habit used as a cloak to disguise evil intentions. In the last act of the play, two
followers of the aptly named Francesco, Duke of Florence, disguise them-
selves as Capuchin friars (the Capuchins being a branch of the Franciscan
Order established in 1525, in an attempt to restore the movement to the
austerity and simplicity that it originally espoused). Under the mask of holi-
ness that their borrowed habits confer, the two disguised Franciscans bring
the drama to a suitably bloody conclusion by assassinating a whole host of

their master’s enemies, in ever more cruel and sadistic fashion.32 In Webster’s
drama, then, not only are Franciscans identified with violence and hypocrisy,
but there is also the strong implication that these traits—particularly when
undertaken with characteristic Italian chic—are somehow typical of Catholi-
cism in general.
But the appropriation of this mode of satire for distinctly Protestant
ends is perhaps even more pronounced in George Whetstone’s Elizabethan
rendering of a tale from Boccaccio’s Decameron, in which the translation from
Italian to English also involves a cultural transposition from a Catholic to a
Protestant ethos. In Boccaccio’s version of the story, which is set in Venice, a
lecherous Franciscan, Frate Alberto, persuades a gullible woman that she is
the lucky recipient of the Angel Gabriel’s amorous attentions. However, the
friar tells the woman that because mere mortals are unable to enjoy sexual
intimacy with angels, Gabriel wishes to come to her in human form—and not
surprisingly the form that the Angel chooses to adopt is that of Frate Alberto
himself. Only after a considerable length of time is the friar exposed through
the vanity of the woman, who boasts to her friend of her special status as the
Angel Gabriel’s lover.33 But while Boccaccio’s tale focuses on the cupidity of
friars and the gullibility of women, Whetstone’s translation, which appeared
in 1582, goes much further. First he moves the action from Venice to rural
Umbria, with the specific intention of providing the birthplace of St Francis
as the setting of the tale. (Whetstone indicates at the very beginning of his
narrative that its setting is: “a little Village among the Appenine Mountaynes
not far from the place, where Sainct Frances lyeth intomed”.)34 The reason
for this geographical shift is that in the English Protestant version of the
tale, the young woman is told that it is the spirit of St Francis himself, rather
than the Angel Gabriel, that intends to visit her, again through the medium
of the friar’s body. And in making these changes, Whetstone considerably
widens the scope of his attack. For in addition to the corruption of friars and
the stupidity of women, his satirical target also includes the Catholic culture
of rural Italy, with its roots firmly set in superstition and ignorance—the very
bonds which Protestant writers believed held Catholics in thrall. (Whetstone
thus notes that in the mountainous region of central Italy where the tale is
set, Franciscans are revered “rather for their habyt, than their honestie: for
the poor ignorant people, reverenced Sainct Frances, as a seconde Christe, for
whose sake, they hold his Disciples, not inferior to Saincts”.)35 Moreover,
the replacement of the Angel Gabriel by St Francis himself as the woman’s
putative suitor, adds a further level of anti-Franciscan satire to the tale. At no
point does the woman query the saint’s intentions: his lechery is simply taken
for granted.
64 David Salter
***
This brief account of the origins and development of the tradition of anti-
Franciscan writing enables us to consider Shakespeare’s friars in their proper
historical and cultural context, allowing us better to assess any religious or
extra-literary significance they might possess. And perhaps what is most
immediately apparent when examining Romeo and Juliet from the per-
spective of this literary tradition is just how deliberately and emphatically
Shakespeare identifies the character of Friar Lawrence as a Franciscan.
Two of Lawrence’s own utterances—“Holy Saint Francis” (II.1.65), and
“Saint Francis be my speed!” (V.3.121)—clearly point to his Franciscan
affiliation, while he is called “Holy Franciscan friar” (V.2.1) by his fellow
mendicant, Friar John.36 Moreover, Friar Lawrence swears by his “holy
Order” (III.3.113), and elsewhere in the play his priestly office and mem-
bership of a religious brotherhood are repeatedly emphasised. So Lawrence
is no mere generic priest or friar; rather, he is quite explicitly identified as a
Franciscan. Bearing in mind what we have observed in the work of Marlowe,
Webster, and Whetstone, such an identification might lead us to expect the
portrait of friar Lawrence to be somehow derogatory or satirical. And the
earlier versions of the story—both English and Continental—certainly
offered Shakespeare a great deal of scope to present the role in such a way.
However, far from exploiting the character of Friar Lawrence for partisan
Protestant ends, Shakespeare portrays his Franciscan in a far more positive
light, investing him with a great deal of moral and dramatic authority.
Shakespeare’s principal source for Romeo and Juliet was Arthur Brooke’s
The Tragicall Historye of Romeus and Juliet (published in 1562), which was
itself a translation—through an intermediary French version—of Matteo
Bandello’s Italian novella: “La sfortunata morte di dui infelicissimi amanti . . .”
(“The unfortunate death of two most wretched lovers . . .”). Bandello’s ac-
count of the story (which was first published in 1554) was in turn based on
an even earlier Italian source: a novella by Luigi da Porto, which was the first
version of the tale to be set in Verona, to call the warring families Montecchi
and Capelletti (Shakespeare’s Montagues and Capulets), to give the lovers
the names of Romeo and Giulietta, to identify the friar as a Franciscan, and
to name him Lorenzo (Lawrence).37
Significantly, both of these Italian versions of the tale reveal a residual
distrust of Frate Lorenzo, whose motives are never above suspicion. Nowhere
is this more apparent than in the famous scene in the Capelletti crypt, when
Giulietta awakes from her death-like sleep to find herself unexpectedly ly-
ing next to a man. This is, of course, the body of her dying lover, Romeo, but
Giulietta at first suspects that it is Frate Lorenzo who is lying by her side,
presumably because this is the kind of base and lecherous conduct that one
expects from a Franciscan in the world of Italian novelle.38 While Giulietta’s
misgivings in this case prove to be unfounded, both da Porto and Bandello

repeatedly draw attention to the self-serving motivation underlying the friar’s
actions. For instance, we are told that the reason why Lorenzo befriends Ro-
meo in the first place is because he is powerful and influential.39 In addition,
the friar agrees to assist the lovers in their plan to marry, not simply because
he believes that their union will bring about the reconciliation of their two
households, but more importantly, in the hope that his role in ending the
family feud will be fully recognised and rewarded.40
As he appears in the work of both da Porto and Bandello, then, Frate
Lorenzo is an extremely equivocal figure, and it is his role as a Franciscan
friar that seems to lie behind and provoke much—if not all—of his emotional
ambivalence. On the one hand, as a member of a religious Order, Lorenzo is
not bound by ties of loyalty or patronage to either of the two warring fami-
lies, which enables him to adopt a neutral position in their dispute, and to
retain the trust and confidence of both sides. And it is for this reason that
although Romeo and Giulietta come from the two rival households—and so
have no prior knowledge of one another—they know Frate Lorenzo equally
well, and hold him in equally high esteem. Thus, Lorenzo’s narrative function
within the tale is made possible by virtue of his membership of the Franciscan
Order, which confers on him a freedom of movement and association that
no other character enjoys, and a detachment from the family feud that so
dominates the world of the story.41 On the other hand, however, and as we
have already seen, the suspicion and distrust that generally characterises the
portrayal of Franciscans in Italian novelle can be discerned in the treatment
of Frate Lorenzo. As Giulietta reveals in the crypt, while the friar seems to
enjoy the confidence of all the protagonists, this trust is only skin deep, and
even the good that he does perform is shown to be self-serving in its underly-
ing motivation.
There would therefore appear to be a jarring discrepancy—even con-
flict—between the generic portrayal of Franciscans in Italian novelle, and
the actual narrative function of Frate Lorenzo. For, whereas the friar labours
under the cloud of doubt and suspicion that characterises literary represen-
tations of his Order, the narrative role he is assigned requires him to be a
figure who inspires confidence and trust. And the ambivalence that inevitably
results from this mismatch between expectation and function is all the more
pronounced in Arthur Brooke’s English version of the tale, which—as was
noted earlier—was Shakespeare’s immediate source.
As one might expect from an English Protestant like Brooke, his
portrayal of Fryer Lawrence is deeply coloured by the conventions of anti-
Catholic polemic, and nowhere is this disdain for the Church of Rome more
apparent than in his prefatory address to the reader:
66 David Salter
And to this ende (good Reader) is this tragicall matter written,

to describe unto thee a coople of unfortunate lovers, thralling
themselves to unhonest desire, neglecting the authoritie and
advise of parents and frendes, conferring their principall counsels
with dronken gossyppes, and superstitious friers (the naturally fitte
instrumentes of unchastitie) attemptyng all adventures of peryll, for
thattaynyng of their wished lust.42
Brooke is particularly explicit in condemning the Catholic sacrament of

“auricular confession” administered by Fryer Lawrence, which in Brooke’s
view is the “kay of whoredome, and treason”, and which he sees as crucial in
“hastyng [Romeus and Juliet] to most unhappye deathe”.
So the impression gained from Brooke’s prefatory address would seem to
be clear and unambiguous. Far from being the victims either of fate, circum-
stance,or their tyrannical parents,Romeus and Juliet are themselves responsible
for their own demise. By selfishly putting their own sexual gratification
before the duty of obedience they owe their families, they bear the full
burden of guilt and culpability. Moreover, “the superstitious” Fryer Law-
rence—a figure of no higher moral standing than a “dronken gossyppe”—
wilfully aids and abets the lovers in their perfidious course of action, using
the secret, even occultist, rituals of the Catholic Church to achieve his
perverse ends.
But, turning from Brooke’s prefatory address to the poem itself, a very
different picture both of the lovers and of the friar emerges. As Geoffrey
Bullough notes, the tone of moral condemnation so pronounced in the pref-
ace disappears entirely in the main narrative, giving way to a sympathetic and
sentimental portrait of the young couple, whose loving marriage is presented
as wholly admirable.43 This same transformation occurs in Brooke’s treatment
of Fryer Lawrence. Rather than the anti-Catholic stereotype depicted in the
preface, the friar of the poem is a model of virtuous, restrained, moderation.
Prompted by motives of pure, disinterested friendship and a genuine desire
for civic harmony, he agrees to assist the lovers, offering them wise and rea-
sonable advice throughout. So it is the capriciousness of fate, and not the
recklessness or perversity of the friar and the lovers, that brings about the
tragic conclusion. And what is so remarkable about this volte-face on Brooke’s
part is that he seems to be almost totally oblivious of any inconsistency, and
he makes no attempt to harmonise the discrepancy between the preface and
the main narrative. Perhaps the closest Brooke comes to acknowledging—
albeit implicitly—any disparity in his presentation of Lawrence is when he
first introduces the friar. For while emphasising Lawrence’s goodness and
wisdom, Brooke also notes that these qualities tend not to be shared by most
members of the Franciscan Order:
This barefoote fryer gyrt with cord his grayish

weede,
For he of Frauncis order was, a fryer as I reede,
Not as the most was he, a grosse unlearned foole,
But doctor of divinitie proceded he in schoole.
[ ...]
Of all he is beloved well, and honord much of all.
And for he did the rest in wisdome farre exceede,
The prince by him his counsell cravde and holpe at
time of neede.
(ll. 565–568 & 578–580).
The difficulty Brooke seems to face, here, is in reconciling his own antago-
nism to the Catholic Church—to which the tradition of anti-Franciscan satire
gives such full expression—with the demands and logic of the narrative,
which requires Fryer Lawrence to be a sympathetic figure, who commands
the respect not just of the two lovers, but of Verona society more gener-
ally. By characterizing the typical Franciscan as “a grosse unlearned foole”,
thereby implying that Fryer Lawrence is something of an anomaly, Brooke
is—to a certain extent—able to square this particular circle. But there still
remain, the fundamental opposition between the dogmatic demands of reli-
gious polemic on the one hand, and the requirements of the narrative on the
other, and when taken as a whole, The Tragicall Historye of Romeus and Juliet
leaves this opposition unresolved.
The emotional ambivalence that so characterises Brooke’s conception of
the friar is conspicuously absent from the protagonist who appears in Shake-
speare’s Romeo and Juliet. Shakespeare completely discards the polemical
subtext that inflects all of the previous portraits of Friar Lawrence—wheth-
er Catholic or Protestant—and presents instead a figure of unquestionable
moral integrity. Indeed, Shakespeare seems to go out of his way completely
to exonerate Lawrence of blame for the tragic events in which he plays a
part. Hence, in the final scene of the play, and after all of the unhappy cir-
cumstances have been fully brought to light, the Prince clears Friar Lawrence
of any guilt for the lovers’ death, indicating: “We still have known thee for a
holy man” (V.3.270). And as the ultimate and undisputed source of authority
within the play, the Prince’s judgement commands the respect not just of the
protagonists on stage, but of the audience as well.
Shakespeare thus appears to have had no interest in exploiting the sa-
tirical or polemical possibilities presented by the figure of Friar Lawrence, a
temptation to which all of his predecessors had succumbed. Instead, Shake-
speare’s Franciscan can be said to function more in an archetypal than a
satirical mode.44 For rather than being a vehicle for anti-Catholic sentiment,
68 David Salter
he is presented as a sage who officiates mage-like over both the sacred and
secular rites of the play, overseeing the marriage of the young couple, which
he hopes will then bring about the civil union of their warring families. (And
significantly, there is absolutely nothing self-serving at work here: Friar Law-
rence has no wish for recognition or preferment; it is simply the interests of
the lovers, and the wider civic good that motivates his actions.) Moreover, as
the only character who bridges different worlds and stands above the fray,
Shakespeare’s friar enjoys the neutrality and detachment that the narrative
demands of his role, and yet his priestly office transcends the limiting and
limited parameters fixed by the conventions of both Catholic and Protes-
tant anti-Franciscan writing. In his Shakespearean incarnation, then, Friar
Lawrence attains the disinterestedness, the capacity to be—in the words of
Northrop Frye—“detached but not withdrawn”, that is so conspicuously lack-
ing in all of the previous versions of the role.
***
The archetypal functions performed by Friar Lawrence are even more pro-
nounced in romance than in tragedy. The key figure responsible for bringing
about the happy ending in Much Ado about Nothing is none other than a Friar
Francis, whose name alone seems to carry with it an obvious significance,
but with none of the polemical baggage of religious controversy. In Much
Ado, Shakespeare successfully rewrites the ending of Romeo and Juliet in
romance terms, with Friar Francis triumphantly achieving the marital and
civic harmony that eluded Friar Lawrence.
Despite the difference of genre, there are nonetheless compelling struc-
tural and thematic affinities connecting Romeo and Juliet and Much Ado about
Nothing. On the most basic and straightforward level, both plays are set in
Italy, and each uses a novella of Matteo Bandello as a principal source.45 In
addition, they both centre on young lovers who for one reason or another
experience problems in successfully passing from a single to a married state.
Adopting an anthropological approach, here, it could be said that the two
plays are concerned with marriage as a rite of passage; that is, with marriage
as a ritualised ceremony whose purpose—to quote Joseph Campbell—is “to
conduct people across those difficult thresholds of transformation that de-
mand a change in the patterns not only of conscious but also of unconscious
life”.46 As we have already seen, in the case of Romeo and Juliet it is impossible
for the young couple to live together openly as husband and wife, because
the warring feud between their two families prevents them from publicly
acknowledging their relationship. In Much Ado about Nothing on the other
hand, Claudio mistakenly believes that Hero, his betrothed, has a lover, and
for this reason he violently denounces and then rejects her during the wed-
ding ceremony itself. So while the particular problems confronting Claudio
and Hero are very different from those facing Romeo and Juliet, when viewed
in anthropological terms, the result in both cases is that the lovers’ transition
from a single to a married state is blocked.
It is here that the similarity in the role of the two Franciscans becomes
apparent, for both friars seek to assist the couples in successfully negotiat-
ing the pitfalls that hinder or impede their respective marriages. Not only
does Friar Lawrence officiate at the wedding of Romeo and Juliet, but he
also offers Juliet what she hopes will be a way of preventing her enforced and
bigamous marriage to Paris—a sleeping potion that so paralyses the senses
that it seems to kill those who take it. And just as Friar Lawrence urges Juliet
to feign death in order to achieve a full-married life with Romeo, so Friar
Francis tells Hero that she must “die to live” (IV.1.253).47 For the one way
to bring about the hoped-for marital union—the friar argues—is to let it be
known that Hero is dead, since it is only by making Claudio feel remorse
for his actions, and so causing him to experience a sense of personal loss for
Hero’s supposed death, that he will come to a proper understanding of her
true worth.
In each of the two plays, then, the heroines experience a form of sym-
bolic death, but it is an ordeal that they both have to undergo in order to have
at least the prospect of a new life. And it is the two friars—Lawrence and
Francis—who oversee these mysterious, quasi-magical rites. Of course, it is
significant that the attempt to resurrect Juliet fails, whereas Hero successfully
passes through the ritual of death and rebirth, but this is not a reflection on
the relative moral worth of the two Franciscans, rather it is a consequence
of the different narrative trajectories of tragedy and romantic-comedy. (To
quote Byron’s somewhat flippant comments from Don Juan: “All tragedies
are finished by a death / All comedies are ended by a marriage”).48 Moreover,
that the conclusion of Much Ado about Nothing is a self-conscious rework-
ing of Romeo and Juliet is further suggested by the fact that Friar Francis is
an invention of Shakespeare’s—there is no precedent for the role in any of
the play’s sources. Shakespeare can therefore be said almost to have reprised
the role of Friar Lawrence when writing Much Ado about Nothing, a role that
he transposed into comic-romantic terms. Or to quote Geoffrey Bullough, Fri-
ar Francis is none other than “Friar Lawrence up to his old tricks again”.49
The shift from tragedy to romantic-comedy gives Shakespeare the
chance to exploit much more fully the narrative opportunities inherent in
the role of the friar. Appearing only at the moment of crisis, when his wisdom
is most needed, Friar Francis emerges as the key to unlocking the romantic
possibilities that seem impossibly remote after Claudio’s humiliation of Hero.
Without Francis there can be no happy ending, for in devising the plan to
resurrect a woman mistakenly thought to be dead, he manages not simply
to re-unite the lovers, but to re-establish civil harmony as well. As with Friar
70 David Salter
Lawrence, Shakespeare invests an enormous amount of moral and narrative

authority in Friar Francis, although his significance is in many ways even
greater than that of his predecessor. Because he functions not in the tragic
milieu of Romeo and Juliet, but in the comic world of romance, his almost
mystical presence is all the more acceptable and exploitable on a dramatic
level. It is his archetypal role to oversee a number of typical romance move-
ments towards resolution and the establishment of harmony. For instance,
he is responsible for the shift at the end of the play from a state of penitence
and guilt on Claudio’s part to one of forgiveness and reconciliation. Likewise,
he assists the couple in their passage from youthful immaturity to the adult
world of marital responsibility. On a grander scale, a corollary to these trans-
formations could be seen in any one of a number of the archetypal romance
movements to which critics such as Northrop Frye draw attention.50 For in
Frye’s terms, Friar Francis can be seen as the agent of those romantic, cyclical
patterns that underpin the appearance of new life out of death, or more gen-
erally the emergence of hope and renewal—symbolised by marriage—when
all seemed bleak and sterile. In this sense, then, Friar Francis does indeed
fulfil a sacred function, but it is not one that is confined to the strictures laid
down in either Catholic or Protestant discourse. As a figure working in align-
ment with—and as an instrument of—the natural forces of cyclical renewal,
Friar Francis can be said to exude a spirituality that in some respects is more
pagan than Christian. As Northrop Frye notes: “when [the resolution of a
Shakespearean comedy] is accomplished by a human being [ . . . ] that char-
acter has about him something of the mysterious aura of divinity, symbolised
by magic or sanctity”.51
***
What is surprising about the two friars we have encountered so far is that
they are unusual—if not unprecedented—in going beyond the imagina-
tive possibilities typically or stereotypically assigned to Franciscans in
both Catholic and Protestant popular literature. However, in Measure for
Measure, the last of Shakespeare’s three “Franciscan” plays, the business of
friars and their presentation becomes much more complicated. This is partly
because we are presented not with a friar per se, but with the secular figure
of Duke Vincentio, the prince of Vienna, who disguises himself as a friar in
order secretly to observe how his deputy, Angelo, administers justice in his
absence. The Duke’s adoption of the friar’s habit for the purpose of disguise
renders his status somewhat ambiguous, for he undertakes some of the sacred
duties of a priest, only to cast off the friar’s costume at the end of the play
when he reassumes his role as a secular ruler. But, while the precise nature
of the Duke’s religious identity is never fully clarified, the play does have
a genuine Franciscan protagonist whose credentials are beyond dispute.
Isabella is a member of the sisterhood of St Clare—the second of the three

Franciscan Orders—although she is still a novice, having yet to make her
final vows.
As is the case with Much Ado about Nothing, the religious or quasi-religious
figures of Measure for Measure—the Franciscan nun and the disguised
friar—are not to be found in any of the play’s sources; they are seeming-
ly Shakespeare’s invention.52 Their presence in the play therefore suggests
Shakespeare’s continuing interest in the dramatic possibilities presented by
Franciscans. But while in some respects Measure for Measure does revisit
ground already explored in the two earlier plays, the inclusion of the element
of disguise radically alters the way in which these by now familiar situations
and concerns are worked out.
As suggested above, when disguised as Friar Lodowick, the dramatic
function of the Duke is in many ways similar to that of Friar Lawrence and
Friar Francis. He seeks to bring about justice and to repair the torn fabric of
the characters’ social and emotional lives by reuniting lovers and solving fam-
ily crises. In this way, he also oversees the same romantic movement within
the plot evident in Much Ado about Nothing, although in the case of Measure
for Measure there are two couples—Claudio and Juliet, and Angelo and Mari-
ana—who are brought together by the Friar-Duke. And once again, the play
hinges on the failure of these couples successfully to negotiate unaided the
pitfalls and impediments associated with marriage as a rite of passage. On
the one hand, Claudio and Juliet gain sexual knowledge of one another be-
fore their marriage has been sanctified and legally sanctioned by a legitimate
wedding ceremony, while on the other, Angelo rejects Mariana because she
is unable to provide him with a sufficiently large dowry. During the course of
the play, then, Friar Lodowick attempts to resolve all of the sources of con-
tention and antagonism—whether legal, social, or emotional—that prevent
the two couples from entering into a full-married life. In addition, Measure
for Measure enacts the same ritualised pattern of symbolic death and rebirth
that we have observed in Much Ado about Nothing. Claudio faces execution for
breaking Vienna’s “strict statutes and most biting laws” (I.3.19) against forni-
cation.53 But at the behest of Friar Lodowick the death sentence is not carried
out, a fact that is kept from both the legal authorities and Claudio’s family.
Claudio is kept in hiding until the very end of the play, when his dramatic
reappearance has an air of the miraculous, analogous to the “resurrection” of
Hero at the end of Much Ado. And once again, it is a friar—or at least a friar
in disguise—who oversees this seemingly magical rite.
However, while Measure for Measure repeats much that is familiar from
the earlier plays, the fact that the Duke is a feigned rather than a real friar
complicates and makes problematic his role.54 In part, because he is a secu-
lar ruler policing his realm, the disguise serves an ulterior political purpose.
72 David Salter
But, even more problematically, the Duke’s role as a friar is conflated—and

in conflict—with his role as a lover. As a friar, he is of course licensed to
roam freely through the city and to access all areas of people’s lives, and in
that role he commands the trust of those around him. As we have already
noted, friars enjoyed the freedom to mix with all strata of society, or in the
Duke’s words, “to visit both prince and people” (I.3.45), and it is precisely this
privilege that makes the role of a friar so amenable to the Duke’s purposes.
However, the trust, conferred on the Duke by his adoption of the friar’s habit
is compromised because he seems to use it for his own personal advantage,
both as a ruler and as a suitor to Isabella. The Duke has therefore none of
the selfless detachment that is so characteristic of Friar Lawrence and Friar
Francis. Indeed, there is more than a hint of emotional manipulation at work
here. The Duke’s actions expose him to the accusation that in the guise of a
friar he is granted—and takes full advantage of—the opportunity to inveigle
himself into Isabella’s affections while her guard is down. As a nun, Isabella
naturally trusts, respects, and confides in the figure of Friar Lodowick, whom
she believes to be a fellow Franciscan, and whom she consequently treats as a
spiritual guide and mentor. The false pretext under which the Duke is intro-
duced to—and establishes a relationship with—Isabella, perhaps renders her
unduly susceptible to his powers of influence and persuasion. In other words,
it could be argued that part of what defines Measure for Measure as a problem
play rests with the Duke’s use, and possible abuse, of the friar’s habit.
The problems and complications of Measure for Measure notwithstand-
ing, I hope that what this study has demonstrated is the originality of Shake-
speare’s use of Franciscans—an originality that stems from what appears to
be a complete lack of interest on his part in exploiting the friars for polemical
or satirical ends. For Shakespeare carves roles for his friars that transcend the
narrow strictures and limitations that define and confine the Franciscans found
in the popular literature of both the medieval and the Renaissance periods.
However, placing these three plays in the broader context of anti-
Franciscan writing inevitably raises the moot question of what—if
anything—they reveal about Shakespeare’s religious sympathies. In a climate
where hostility to friars was almost an unconscious Protestant reflex, the fact
that Shakespeare presents such sympathetic Franciscans appears to carry
a great deal of religious significance. Indeed, it is tempting to view Shake-
speare’s friars as an implicit declaration of Catholic allegiance—or at the very
least sympathy—on his part. But as I have argued, I think it would be wrong
to see Shakespeare’s Franciscans in too overtly religious or ideological a man-
ner. Friar Lawrence and Friar Francis are not Catholic propaganda, deployed
by Shakespeare to counter or rebut the overwhelmingly negative portrayal of
the Franciscan Order—and by extension the Church of Rome—to which the
Protestant literature of the time gave such prominence. Rather, Shakespeare’s
friars seem to signal more a retreat from the world of religious controversy
than an entry into it. Although Franciscans enjoyed a very visible presence
in the literature of the late-sixteenth century, by that time the Order itself
had been absent from England for more than half a century. To many of
Shakespeare’s contemporaries, then, Franciscan friars must have appeared to
be figures who belonged more to the distant past or to far off lands than
to the quotidian world of the here and now.55 And this remoteness from
contemporary English life would have leant them an air of the exotic and
the mysterious, making them ideally suited to artistic exploitation on the
stage, particularly in the genre of romantic-comedy. And perhaps, if the play-
wright’s family were indeed recusants, of whatever degree of commitment,
then that exoticism may have been coloured with a nostalgic hankering for
a period when spirituality seemed a simpler, less contested issue.” Moreover,
while both Friar Lawrence and Friar Francis are unmistakably sacred figures,
the aura of sanctity that surrounds them is as much pagan as it is Christian
in nature. For both friars can be seen as repositories of power and wisdom,
who act in harmony with cyclical, natural energies to bring about individual
rebirth and social renewal. So whatever his religious convictions, it is worth
remembering that Shakespeare had the discipline and the detachment of a
great artist. And perhaps it is these qualities, as much as any religious sympa-
thies, that enabled him both to see and to exploit the imaginative possibilities
suggested by the Order of St Francis.
No t e s
1. The Workes of our Antient and lerned English Poet, Geffrey Chaucer, newly
Printed, ed. Thomas Speght (London: Adam Islip, 1598). This has been reproduced
in facsimile in Derek Brewer, ed. Geoffrey Chaucer: The Works, with supplementary
material from the editions of 1542,1561, 1598 and 1602 (Ilkley: Scolar Press, 1974).
2. For a discussion of Speght’s edition of the Works of Chaucer, see Derek
Pearsall’s “Thomas Speght”, in Editing Chaucer: The Great Tradition, ed. Paul G.
Ruggiers (Norman, Oklahoma: Pilgrim Books, 1984), 71–92. See also Alice S.
Miskimin, The Renaissance Chaucer (New Haven & London: Yale University Press,
1975), 250–253.
3. Speght’s “Life” of Chaucer was reprinted by E. P. Hammond in her Chaucer:
A Bibliographical Manual (New York: Macmillan, 1908), 19–35.
4. Hammond, Chaucer: A Bibliographical Manual, 21–22.
5. To a great extent, Speght’s biography draws on the accounts of Chaucer’s
life written by John Leland and John Bale, although the claim that Chaucer attended
both the University of Cambridge and the Inner Temple—along with the story of
his violent altercation with the Franciscan friar—are not found in any of the earlier
sources. Writing at the end of the nineteenth century, Thomas Lounsbury showed
that these early biographical accounts of Chaucer’s life have almost no basis in fact.
For Lounsbury’s discussion of what he called “The Chaucer Legend”, see his Studies
74 David Salter
in Chaucer, His Life and Writing, 3 vols. (London & New York: Osgoof & McIlvaine,
1892), vol. 1, 129–224, especially 155–173.
6. For an account of Chaucer’s education, much of which would seem to have
been informal in nature, and to have taken place in the various noble households in
which he served, see Derek Pearsall, The Life of Geoffrey Chaucer (Oxford: Blackwell,
1988), 29–34.
7. See Pearsall, The Life of Geoffrey Chaucer, 47 and 51–53.
8. The exact date of Chaucer’s birth is not known. However, the scholarly
consensus is that he was born some time during the early 1340s, which would make
him well over fifty during the latter days of Richard II’s reign. For the date of
Chaucer’s birth, see Pearsall, The Life of Geoffrey Chaucer, 9–11.
9. I owe this insight to Joseph A. Hornsby’s, “Was Chaucer Educated at the
Inns of Court?”, The Chaucer Review, 22 (1988), 254–268.
10. See Hornsby, “Was Chaucer Educated at the Inns of Court?”, 260–264.
11. Speght’s claim that Chaucer attended the Inner Temple has been the
subject of much critical debate over the years. See Edith Rickert, “Was Chaucer
a Student at the Inner Temple?”, The Manly Anniversary Studies in Language and
Literature (Chicago: University of Chicago, 1923), 20–31; John Matthews Manly,
Some New Light on Chaucer (New York: H. Holt & Co., 1926), 7–18; D. S. Bland,
“Chaucer and the Inns of Court: A Re-Examination”, English Studies 33 (1952),145–
155; and Pearsall, The Life of Geoffrey Chaucer, 29–30 and 317, footnote 13.
12. That Speght’s anecdote implicitly aligns Chaucer with the reformers of the
sixteenth century has been noted by Joseph Hornsby, “Was Chaucer Educated at the
Inns of Court?”, 256–257.
13. Caroline Spurgeon—writing in 1925—noted that Chaucer was
appropriated by the reformers of the sixteenth century, who identified him as a
figure who shared many of their opinions on the Church of Rome. See Caroline
Spurgeon, Five Hundred Years of Chaucer Criticism and Allusion, 1357–1900, 3 vols.
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1908–1912), vol. 1, xix–xx. See also Linda
Georgianna, “The Protestant Chaucer”, in Chaucer’s Religious Tales, ed. C. David
Benson and Elizabeth Robertson (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 1990), 55–69, 56.
14. Cited in Derek Brewer, ed., Geoffrey Chaucer: The Critical Heritage, 2 vols.
(London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1978), vol. 1, 108.
15. Brewer, Geoffrey Chaucer, vol. 1, 108.
16. Jack Upland is attributed to Chaucer in the earliest surviving printed
edition of the text, which dates from 1536. John Foxe reprinted the tract in 1570—
again attributing it to Chaucer—in the second edition of his Actes and Monuments.
It was first included in an edition of Chaucer’s Works by Thomas Speght in his
second edition of 1602. For a modern edition of the work, see P. L. Heyworth, ed.,
Jack Upland, Friar Daw’s Reply, and Upland’s Rejoinder (London: Oxford University
Press, 1968).
17. A. C. Bradley’s comments on the secular milieu of Shakespeare’s
theatre are reasonably characteristic of this critical tradition. See A. C. Bradley,
Shakespearean Tragedy (London: Macmillan, 1904), 15. See also George Santayana,
“The Absence of Religion in Shakespeare”, in Interpretations of Poetry and Religion
(New York: Scribner’s, 1916), 147–165, and Robert Murrell Stevenson, Shakespeare’s
Religious Frontier (The Hague: Martinus Nijoff, 1958), 20.
18. See, for instance, Charles William Wallace, The Evolution of the English
Drama up to Shakespeare (Berlin: G. Reimer, 1912), 9–10. Writing in the same
year, C. F. Tucker Brooke claimed that the Elizabethan drama of Peele, Kyd,
and Marlowe had “enfranchised” and “emancipated” itself from “ecclesiastical
tendencies” and “vassalage to the ancient church”. See The Tudor Drama: A History
of English National Drama to the Retirement of Shakespeare (London: Constable &
Co., 1912), 440.
19. R. M. Frye characterises Shakespeare’s engagement with contemporary
theology and religious practice in precisely this way. See R. M. Frye Shakespeare and
Christian Doctrine (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1963).
20. The earliest written record explicitly to connect Shakespeare with
Catholicism dates back to 1611, when the Protestant historian, John Speed, identified
the author of Henry IV (he does not actually name Shakespeare) as an associate of
the Jesuit missionary, Robert Persons: “this Papist and his poet, of like conscience
for lies, the one ever feigning and the other ever falsifying the truth”. Quoted by
Peter Milward, Shakespeare’s Religious Background (Chicago: Loyola University
Press, 1975), 51. See also M. Mutschman and K. Wentersdorf, Shakespeare and
Catholicism (New York: Sheed & Ward, 1952), 348, and Gary Taylor, “The Fortunes
of Oldcastle”, Shakespeare Survey 38 (1985), 85–100, 97.
21. For instance, see Milward, Shakespeare’s Religious Background, 15–23, and
Mutschman and Wentersdorf, Shakespeare and Catholicism, 33–104.
22. See E. A. J. Honigmann, Shakespeare: The “Lost” Years (2nd edn.
Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1998). Honigmann’s study has given
rise to a great deal of research into the question of Shakespeare and Catholicism,
centring in particular on the personal networks linking Shakespeare’s family with
well-known Catholic households from Warwickshire and Lancashire. Much of
this work was presented at the “Lancastrian Shakespeare” conference held at the
University of Lancaster in July 1999, subsequently published in a two-volume
collection edited by Richard Dutton, Alison Findlay, and Richard Wilson: Theatre
and Religion: Lancastrian Shakespeare (Manchester: Manchester University Press,
2003); and Region, Religion, and Patronage: Lancastrian Shakespeare (Manchester:
Manchester University Press, 2003).
23. See, for, instance, Mutschman and Wentersdorf, Shakespeare and Catholicism,
209–319; Peter Milward, The Catholicism of Shakespeare’s Plays (Southampton: Saint
Austin Press, 1997); and Velma Bourgeois Richmond, Shakespeare, Catholicism,
and Romance (New York & London: Continuum, 2000). For a more sceptical view
of Shakespeare’s Catholicism, see Michael Davies, “On this side Bardolatry: The
Canonisation of the Catholic Shakespeare”, Cahiers Elisabéthains 58 (2000), 31–47,
and Stanley Wells, Shakespeare for all Time (London: Macmillan, 2002), 23–36.
24. The attribution of the fresco cycle to Giotto is extremely controversial,
as is the precise date of its composition (with estimates varying from the 1290s to
the 1330s). For a brief overview of this critical debate—often termed the “Assisi
problem”—see Adrian S. Hoch, “Master of the Legend of St Francis”, in The
Dictionary of Art, ed. Jane Turner, 34 vols., (London: Macmillan, 1996), vol. 20,
712–714.
25. The Fresco Cycle in the Upper Church of Assisi is based on The Life of St
Francis (the Legenda Major) by St Bonaventure, which was commissioned in 1260
and completed in 1263. For his account of Francis’s encounter with Innocent III,
see Bonaventure, The Life of St Francis, trans. Ewert Cousins (New York: Paulist
Press, 1978), ch. 3, 205–206. A similar legend—once again involving Innocent
III—came to be told about Francis’s contemporary, St Dominic, the founder of the
76 David Salter
other principal mendicant Order, the Dominicans. A carved image of Dominic

supporting the crumbling edifice of the papal basilica forms part of a narrative cycle
of the saint’s life decorating his tomb in the church of San Domenico, Bologna.
26. For a discussion of the part played by the Papacy in the history of the
Order, see John Moorman, A History of the Franciscan Order from Its Origins to the
Year 1517 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1968), passim; and C. F. Lawrence, The Friars:
The Impact of the Early Mendicant Movement on Western Society (London: Longman,
1994),181–201.
27. The extent to which the Papacy co-opted the Franciscan Order for its
own reforming ends is further suggested by an image from an altarpiece by Giotto
roughly contemporary with the fresco cycle at Assisi, and currently in the Louvre.
The main picture portrays the stigmatisation of St Francis, but there are three
subsidiary images—or predelle—at the bottom of the panel, one of which is The
Dream of Innocent III. Although on a miniature scale, this image resembles very
closely the Assisi fresco, but with one significant addition. St Peter can be seen
standing over the sleeping figure of Innocent III, gesturing towards St Francis and
the crumbling basilica. So, the image implies, St Peter lends the full weight of his
authority to the approval of the Franciscan Order.
28. The literature on the early history of the Order—and the wider conflicts
within the Church that its appearance generated—is extensive. A good overview of
the subject can be found in Moorman, A History of the Franciscan Order, 123–139 and
339–349; Lawrence, The Friars, 152–165; and Penn R. Szittya, The Antifraternal
Tradition in Medieval Literature (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1986),
1–182.
29. For instance, see Arnold Williams, “Chaucer among the Friars”, Speculum
28 (1953), 499–513; Jill Mann, Chaucer and Medieval Estates Satire: The Literature of
Social Classes and the General Prologue to the Canterbury Tales (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1973), 37–54; Szittya, The Antifraternal Tradition in Medieval
Literature, 183–287; and Lawrence M. Clopper, “Songs of Rechelesnesse”: Langland
and the Franciscans (Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 1997).
30. See Szittya, The Antifraternal Tradition in Medieval Literature, 7–9.
31. Christopher Marlowe, Dr Faustus, ed. Roma Gill (2nd edition: London:
A. & C. Black, 1989).
32. John Webster, The White Devil, ed. Christina Luckyj (London: A. & C.
Black, 1996), Act V.
33. Giovanni Boccaccio, Decameron, a cura di Vittore Branca (Torino:
Einaudi, 1980), IV, 2, 487–504. For a modern English translation, see Giovanni
Boccaccio, The Decameron, trans. G. H. McWilliam (2nd edition: Harmondsworth:
Penguin, 1995), IV, 2, 301–312. For a discussion of the representation of friars in
Italian novelle, see Robert J. Clements and Joseph Gibaldi, Anatomy of the Novella:
The European Tale Collection from Boccaccio and Chaucer to Cervantes (New York: New
York University Press, 1977), 183–215.
34. A Critical Edition of George Whetstone’s 1582 An Heptameron of Civil
Discourses, ed. Diana Shklanka (New York & London: Garland, 1987), 120.
35. An Heptameron of Civil Discourses, 121 (my italics). The tale has also been
reprinted by Pamela Benson in her collection Italian Tales from the Age of Shakespeare
(London: J. M. Dent, 1996), 255–258. For a discussion of Whetstone’s Heptameron,
see Thomas C. Izard, George Whetstone: Mid-Elizabethan Gentlemen of Letters (New
York: Columbia University Press, 1942), 80–130.
36. All quotations are taken from Jill L. Levenson, ed., Romeo and Juliet
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000).
37. For a discussion of the sources of Romeo and Juliet, see Geoffrey Bullough,
Narrative and Dramatic Sources of Shakespeare, 8 vols. (London & New York:
Routledge & Kegan Paul & Columbia University Press, 1964), vol. 1, 269–283.
Brooke’s poem is reprinted in the same volume, 284–363. The development of the
legend is traced by Olin H. Moore, The Legend of Romeo and Juliet (Columbus: Ohio
State University Press, 1950). For the versions of the story by da Porto and Bandello,
see Luigi da Porto, “Istoria novellamente ritrovata di due nobili amanti con la loro
pietosa morte, intervenuta già nella città di Verona nel tempo del signor Bartolomeo
dalla Scala”, in Novellieri del Cinquecento, a cura di Marziano Guglielminetti, 2
vols. (Milano-Napoli: Ricciardi, 1972), vol. 1, 241–288; and Matteo Bandello, “La
sfortunata morte di dui infelicissimi amanti che l’uno di veleno e l’altro di dolore
morirono, con vari accidenti”, in Novelle di Matteo Bandello, a cura di Guiseppe
Guido Ferrero (Torino: UTET, 1978), 438–480. English translations of the earliest
Italian and French versions of the story, including those of da Porto and Bandello,
can be found in Nicole Prunster, trans. Romeo and Juliet before Shakespeare: Four Early
Stories of Star Crossed Love (Toronto: CRRS Publications, 2000).
38. See da Porto, 279, and Bandello, 475.
41. In its mission to the towns and cities of Renaissance Italy, the Franciscan
Order was much involved in the resolution of disputes between rival families and
factions, a task that required that the friars’ detachment, neutrality, and freedom of
association be respected. See Lawrence, The Friars, 113, and Cynthia L. Polecritti,
Preaching Peace in Renaissance Italy: Bernardino of Siena and His Audience (Washington
D. C.: The Catholic University of America Press, 2000), 97–103. Shakespeare
makes use of these characteristics in all three of his “Franciscan” plays.
42. Arthur Brooke, The Tragicall Historye of Romeus and Juliet, in Bullough,
Narrative and Dramatic Sources of Shakespeare, vol. 1, 284 (my italics).
43. See Bullough, Narrative and Dramatic Sources of Shakespeare, vol. 1, 277.
44. For an alternative view, which sees Friar Lawrence as a much more
morally compromised figure, see Stevenson, Shakespeare’s Religious Frontier, 31–42,
and James C. Bryant, “The Problematic Friar in Romeo and Juliet”, English Studies
55 (1974), 340–350.
45. For a discussion of the sources of Much Ado about Nothing, see Charles T.
Prouty, The Sources of Much Ado about Nothing (New Haven & London: Harvard
University Press, 1950), and Geoffrey Bullough, Narrative and Dramatic Sources of
Shakespeare, vol. 2, 61–81. For Bullough’s translation of the novella (Novella XXII
from La Prima Parte de le Novelle del Bandello), see 112–134.
46. Joseph Campbell, The Hero with a Thousand Faces (London: Fontana
Press, 1993), 10.
47. All quotations are taken from Sheldon P. Zitner, ed., Much Ado about
Nothing (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993).
48. Cited by R. S. White, “Let Wonder Seem Familiar”: Endings in Shakespeare’s
Romance Vision (London: Athlone, 1985), 3.
49. Bullough, Narrative and Dramatic Sources of Shakespeare, vol. 2, 77.
50. For instance, see Northrop Frye, A Natural Perspective: The Development of
Shakespearean Comedy and Romance (New York: Columbia University Press, 1965);
78 David Salter
and The Myth of Deliverance: Reflections on Shakespeare’s Problem Comedies (Toronto:

University of Toronto Press, 1983).
51. Frye, A Natural Perspective, 125.
52. Fora detailed examination of the sources and analogues of Measure
for Measure, see Bullough, Narrative and Dramatic Sources of Shakespeare, vol. 2,
399–417.
53. All quotations are taken from N. W. Bawcutt, ed., Measure for Measure
54. For a detailed discussion of the Duke’s adoption of the friar’s disguise, and
the complications it raises, see Rosalind Miles, The Problem of Measure for Measure:
An Historical Investigation (London: Vision Press, 1976), 161–196.
55. Rosalind Miles has made this point in relation to Measure for Measure. See
Miles, The Problem of Measure for Measure, 168–169.
56. The strongly nostalgic element to Shakespeare’s friars has been noted by,
amongst others, Peter Milward in his Shakespeare’s Religious Background, 78. On
the more general associations between nostalgia and Catholicism in Shakespeare,
see Gary Taylor, “Forms of Opposition: Shakespeare and Middleton”, English
Literary Renaissance 24 (1994), 283–314, 311; Arthur F. Moretti, “Shakespeare
and Catholicism”, in Dutton, Findlay, and Wilson, ed. Theatre and Religion,
218–241, 228; and Eamon Duffy, “Bare ruined choirs: remembering Catholicism
in Shakespeare’s England”, Dutton, Findlay, and Wilson, ed. Theatre and Religion,
40–57.
W illiam M . M c K im
Romeo’s “Death-markt” Imagination

and Its Tragic Consequences
I n the long history of Romeo and Juliet criticism, writers have paid insuf-
ficient attention to the differences between the ways the two protagonists
imagine themselves as being in love and the tragic significance of those
differences. In many critical accounts, the assumption has been that, as the
two confront obstacles to their marital success, they counter what G. K.
Hunter calls a “rhetoric of society” with a shared voice, a “radiant poetry”
that is expressive of their mutually felt desires and outlook (120). Marianne
Novy, a contemporary scholar who writes about gender construction as a
societal process and its potentially destructive consequences, nevertheless
sees Romeo and Juliet as moving toward a “mutuality in love” during the
course of their play and Romeo’s love of Juliet as constituting not only “a
challenge to the feud” but also to the “associations of masculinity and sexu-
ality with violence” (106) that we hear in the Capulet servant’s boasts about
“thrusting” Montague’s “maids to the wall” (1.1.18) and Mercutio’s gibes
about pricking love “for pricking” and beating “love down” (1.4.28).
Other longstanding critical assumptions consistent with this perception
of Romeo and Juliet possessing a shared point of view about what it means to
be in love are, first, that, by acting decisively to the report of Juliet’s death in
Act Five, Romeo demonstrates that, as M. M. Mahood puts it, he has made
a successful “rite of passage” from “dream into reality,” and, secondly, that we
Kentucky Philological Review, Volume 20, Numbers 4–5 (March 2005): pp. 38–45. Copyright
© 2005 Kentucky Philological Association.
79
80 William M. McKim
as audience end up seeing their self-inflicted deaths as, paradoxically, a “vic-

tory,” not only over time and society but over the possibility of inner hostility
towards each other (398). Northrop Frye, in this regard, says we come to
realize, through their sacrifices, that “nothing perfect or without blemish can
stay that way in this world and should be offered up to another world before
it deteriorates” (32).
Such widely shared sentiments encourage us to reward the play more as
lyric triumph than tragedy and, unfortunately, fail to do justice to its psycho-
logical and cultural complexity. Rather than presenting us with an uplifting
“marriage of two minds” and mutual self-sacrifice, as these readings imply,
Romeo and Juliet illustrate radically different perceptions toward each other
and the world, differences that become more evident to us as the play goes
on, particularly as we note the disparity between their dying speeches. My
contentions in this paper are, first, that, rooted in Romeo’s poetic conception
of what it means to be in love, his imagination of himself being a lover, is a
culturally-induced desire for manly, even heroic, attainment through loving
that overrides any anticipation on his part for happiness, personal intimacy,
or long-term relationship; second, that Romeo’s poetic desire for achievement
through loving is reflective of a masculine anxiety about worthiness, i.e. being
perceived as worthy by himself and others, that is characteristic of the play’s
males in general, from those who pick fights in the streets, ridicule love, or use
their parental and aristocratic status to exercise power over others; third, that
this masculine or worthiness anxiety, which links Romeo to male attitudes
in his society, is presented as a formative cause of his and Juliet’s untimely
deaths; and finally, that his “death-marked” imagination, an imagination di-
rected toward violent encounters and self-enhancement through self-sacrifice,
is already formed, even scripted, before the action of the play begins and does
not significantly change during the course of the play.1 By contrast, Juliet’s
poetic imagination, as reflected in her lyric expressions of what it means to be
in love with Romeo, is radically free of this self-regarding concern with her
own worthiness or personal attainment but is instead characterized by desires
for earthly happiness, sexuality, and day-to-day intimacy.
A misleading image of Romeo that persists in the popular imagina-
tion, and that is perpetuated in many stage and screen productions, is that of
an extraordinarily genteel youth, free of masculine anxieties and tendencies
toward violence that are a product of these anxieties. As a corrective to this
stereotype, we might consider Romeo’s actions and speeches in the play as
mirroring, not counteracting, the competitive atmosphere of his society as a
whole. In doing so, we might note that his actions and speeches, like those
of other male characters in the play, are characterized by recurrent variations
on the trope of “standing”: standing up, standing out, and standing in for. For
example, at the beginning of the play, Sampson, the Capulet servant, brags
Romeo’s “Death-markt” Imagination 81
that he is “able to stand,” as long as his “naked weapon is out” (1.1.28, 34),
and with his other standing weapon he will “thrust [Montague’s] maids to the
wall” (16) just as assuredly he will “back” (35) or stand in for his fellow servant
and fellow fighter, Gregory, against the Montague servants.
We see a similar pattern repeated, with Romeo involved, later in the
climactic duel scene in Act Three. Tybalt prides himself on standing out in his
society as a quarreler, so he stands up against Romeo and issues him a written
challenge to duel. Mercutio, who has proclaimed that those, like Tybalt, who
try to stand out through dueling are nothing but “fashionmongers” (2.3.33)
but who himself has no hesitation about himself trying to stand out as a wit
(as Romeo describes him: “A gentleman . . . that loves to hear himself talk, and
will speak more in a minute than he will stand to in a month” [147–149]), un-
characteristically decides to stand up for Romeo’s life and honor, and perhaps
even his love for him, against Tybalt.2 When Romeo realizes that Mercutio
has sacrificed himself by standing in for him and his cause of honor, he de-
clares his “reputation stain’d” (3.1.111), his having been made “effeminate” by
“Juliet’s beauty” (114) , so, capitulating to the pressure to perform his manly
duty under the imagined gaze of his friend, “for Mercutio’s soul / Is but a
little way above our heads” (126–127), staying for revenge, he stands up for
Mercutio by killing Tybalt.
Romeo’s violent and catastrophic response in this scene we may see as
prefiguring his hasty and misguided response, at the end of the play, when
he hears the false report of Juliet’s death. Imagining himself subjected to the
eyewitnessing presence of his dead Juliet, as he previously was to that of Mer-
cutio, “Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee, tonight” (5.1.34), he, like the worthy
lover he imagines himself to be, manfully stands up for her, by violently chal-
lenging death, her imagined adversary: “Thou detestable maw, thou womb of
death / . . .Thus I enforce thy rotten jaws to open, / And in despite I’ll cram
thee with more food” (5.3.45, 47–48).
The intertwined and interconnected nature of these actions is the con-
sequence of already scripted cultural codes of honor that encourage acts
of violence, including self-sacrifice, as proof of manliness, worthiness, and
constancy. The Montague-Capulet feud, in light of this recurrent pattern, is
shown to be more symptom than cause of a more broadly cultural mindset,
the erecting, defending, and promoting of one’s house serving as a means
of standing tall against rivals, and other aggressive efforts to stand tall and
stand above, whether through building, fighting, sarcastic discourse, or sex-
ual conquest, functioning as invitations for put-downs and knockdowns of
various sorts.
Seen against these patterns of cultural influence and corresponding be-
haviors, the characterization of Romeo emerges more as an epitome of his
society than a counter to it. As we have seen his masculine anxiety emerge
82 William M. McKim
with a vengeance in his compulsion to fight Tybalt for a cause and to castigate
Juliet’s beauty for making him “effeminate,” we see Romeo, throughout the
play, set forth in a defensive and competitive context. Lady Capulet proclaims
about Romeo at the masked ball that “Verona brags of him” (1.5.64), and his
father, Montague, says that he expects him to “spread his sweet leaves to the
air” and “dedicate his beauty to the sun” (1.1.145–146), in other words stand
out among the rest of Verona’s young men as the beautiful person his father
imagines him and wants him to be. When we first see Romeo in the play,
though he has cultivated an image of himself as suffering recluse, his dis-
course in the streets is not humble and self-effacing, as we might expect from
such a pretense, but is characterized instead by an assertive and showy display
of witty images and paradoxes: “Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs
. . . What is it else? A madness most discreet / A choking gall and a preserv-
ing sweet” (1.1.190, 195–194). When talking about his beloved Rosalind, he
is not modest but boasting and eloquent. She is “rich in beauty,” she “hath
Dian’s wit” (202) and “will not stay the siege of loving terms” (209), and “the
all-seeing sun / Ne’er saw her match since first the world begun” (1.2.92–93).
Although he represents himself poetically as defeated in not being able to
satisfy his desires, he is, based on that suffering, all the more worthy of admi-
ration since his constancy is “devout religion,” standing out above the fickle
weakness of “transparent heretics” (88, 91) who haven’t the strength to be so
self-sacrificing.
Whether in the spirit of play or seriousness or some of both, we see him,
throughout the first two acts, translating emotion into displays of public wit,
delivered like thrusts in a duel, so aggressively and skillfully that even Mer-
cutio cannot keep up with him: “Come between us, good Benvolio. My wit
faints” (2.4.67). Furthermore, we see this competitive concern with present-
ing a manly and worthy image of himself persist to the end of the play when,
just before he enters Juliet’s tomb with the intention of lying next to her in
death, he gives his servant a letter, a kind of “suicide note,” to be delivered to
“my lord and father,” presumably in an attempt to justify his seemingly mad
actions as noble and dutiful, not simply rebellious and willful, comparable to
Hamlet’s dying charge to Horatio that his friend present his “cause aright” to
the “unsatisfied.”
Reflective of this self-regarding and self-promoting bent in Romeo’s
characterization is the learnedly bookish shaping of his imagination, bor-
rowing not only from the Petrarchan sonnet tradition (“now is he for the
numbers Petrarch flowed in,” says Mercutio [2.4.38–39]), but also Pla-
tonism, and the medieval literature of chivalric romance, all of which tend
to represent the suffering of the lover as a means of moral improvement and
self-transcendence more than experienced earthly happiness. His turning to
poetry as his major occupation, “feigning notable images,” according to Sir
Philip Sidney’s famous and current definition, that are capable of construct-
ing in words a “golden world” superior to the natural one, coupled with his
dream-supported tendency to play out his poetry in real life, as noted by
Mercutio in his “Queen Mab” speech, reflects an ambitious and idealizing
mind wanting to live not in nature or on the earth, but above it, to live
“within the zodiac of his own wit,” as Sidney puts it.3
This idealizing, and, as I argue, fatal tendency in Romeo’s imagination
is reflected in the way it constructs larger than life roles for himself and his
lady, and the adversaries that threaten them, reaching outward and upward,
above the earth, toward myth and myth-making.4 Coleridge, in writing about
Romeo, notes this tendency when he describes him as motivated by a self-
directed desire of the noble mind for one’s “whole being to be united to some-
thing or some being felt necessary for its completeness” (134), So whether
Romeo is describing Rosalind or Juliet, it is her youthful “beauty,” a Platonic
absolute abstracted from the matrix of nature and temporarily incarnated in a
living being, not her living person, that he uses as a referent in his poetizing,
and that beauty is always characterized, ominously and prophetically, as be-
longing above the earth, in some remote and exalted sphere: “Beauty too rich
for use, for earth too dear” (1.5.47).
“Devout religion” (1.2.88), which seeks some perfection and some sta-
tus beyond the earth not on it, is the primary context within which his love
is imagined. He carries this prescribed association over to his meeting with
Juliet at Capulet’s ball when he characterizes her body as a shrine and himself
a saint, himself implicitly as a religious pilgrim. All the images he uses to de-
scribe her, in this as in subsequent scenes, are extraterrestrial and competitive
in their implication. Her abstracted beauty always stands above, “a snowy dove
trooping with crows / As yonder lady o’er her fellows shows” (1.5.48–49), “a
bright angle . . . being o’er my head / As is a winged messenger of heaven /
Unto the white-upturned wond’ring eyes / Of mortals that fall back to gaze
on him . . .” (2.2.26–30), and a “fair sun,” drawing envy from the moon, whom
she has the power to kill with her rising (2.2.3–6).
All of these images serve implicitly to exalt the poet-lover in his
own imagination and constitute a kind a kind of self-fashioning or self-
transformation, as he characterizes himself as empowered, lifted above the
earth, by his affection for her and, even more, by her affection for him, as
if it were an inspiration from a muse or an act of divine grace. As his lady
is made to play a personified role in his imagination, that of ideal Beauty
which diminishes by comparison all that is earthly, so is he, by implication,
exalted into a mythological role himself, that of Love, the aspiring quester
after beauty, given superhuman powers of his own by beauty’s powerful influ-
ence: “Call me but love and I’ll be new baptized. / Henceforth I never will be
Romeo” (2.2.49–50) and “With love’s light wings did I o’erperch these walls, /
84 William M. McKim
For stony limits cannot hold love out, / And what love dares do that love
attempt. / Therefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me” (66–69). “For valour, is
not Love a Hercules[?]” (LLL 4.3.337), as Berowne, one of Shakespeare’s
previously created poet-lovers, proclaims. Because such beauty incarnated on
earth, poetically and mythically speaking, is constantly threatened and in-
evitably doomed, a recurrent theme in Shakespeare’s sonnets, the myth or
waking dream created and lived out by the lover-poet is inevitably tragic and
emotionally disturbing. Therefore, it is fitting that Romeo envision himself as
a ship-tossed, and finally, shipwrecked sailor, the vessel propelling him on his
imperiled quest being steered by an unknown but life-threatening pilot: “But
He that hath the steerage of my course / Direct my [sail]!” (1.4.112–113) and
“Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on / The dashing rocks thy sea-sick
weary bark!” (5.3.117–118).
Where in myth or poetry there is such supreme, standout beauty and
aspiring love, there is inevitably an envious threat, Orpheus and Eurydice,
Proserpine and Dis, and Milton’s Adam and Eve being prime examples. So
the perilous sense of being threatened, of a struggle, becomes an essential
part of the script that is played out in Romeo’s dreams and poetry. Stephen
Greenblatt, who made popular the word self-fashioning as a major focus of
early modern critical studies, stated as a principle that literary self-fashioning
is always “achieved in relation to something perceived as alien, strange or
hostile,” some “threatening other” (3). For Romeo the threatening other is less
Juliet’s kinsmen, unworthy of his overreaching and self-glorifying imagina-
tion, but rather personified cosmic forces: “some consequence yet hanging in
the stars” (1.4.107); Fortune, which he fears would make him her “fool,” not
the hero or worthy knight he aspires to be; or death itself, personified either
as a beauty-devouring “beast” or a rival lover. Courage, willingness to sacri-
fice oneself for love, and fidelity, more than long term pleasure or a growing
marital relationship, constitute success in such a myth. Beauty incarnated is
doomed on earth, but “come what sorrow can” let “love-devouring death do
what he dare” (2.6.3, 7) as Romeo says immediately before his wedding to
Juliet, “one short minute in her sight” and his right to “call her mine,” is, as he
confesses to Friar Laurence, “enough” (5, 8).
Thus, in Romeo’s poetic constructions, behind every transcendent
imagining of Juliet’s beauty, and himself a successful lover, there lurks a
doom-directed image of some transcendent adversary that is his enemy, that
calls upon his soul to encounter, to take arms or poetic voice against. Tragi-
cally, we see this already scripted, yet self-constructed, myth acted out to its
prescribed conclusion in Romeo’s final speech, characteristically a soliloquy,
over Juliet’s body in the tomb. By violence against himself, in the “feasting
presence” (5.3.86) of light cast by Juliet’s still-preserved beauty, an echo of his
earlier image, in the balcony scene, of Juliet as the sun with power to kill the
envious moon, Romeo plays out his already scripted hero’s part: “here / will I
set up my everlasting rest, / And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars / From
this world-wearied flesh” (109–112).
At this most tragic and error-filled moment in the play, Romeo can
respond paradoxically, with triumphant assertions more than expressions of
grief, because, as we have seen, his poetic imagination, which has entirely tak-
en over his discourse at this point, measures success in love not as happiness
but as achievement and worthiness. In his own eyes, he has achieved much.
He has not only proved his constancy in love by dying for his beloved, the lit-
mus test of the poet-lover, but he has saved her beauty from being conquered
by himself experiencing the sublimity of that “one short minute” in her sight
he spoke of just before his wedding: “Death, that hath suck’d the honey of thy
breath, / Hath had no power yet upon they beauty. / Thou art not conquer’d,
beauty’s engin yet / Is crimson in thy lips and cheeks, / And death’s pale flag
is not advanced there” (92–96).
Juliet too is given a poetic voice in the play and a poetic imagination,
but, unlike Romeo’s, they are not fully developed or already scripted before
the action of the play begins, nor is her poetry shaped, as Romeo’s is, from
bookish sources, which prescribe love as a vehicle for worthiness more than
happiness. Rather, we see her lyric voice, beginning with the balcony scene
(2.2), in the process of formation, so much so that it could be argued that,
whereas Romeo’s love for Juliet is a construction of his poetry, Juliet’s poetry
is a construction of her love, or, more specifically, her anticipation of hap-
piness through loving Romeo as a person, not an ideal. Her lyric speeches
are always reflective of fresh discovery, not literary or mythic borrowing. For
example, just before Romeo leaves her that night of their first meeting, she
playfully constructs images that express her desires for physical closeness, not
personal achievement. Significantly, they are not cosmic and transcendent,
like Romeo’s images of her beauty, but domestic and earth-directed. In her
imagination Romeo would be, not a star or the sun, but a tamed falcon, and
her only imagined heroics would be for a voice powerful enough to “lure his
tassel-gentle back again” (2.2.159) when, if necessary, he must depart. Or,
in a similar image, Romeo would be a pet bird that a child would have on a
string, so she could always be able to pull him closer to her. Her main fear, in
this domestic scenario, is not some cosmic adversary but her own unbounded
desire for physical intimacy: if he were a bird, she might physically “kill” him,
she says playfully, with too “much cherishing” (182).
As Edward Snow, in an influential article points out, this tender and
playful physicality is outside the range of Romeo’s poetic discourse, because.
“his desire is operated by eyesight” (170), almost exclusively.5 Where Romeo,
for example, personifies the sea as a threatening alien force driving him to
shipwreck and death, Juliet personalizes it and internalizes it, in an optimistic
86 William M. McKim
sense, as an image of her newly discovered capacities for loving: “My bounty
is as boundless as the sea, / My love as deep; the more I give to thee, / The
more I have, for both are infinite” (133–135).
Later in the play, after the wedding but before its sexual consumma-
tion, in Juliet’s most mythopoeic and full-throated speech, “Gallop apace, you
fiery-footed steeds” (3.2.1 ff.), we see these personalizing, familiarizing, and
domesticating tendencies at work. It is a speech, virtually unique in all of
Shakespeare’s works, in which sexual desire is expressed without ironic un-
dertones of guilt or shame.6 Romeo, lacking a physical or tactile component to
his poetic imagination, does not come close. Like Romeo, Juliet too sees their
love as set against night and the surrounding darkness, but, unlike Romeo in
his grandiose personifications of sorrow, “love-devouring death,” fortune, and
the stars, she door not see the night as alien and adversarial, a call to arms, but
as a familiar and potentially friendly spirit. “Civil night” (10), she calls her,
one she might bargain and negotiate, not fall into combat, with: “Spread thy
curtain, love-performing night” (5), so we can have privacy for lovemaking.
Most of all, as she says to this imaginary folk spirit, “Give me my Romeo, and,
when I die / Take him and cut him out in little stars . . .” (21–22), and then, if
you wish, you may use his brightness to compete with and outshine the “gar-
ish sun” (25). In Juliet’s imaginary world, goddesses and spirits may compete
with each other for status and rank, but she doesn’t feel a need to, and, in her
poetry, she can represent her sexual dying joyfully and gratefully as a spiritu-
ally assisted experience and her physical death acceptingly as part of a natural
process, not grandiosely as a violent mythic encounter.
As in the balcony scene, we see Juliet, in this speech, using earthly and
domestic, not extraterrestrial, images to define what it means to be in love.
She is the buyer of a house who has not yet “possess’d it,” a sold house that
has not yet been “enjoy’d” and “an impatient child” who has received new
clothes but has yet to “wear them” (26–31). Juliet’s images of herself as want-
ing to be enjoyed, of discovering within her a capacity to love Romeo that
is an bounteous as the sea, is foreign to Romeo’s self-centered preoccupa-
tion with individual attainments. Once again, as in the balcony scene, we see
Juliet portraying herself as a child, not in the sense of being subservient or
simpleminded but in her unspoiled capacity to desire and experience physical
pleasure without shame. In this same speech, she also presents herself and
Romeo as virgin lovers playing in a non-competitive game where, as she clev-
erly puts it, they will both win by losing. An image like this one stands in
contrast to the competitive and defensive bent of most of Romeo’s discourse,
as does her image, also in this speech, of Romeo’s beauty lying “upon the
wings of night, / Whiter than new snow upon a raven’s back” (19). In this
comparison, we may hear the reverse echo of an image Romeo used when he
first saw Juliet: “So shows a snowy dove stooping with crows / As yonder lady
o’er her fellows shows” (1.5.48–49). In Juliet’s imagination of Romeo’s beauty,

white set against surrounding darkness is not one of competition or threat
but aesthetic concord and harmony; by contrast, in Romeo’s image of Juliet’s
beauty, the black crows are being put clown in a competitive beauty contest.
It is tempting, with respect to this play, which has often been char-
acterized as a comedy gone wrong, to see Juliet as representing the comic
imagination, directed toward envisioning and pursuing happiness through
love, while Romeo illustrates the hubristic, if noble, imagination of the tragic
overreacher, whose preoccupation with his own attainments and worthiness
points toward self-destruction. If Juliet’s words, “I must hear from thee every
day in the hour, / For in a minute there are many days” (3.5.44–45) seem
anticipatory of the deconstructive Rosalind in As You Like It, we might imag-
ine her transforming Romeo’s scripted and death-marked imagination, given
leisurely time and pastoral location, as the comedy, As You Like It provides.
On two brief and muted occasions in Romeo and Juliet, we hear Juliet ap-
plying Rosalind-like correctives to Romeo’s preoccupations and anxieties. The
first example is immediately before their wedding, when she refuses Romeo’s
request to “blazon” with “rich music’s tongue” (2.6.26–27) her “joy” at “this
dear encounter” (29), in other words, construct some hyperbolic poetry of her
own to counter what she senses in Romeo as a potentially destructive anxiety,
“if the measure of thy joy / Be heaped like mine” (24–25). Instead of comply-
ing with Romeo’s request, she responds with an eloquent questioning of any
need for grandiose and self-justifying rhetoric: “They are but beggars that can
count their worth, / But my true love is grown to such excess / I cannot sum
up sum of half my wealth” (32–34). The second example of Juliet serving as
gentle critic is immediately after their sexual consummation, when Romeo
expresses his willingness to stay with her in bed past the coming of dawn, not
for the purpose of continuing their lovemaking, as Juliet initially expresses a
desire for, but to remain in danger and so die for her if she “wilt-have it so”
(3.5.18). Against what she infers as his potentially destructive need to prove
himself to her by dying of love (“Come, death, and welcome. Juliet wills it so”
[24]), she speaks up on behalf of a comic, not tragic, scenario: “Hie, hence, be
gone, away!” (26), and let’s try to live for love.
Whereas Romeo’s poetizing persists throughout the play and reaches its
grand climax in his dying speech, which triumphantly proclaims a symbolic
victory over death, time, fortune, and his stars, Juliet’s lyric voice, character-
istically, is last heard in the play the night of her lovemaking with the living
Romeo. Tragically, she has no triumphal self-fashioning, death speech of her
own to match or compete with Romeo’s 36-line soliloquy. “Then I’ll be brief ”
(5.3.168) is the sum of her epitaph; “thy lips are warm” (167) is her modest,
earthy consolation. “No more to build on there,” she might well have said in
a different poem at a different time.
88 William M. McKim
No t e s
1. “Masculine anxiety” is an established term in Shakespearian criticism,
linked largely, but not exclusively, with feminist approaches. Valerie Traub, for
example, states that the feminist perspective is “concerned with male anxiety toward
woman’s eroticism and the maternal body” (4–5), both of which are regarded with
suspicion and implicit disgust by patriarchal culture, as represented in Shakespeare’s
tragedies. Janet Adelman, focusing on the later tragedies from Macbeth to Coriolanus,
sees masculine identity as something constructed to “ward off vulnerability to the
mother” as psychologically constructed (134). Bruce Smith, who ranges in survey
fashion across the breadth of the topic of masculinity in Shakespeare, represents
masculinity in early modern literature as a perilously slippery construction, not an
essence. Mark Breitenberg, citing unequal distribution of power in society as the
basis for masculine anxiety being a universal phenomenon, so far as to state that
“men anxious about their masculinity will [always] be a necessary and inevitable
condition of masculinity” (qtd. In Wells, 213). For the most part, Romeo and Juliet
has been excluded from or de-emphasized in these discussions, although Coppelia
Kahn, by distinguishing between two cultural constructions of what it means to be
manly, one the sanctioned public way productive of anxiety about individuality and
maternal separation, the other a private commitment to fulfilling the duties of being
a husband, sees Romeo as “ultimately choosing against the sanctioned public way”
(89). Clearly, I see Ms. Kahn as overstating her case here.
2. Mercutio’s symbolic linkage with masculine anxiety is illustrated in
Roger Allam’s comments about playing the role in John Caird’s Royal Shakespeare
production, 1983–1984. For Allam’s Mercutio, Romeo has been “unmanned by love”
(Players 118) and is becoming increasingly separated from his former friend. Allam,
therefore, sees Mercutio’s purpose in the duel scene as piling up “an emotional debt”
(119) that will force Romeo to act worthily on his behalf. In addition, we may see
Mercutio’s example of self-sacrifice for love as pointing toward Romeo’s dying for
Juliet, a connection reinforced by the way his name seemingly alludes to the god
Mercury in his role as psychopomp, a messenger who directs souls to the land of the
dead (Porter 104). Two productions of the play in 1994, one directed in England
by Neil Bartlett, the other in Germany by Karen Bier, emphasize this connection
between Mercutio and Romeo’s being marked for death, by having the same actor
who played Mercutio continually reappear later in the play in such roles as the
Apothecary, Friar John, and Romeo’s servant, Balthazar (Holland 224, 269).
3. In 1595, projected as a reasonable date for the composition of Romeo and
Juliet by several modern editors, two editions of Sidney’s Apology for Poetry were
published. Considered as a discourse on poetry’s enflaming and shaping power over
human minds at least as much as a defense of its capacity for teaching morality,
Apology functions well as a commentary on the way poetry and poetry-making are
represented in both Romeo and Juliet and A Midsummer Night’s Dream. In particular,
Sidney’s language about the poet’s being “lifted up” by the “vigor of his own
invention” and, in the process, making things “quite anew, forms such as never were
in nature as the Heroes, Demigods, Cyclops, Chimeras, Furies . . .” (14), applies
to Romeo’s poetizing, especially as characterized by Mercutio in his “Queen Mab”
speech, as well as to Theseus’s argument in A Midsummer Night’s Dream linking “the
poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy rolling” (5.1.12) with madness (See Forrest Robinson’s
note, 14). Sidney’s Apology is also useful to apply to Romeo and Juliet because it
identifies poetic discourse with other types of making, building on its etymological
origins in the word poiein (12), that men in Verona, not women, are free to practice
in competitive ways.
4. In her introduction to the Oxford edition of Romeo and Juliet, Jill Levenson
goes so far as to say that “the primary source of the Romeo and Juliet fiction is myth”
and Liebestod, the name Richard Wagner applied to his opera Tristan and Isolde, as
the particular myth that “informs” it (2). Denis de Rougemont calls Romeo and Juliet
“the most magnificent resuscitation of [this] myth that the world was to be given”
until Wagner (190). Comparing Shakespeare’s play to the Liebestod is, of course,
suggestive but has proved somewhat misleading. First, the comparison ignores the
important distinction between the romantic retelling of a myth, as you have in the
Wagner opera, and the social focus on myth making that we are presented with in
the play. Why Romeo’s suicide is driven by destructive myth making but not Juliet’s
is a question the comparison does not address. The comparison also implies that the
motivation for Romeo’s suicide is uncontrollable erotic passion, an interpretation
contradicted by the performative nature of his dying soliloquy and, as I argue, his
anxious and self-centered desire to present himself as a worthy lover.
5. Snow’s insightful analysis of the differences in Romeo and Juliet’s discourse
is, for the most part, supportive of my conclusions in this paper, though he assumes,
as I do not, that they “share an imaginative vision” (168). But his point about
their representing two contrasting modes of desire, Romeo “reaching out” after
something always at a distance, thereby imagining peak performances or attainments
accompanied by a falling off, Juliet “unfolding” from within, from bud to flower over
time (178), is essential in helping to define their opposing points of view.
6. The point of view toward sexuality in this speech, as well as Juliet’s other
lyric expressions in acts two and three, in contrast with Romeo’s mythologizing,
can be seen as reflective of Rianne Eisler’s argument, in Sacred Pleasure and other
books, that the idea of sexuality being regarded as sacramental, bespeaking “a view
of the world in which everything is spiritual . . . and the whole world is imbued
with the sacred” (57), has been overthrown and usurped in Western culture by the
sacralization of pain and violence and, particularly applicable to Romeo and Juliet,
the “need for glorification built into myths of struggle in which cosmic forces, good
and evil, beauty and darkness, eternity and time, God and the devil, are seen in
perpetual conflict” (381).
Wor k s Ci t e d
Adelman, Janet. Suffocating Mothers: Fantasies of Maternal Origins in Shakespeare’s Plays,
“Hamlet” to “The Tempest.” New York: Routledge, 1991.
Coleridge’s Writings on Shakespeare. Terence Hawks, ed. New York: Capricorn Books, 1959.
Eisler, Rianne. Sacred Pleasure: Sex, Myth, and the Politics of the Body. San Francisco: Harper
Collins, 1995.
Greenblatt, Stephen. Renaissance Self-fashioning from More to Shakespeare. Chicago: University
of Chicago Press, 1980.
Holland, Peter. English Shakespeare: Shakespeare on the English Stage in the 1990s. Cambridge
and New York: Cambridge University Press, 1997.
Hunter, G. K. “Shakespeare and the Traditions of Tragedy.” In The Cambridge Companion
to Shakespeare. Stanley Wells, ed. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University
Press, 1986. 123–141.
90 William M. McKim
Kahn, Coppelia. Man’s Estate: Masculine Identity in Shakespeare. Berkeley: University of

California Press, 1981.
Mahood, M. M. “Romeo and Juliet.” In Essays in Shakespearean Criticism. James L.
Calderwood and Harold E. Toliver, eds. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice Hall, 1970.
391–404.
Northrop Frye on Shakespeare. Robert Sandler, ed. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press,
1986.
Novy, Marianne. Love’s Argument: Gender Relations in Shakespeare. Chapel Hill, NC:
University of North Carolina Press, 1984.
Players of Shakespeare 2: Further Essays in Shakespearean Performance by Players with the Royal
Shakespeare Company. Russell Jackson and Robert Smallwood, eds. Cambridge and
New York: Cambridge University Press, 1989.
Porter, Joseph. Shakespeare’s Mercutio: His History and Drama. Chapel Hill, NC: University of
North Carolina Press, 1988.
Rougement, Denis de. Love in the Western World. rev. ed. Montgomery Belgion, trans. New
York: Princeton University Press, 1983.
Shakespeare, William. The Riverside Shakespeare. 2nd. ed. G. Blakemore Evans, ed. Boston:
Houghton Mifflin, 1997. All quotations are taken from this edition.
——— . Romeo and Juliet, Jill L. Levenson, ed. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000.
Sidney, Sir Philip. An Apology for Poetry. Forrest G. Robinson, ed. New York: Macmillan,
1970.
Smith, Bruce R. Shakespeare and Masculinity. Oxford Shakespeare Topics. Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2000.
Snow, Edward. “Language and Sexual Difference in Romeo and Juliet,” Shakespeare’s Rought
Magic. Peter Erickson and Coppelia Kahn, eds. Newark: University of Delaware
Press / London: Associated University Presses, 1985. 168–192.
Traub, Valerie. Desire and Anxiety: Circulations of Sexuality in Shakespearean Drama. London:
Routledge, 1992.
Wells, Robin Headlam. Shakespeare and Masculinity. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge
University Press, 2000.
R obert N . Watson and S tephen D ickey
Wherefore Art Thou Tereu?

Juliet and the Legacy of Rape
1. The Balcony
T o take Juliet’s “Wherefore art thou Romeo?” as a practical question

about location is a notorious and vulgar error. Yet her next question might
justifiably be, “Wherefore art thou where thou art?” That is the distinct
implication of her next “wherefore”—“How camest thou hither, tell me,
and wherefore” (2.2.62)—and if audiences and readers could break free
from the high-romantic reputation of the scene, they might start asking it
for her.1 But the seemingly exhaustive commentary on Shakespeare’s Romeo
and Juliet has contrived to ignore a cluster of allusions linking the hero to
the most notorious rapists of classical culture: Tereus, Hades, Tarquin, and
Paris. Though Romeo’s covert activities beneath Juliet’s window may not
seem especially sinister on their own, there is something lurking out there
with him: a cumulative culture of sexual extortion from which Juliet will
have to extricate her love story. The persistent silent erasure of these threats,
great and small, by editors and critics typifies the reduction of the play’s
exploration of the spectrum of sexual aggression into an absolute binary of
rape and consent—a binary that may serve the ethical demands of our cul-
ture, but hardly matches the complicated experience of adolescent courtship
to which the play speaks so engagingly.
Romeo’s own explanation for his whereabouts hardly exonerates him of
peeping: he found the place “By love, that first did prompt me to inquire; / He
Renaissance Quarterly, Volume 58, Number 1 (Spring 2005): pp. 127–156. Copyright © 2005
Northwestern University Press.
91
92 Robert N. Watson and Stephen Dickey
lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes” (2.2.80–81). Certainly the lewd sexual
banter Mercutio persistently applies to the situation invites us to suppose that
Romeo is seeking out his beloved’s “straight leg, and quivering thigh, / And
the demesnes that there adjacent lie” (2.1.19–20) by all available means and
to the fullest extent possible. If, as Romeo complains, Rosaline was unwilling
to “bide th’ encounter of assailing eyes” (1.1.213), perhaps he will have better
luck this time.
After a series of gently parried thrusts toward Juliet’s body, and af-
ter learning that the feud will inhibit conventional courtship, Romeo—
“bewitched by the charm of looks” (2.Chorus.6)—lurks “bescreen’d in night”
(2.2.52) while the Capulet household readies for bed. For forty-nine lines
after Juliet appears in her window (doing what?), he says nothing, only stares
in secrecy. Twice at least, the text suggests, Romeo prolongs his advantage
by overcoming an urge to reveal his presence—“I will answer it. / I am too
bold” (13–14) and “shall I speak at this?” (37)—and instead remains in hid-
ing as Juliet exposes more and more (of her feelings, at least). Romeo assures
himself “’Tis not to me she speaks” (14), and thus, by the peculiar logic of this
etiquette, he need not reply but can remain concealed to listen further.
To accuse Romeo of voyeurism here may seem mean-spirited, both
toward the character and toward the play, but to exonerate him seems pre-
mature (or retroactive), and deprives us of yet another level on which the play
traces the growth from immature to mature eroticism. Nor is there anything
inherently ahistorical about the accusation. Despite what may have been a
lesser standard of bodily privacy across many sections of Renaissance society,
the possibility of voyeurism is verified by the persistence of scopophilic lyrics
and sexual jokes. Many comedies in this period tease their spectators with an
imminent exposure of women’s genitalia—all the more provocatively because
those spectators knew, on another level, that such exposure was impossible,
since the women were played by boys. This dropping of the suspenders of
disbelief is the underlying trick of Jonson’s Epicoene and the ironic point of
the interrupted puppet-show in his Bartholomew Fair. The works of Shake-
speare and his contemporaries also frequently allude to the myth of Actaeon:
a hunter who gazes on the virgin moon-goddess Diana as she bathes un-
clothed, and who is then destroyed when she turns him into a stag to be
pursued by his hounds.2 That Romeo here vows by the moonlight—which
in Arthur Brooke’s The Tragicall Historye of Romeus and Juliet (1562) is what
exposes him to Juliet’s view—may be romantic, but it is also plausibly an evo-
cation of Actaeon’s story: especially since the wary virgin, Juliet, warns him
that he may be hunted down and torn apart by a pack if he is noticed there
(2.2.64–70).3
Hapless Actaeon’s glimpse of Diana was, by most accounts, initially ac-
cidental; yet Romeo’s immediate precursor is more aggressive and willful. In
“Wherefore Art Thou Tereu?” Juliet and the Legacy of Rape 93
Brooke, Romeus casts “his greedy eyes” toward Juliet’s window, and “In often
passing so, his busy eyes he threw, / That every pane and tooting hole the wily
lover knew.”4 In Shakespeare, Romeo’s metaphors beneath Juliet’s balcony
imply similar motives. Gazing up at the “fair sun” Juliet, he immediately urges
her to throw off her servitude to the virginal moon, and does so in terms that
suggest he has a specific interim request of her: “Her vestal livery is but sick
and green, / And none but fools do wear it; cast it off ” (2.2.8–9). It is worth
noting here that—though it may strike modern readers as a remarkable dis-
placement—English law as well as classical mythography judged men’s eyes
primarily responsible for sexual crimes. Edward Coke notes that “of old time
rape was felony, for which the offender was to suffer death, but before this act
the offense was made lesser, and the punishment changed, viz. from death, to
the losse of the members whereby he offended, viz. his eyes, propter aspectum
decoris, quibus virginem concupivit.” 5
Romeo’s plea “that I were a glove upon that hand, / That I might touch
that cheek” (2.2.24–25) is generally taken as a lovely moment of exalted
courtship, if charmingly puerile. By wishing to be the glove, rather than the
invasive hand or phallic finger, Romeo stays a decorous arm’s length from,
say, the sardonic De Flores of The Changeling—whose possession of Bea-
trice’s glove leads him to consider “thrust[ing] my fingers into her sockets
here”6—or from Shakespeare’s own Tarquin, who seizes Lucrece’s glove on
his way to her bedchamber (316–322). But Romeo’s imaginings here are akin
to Parthenophil’s increasingly vulgar wishes in Barnabe Barnes’s Sonnet 63
(1593). After a quatrain citing Jove’s predatory metamorphoses—becoming
a bull to abduct Europa, an imposter-Diana to rape Callisto, and a shower of
gold in Danae’s lap—Parthenophil indulges in some fantasies of his own:
Would I were chang’d but to my mistresse’ gloves,

That those white lovely fingers I might hide;
That I might kisse those hands, which mine hart loves,
Or else that cheane of pearle, her necke’s vaine pride,
Made proude with her necke’s vaines; that I might folde
About that lovely necke, and her pappes tickle,
Or her to compasse like a belt of golde;
Or that sweet wine, which downe her throate doth trickle,
To kisse her lippes, and lye next at her hart,
Runne through her vaynes, and passe by pleasure’s part.7
It is a slippery slope to the clowns who wish they were fleas so that they
might inhabit the undergarments of the kitchen-maid Nan Spit in Mar-
lowe’s Doctor Faustus, or to the various smirking personae of Cavalier verse
who lasciviously imagine transforming themselves into their mistresses’
garters: it is only too easy to degenerate from Lovelace’s “Elinda’s Glove”

to his later “Her Muff.” Romeo mopes into the vicinity of those degrading
analogues in the balcony scene, and at 3.3.30–41, where he details the small
creatures, including flies, who will have access to Juliet’s body (from which
he himself is banished).8 And what might we deduce is on Romeo’s mind in
his very next speech, when he compares himself to a mortal whose “white-
upturned wond’ring eyes . . . gaze on” an angel who “bestrides the lazy
puffing clouds, / And sails upon the bosom of the air” (2.2.26–32)? Gazing
up at a bestriding form tends to offer an intimate view; two scenes later, the
“smock” of the Nurse—who is herself enduring the “ropery” (2.4.146) of
Mercutio’s verbal assault—is called “a sail” (102–103).9 These offenses may
seem mild, but they raise the question whether Romeo intends to earn or
steal the erotic commodities he seeks from Juliet. In the anonymous The
Puritan (1607)—which at moments looks like a comic parody of Romeo
and Juliet—Moll comes out on her balcony “lacing of her clothes,” and her
prospective boyfriend Penny-Dub offers to climb up to her bedchamber. She
refuses: “Ile keepe you downe, for you Knights are very dangerous if once
you get above.”10
Juliet promptly (and quite sensibly) devalues Romeo’s oaths, since “at
lovers’ perjuries, / They say, Jove laughs” (2.2.92–93); Ovid’s Ars Amatoria had
advised young men not to “be timid in your promises; by promises girls are
caught; call as witnesses to your promise what gods you please.”11 She there-
fore reacts to his subsequent “O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?” with
a testing, and arguably testy, question of her own: “What satisfaction canst
thou have tonight?” (125–126). Even what she has already given has cost her
“a maiden blush” (86). There is fear, not just girlish generosity, in her wish that
she could retract her gift of love so she could “give it thee again” (131)—an
anticipation of the problem of virginity as an erotic commodity.
Juliet’s best alternative to that impossible retraction is to render Romeo’s
own commitment unretractable, and—as throughout this scene, where she
wonders about high walls and worries about armed guards while he blithely,
even blitheringly, claims love can somehow easily transcend such things—she
answers his vague Petrarchan formulas with practical details:
Three words, dear Romeo, and then goodnight indeed.

If that thy bent of love be honorable,
Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow,
By one that I’ll procure to come to thee,
Where and what time thou wilt perform the rite. (2.2.142–146)
The possibility that this Romeo is merely an amorous predator clearly

crosses the minds of both Juliet, who worries that he “meanest not well”
(2.2.150), and her protective Nurse, who warns him not to “lead her in
a fool’s paradise” (2.4.165–166) before inviting him back for the second
(2.4.165–166). 2.3 begins with the Friar, too, fearing that Romeo is just
another young man inclined to seduce and abandon, one who believes he is
fulfilling body and soul when he is merely reciting a clichéd and destruc-
tive script; 2.4 begins with Mercutio offering a similar—though more blunt
and more approving—analysis, and ends with the Nurse worrying the same
point. Indeed, by delaying her report about Romeo, the Nurse seems to
demonstrate the coquettish techniques that Juliet has dangerously failed to
practice: increasing male desire by deferring it, mixing a feigned dislike with
liking, and indignation with playfulness, and demanding protracted bodily
ministrations (in the Nurse’s case, a backrub) before surrendering the main
thing desired (in the Nurse’s case, news of Romeo’s reply).
Having long (and unhappily) refrained from imposing phallic violence
on Rosaline—and, more recently, on Juliet—Romeo stabs their cousin Tybalt:
Shakespeare’s contemporaries did not need Freud to help them recognize
stabbing as a version of rape.12 As in Othello, the swordfight on the street
looks very much like a displacement of the confrontation in the newlyweds’
bedroom.13 In the confrontation with Tybalt, Romeo is at first too affection-
ate to draw his sword, then—feeling his manhood compromised by his gentle
passivity—returns with reckless violence against Juliet’s flesh and blood:
“Now I have stain’d the childhood of our joy / With blood remov’d but little
from her own” (3.3.95–96). Instead of a confirmatory showing of the wed-
ding night sheets, spotted with the blood of maidenhead, the wedding is
compromised by the public display of a bloody shroud.14
News that “Romeo’s hand shed Tybalt’s blood” makes Juliet cry out, “O
serpent heart, hid with a flow’ring face” (3.2.71, 73); this, however, is only an
amplification of something she might have cried had Tybalt and Romeo nev-
er fought, something she must already (however unwillingly) have suspected.
The fears that Juliet intermittently voices in the play can be readily located in
Brooke, where they are, if anything, even more conspicuous.15 Brooke’s Juliet
suspects the phallic serpent of treachery:
What if his suttel brayne to fayne have taught his tong,

And so the snake that lurkes in grasse thy tender hart hath stong?
What if with friendly speache the traytor lye in wayte,
As oft the poysond hooke is hid, wrapt in the pleasant bayte?16
These images of satanic ambush and deceit may seem overly dire, but they
clearly establish the idea that Juliet’s specific fear (in Brooke) is of a sexual
fall—a fear she then elaborates by noting those Renaissance poster-boys of
misogyny, Aeneas and Theseus:
Oft under cloke of truth, hath falshod served her lust

And toorned theyr honor into shame, that did so slightly trust.
What, was not Dido so, a crouned Queene, defamd?
And eke for such an heinous cryme, have men not Theseus
blamd?17
Later, after Romeus kills Tibalt, Juliet returns to her former suspicions that
Romeus gave her merely “paynted promises” and “with veile of love” hid
from her his “hatreds face.”18 Disingenuous seduction may lack the triumph
of men’s violence over women’s will by which modern culture identifies
rape—especially since it involves at least an illusory consent—but for women
(and indeed for the law) it has long represented one more middle case in
the spectrum between rape and love-making. Limiting one’s interpretive
aperture to the rosier hues of that spectrum does no service to the love story,
because it does no justice to the dangers Juliet must accept in pursuing it.
The fear of callous abandonment, or even murder, is predictably subtler in
Shakespeare’s version, yet it persists.19 Though 2.2 of Romeo and Juliet is gener-
ally known as “the balcony scene,” there are actually two balcony scenes: one on
the way up, one on the way down. We arrive at 2.5, the second balcony scene,
with Romeo in obvious jeopardy, but Juliet hardly less so. As the wedding night
ends, her first words are the archetypal complaint of the soon-to-be-abandoned
woman: “Wilt thou be gone?” (3.5.1). It is easy enough for us to know she is
not Dido, but how can she be confident that her dreamboat will not float off
in the manner of Aeneas, or something even worse? (Similar fears occur to Jes-
sica about her feud-crossed elopement with Lorenzo in The Merchant of Venice
[5.1.1–20].) A potentially disturbing feature of the first balcony scene is that
Romeo enters; a potentially disturbing feature of the second is that he exits.
In 2.2 Juliet questioned in the practical voice: who are you, how did you
get in, how are you going to get out, what are we going to do about all this,
how will I get a message to you, where, and at what time? Romeo is full of
empty clichés about the moon and her eyes and eternity. In 3.5, however, the
roles appear to have been reversed, perhaps because the balance of power has
shifted in the aftermath of sexual consummation. Romeo is the one focused
on business, while Juliet is lost in romantic dream and hyperbole, wanting to
pretend it to be midnight. What satisfaction can she have this morning from
his rather formal, proverbial, and seemingly complacent responses to her pas-
sionate entreaties and her worries about her continuing attractiveness to him?
The contrast of tones is striking:
JULIET: Art thou gone so, love, lord, ay, husband, friend!
I must hear from thee every day in the hour,
For in a minute there are many days.

O, by this count I shall be much in years
Ere I again behold my Romeo!
ROMEO: [From below] Farewell!
I will omit no opportunity
That may convey my greetings, love, to thee.
JULIET: O, think’st thou we shall ever meet again?
ROMEO: I doubt it not, and all these woes shall serve
For sweet discourses in our times to come. (3.5.43–53)
His speeches here are as formally clothed as hers are emotionally naked.
The fictive spaces and physical arrangements of the two balcony scenes
thus take us from the verticality of courtship idolatry (balcony as pedestal)
to the horizontal parity of the consummated marriage (balcony as bed). The
scenes also take us from the extremely tenuous privacy of the lovers’ isolation
from their families to a relationship that is no longer entirely secret, and that
is pressured in increasingly drastic ways by the circumstances of the public
world of the play. Indeed, the much shorter farewell episode records that
pressure by its very brevity: fifty-nine lines to Romeo’s exit, in contrast to the
189 lines of 2.2, which keeps not ending. The Nurse provides another index
of this change. In the first she is a minor and invisible irritant—perhaps even
helpful, giving occasion to renew the farewells and resistance to sharpen the
desires. Her entrance into the second scene, however, brings with it not just
her usual bawdy-comic energies, but also a sharp note of danger. Her warn-
ings to “be wary, look about” (3.5.40) remind us that, from the perspective of
the feud, the lovers’ clandestine marriage remains illicit and vulnerable. At
that instant Romeo descends from Juliet, and they are never again together
in life.
The differences between the scenes are also recorded metrically, if we
take John Barton’s point that “a shared verse line says, ‘pick up the cue.’ ” 20 In
the first balcony scene, Romeo and Juliet divide pentameter lines eight times.
Their mutual interruptions and self-interruptions—signaled by syntax as well
as meter—and the uneven lengths of their speeches create a feverish pace on
stage and establish an intimate connection between them. In contrast, the
second balcony scene opens with Romeo and Juliet taking turns in an orderly
fashion in speeches of similar lengths. The awkward, ecstatic energies of 2.2
are depleted. There are no incomplete sentences and only one shared line, and
a rather chilly one it is. No wonder the word “fickle” now winds itself into
three consecutive lines of Juliet’s speech (3.5.60–62), though she diligently
applies the word to Fortune rather than to Romeo.
Is the fuel gauge of this passion, though surely not on “Empty,” already
showing that first little flicker of the low-tank warning light? Our traditions
and desires in reading the story resist such suspicions, but Juliet cannot know
the traditions, or trust the desires. Accordingly, the language of this abbrevi-
ated aubade is strongly charged with regret on her part, and with exhaustion
on his. Telling Romeo that the nightingale’s song “pierc’d the fearful hollow
of thine ear” (3.5.3) articulates Juliet’s own pierced virginity. (That the “hol-
low” is “fearful” also suggests, retroactively, Juliet’s ambivalence toward her
own sexual desires.) His refusal, also expressed with anatomical precision,
is based on the fact that “night’s candles are burnt out” (9). How can she be
sure that Romeo has not taken his pleasure knowing full well that he would
be gone the next day anyway, and (because of the illicit nature of their clan-
destine marriage) that no one could profitably say anything to call him to
account? The laws were generally quite clear that a woman who failed to cry
out immediately for help—therefore, any woman who (like Juliet) was within
earshot of potential rescuers—forfeited any right to claim rape thereafter.
Brooke’s Juliet voices that very fear:
And thou, the instrument of Fortunes cruell will,

Without whose ayde she can no way, her tyrans lust fulfill,
Art not a whit ashamed, (as farre as I can see)
To cast me of, when thou hast culd the better part of me. 21
Although it is Fortune to whom she attributes this Tarquinian cluster of

cruelty, will, tyranny, and lust, these seem barely disguised accusations of
Romeus himself as one who shamelessly “culls” her and then casts her aside.
Indeed, when Romeus explains why Juliet must not depart with him—a
decision modern students of Shakespeare’s play certainly recognize as ques-
tionable—his arguments seem far-fetched, and include the expectation that
he will be executed “as a ravishor” of “a careless childe.”22
A further fear awaits both Juliets, one that would make such a betrayal at
once more explicable and more terrible, and would align the betrayal with the
modern perception that rape is a crime based more in power than in sexuality.
Might not this offer Romeus/Romeo the last laugh on a family he hates—a
dirty joke for his Montague pals and a dark stain on the Capilet/Capulet
honor? 23 In Shakespeare’s “The Rape of Lucrece” the tyrant Tarquin actually
wishes that he had some familial grudge against Lucrece’s husband, because it
might give him an “excuse” for committing the rape, “As in revenge or quittal
of such strife” (232–236); indeed, as in many other Renaissance rape-stories,
the main motive for the victim’s suicide is to protect her family from shame
by proving that the intercourse was in no way consensual.24 In Brooke, Juliet
explicitly worries that Romeus will seduce and then defame her as part of
the feud, giving the Capulets an affront which they will find unanswerable
in kind:
Perhaps, the great revenge he cannot woorke by strength,

By suttel sleight (my honor staynde) he hopes to worke at length.
So shall I seeke to finde my fathers foe, his game,
So I defylde, Report shall take her trompe of blacke defame,
Whence she with puffed cheeke shall blowe a blast so shrill
Of my disprayse, that with the noyse Verona shall she fill.
Then I, a laughing stocke through all the towne becomme,
Shall hide my selfe, but not my shame, within an hollowe
toombe. 25
Shakespeare’s Juliet will find herself in a tomb soon enough, in an effort to

conceal the truth about that amorous night.
Shakespeare connects the polemically cautionary world of Brooke to
his own play early in the very first scene, when the Capulet servant Samp-
son—whose behavior is about to be mimicked by his betters—boasts that “I
will show myself a tyrant: when I have fought with the [Montague] men, I
will be civil with the [Montague] maids; I will cut off their heads . . . their
maidenheads” (1.1.21–126). The implication that this interfamilial war might
spill over into sexual exploitation prepares us to recognize the further threat
of deception and humiliation that Juliet must evaluate.
The unpleasant possibilities we have raised would bring into focus an-
other pair of ominous classical allusions. Juliet opens the second balcony scene
with rape-references so indirect that they seem to have escaped commentary
by the play’s countless editors and critics, yet distinct enough to conspire with
Ovidian anxieties elsewhere in the play.26 As usual, it is difficult and perhaps
unnecessary to judge whether these allusions should be taken as conscious on
Juliet’s part, as reflecting a subconscious anxiety she dares not quite confront, or
as imposed by Shakespeare—exterior to the character—to warn the audience.
It is worth noticing, though, that she is evidently inventing the nightingale,
whether as an oblique expression of her own fears or as a provocation to
Romeo. Although neither the nightingale nor the pomegranate tree appear
in Shakespeare’s known sources, they appear together in her aubade, carrying
considerable emblematic weight:
Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day.

It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
That pierc’d the fearful hollow of thine ear;
Nightly she sings on yond pomegranate tree.
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale. (3.5.1–5)
This draws on a sequence of bird references in their previous encounters:

2.2.22, 158–183; 2.5.7, 74. John Lyly’s Campaspe, a prominent play in the
previous decade, signals the ominous associations of this avian pairing:
What Bird so sings and yet does wail?

O ’tis the Ravish’d Nightingale.
Jug, jug, jug, jug, Tereu, she cries,
And still her woes at midnight rise.
Brave prick-song! Who is’t now we hear?
None but the lark so shrill and clear.
Now at heaven’s gate she claps her wings,
The morn not waking till she sings. 27
In Ovid’s Metamorphoses, the nightingale was once Philomel, transformed

after Tereus raped her and cut out her tongue to prevent her testimony
against him. The bird’s melodious song is therefore both lamentation and
compensation for Philomel’s brutal silencing. The nightingale was said to
press a thorn against its breast to give its tune a lyric accusing the rapist:
“Tereu, Tereu!”
Wherefore might Romeo be Tereu? Suppose what Juliet thinks she
hears is neither nightingale nor lark, but the proverbial fat lady singing, mark-
ing an ending, an undignified if operatic defeat. Tybalt would clearly want
to offer his young cousin a warning resembling what Marcus tells Lavinia,
after the fact, in Shakespeare’s preceding tragedy, Titus Andronicus: “A craftier
Tereus, cousin, hast thou met.”28 These stories usually seem to be on Shake-
speare’s mind when a woman is about to be violated, even when the violation
is by trickery rather than force. In Cymbeline, Jachimo compares himself to
Tarquin as he sneaks into Imogen’s bedchamber to steal the sight of her
uncovered breast, and notes that “She hath been reading late / The Tale of
Tereus.”29 In A Midsummer Night’s Dream, the chorus of the singularly inef-
fective fairy spell — designed to protect the sleeping Titania, who is about to
be deluded into the embrace of the transformed Bottom — begins each time
by calling on “Philomele” to provide the song.30 Tereus’s wedding with Proc-
ne was illuminated by “Furies snatching Tapers up that on some Herce did
stande” (matching Shakespeare’s insistent blending of wedding and funeral);
Tereus tried “to corrupt hir servants” and “to bribe hir Nurce to prosecute
his vice”; finally, he hid his captivity of Philomel by telling everyone she had
died.31 All these features draw that then-famous rape story into the mental
field of spectators at the now-famous love story of Romeo and Juliet.
Our familiarity with Romeo and Juliet leads us to assume we are in the
scenario of Keats’s “The Eve of St. Agnes,” where young Madeline wants
young Porphyro to sneak into her chamber and seduce her, and he fully
intends to marry her. But we cannot—or at least Juliet cannot—absolutely

put aside an alternative scenario, which Shakespeare recorded as “The Rape of
Lucrece.” There Shakespeare repeatedly cites the figure of Philomel because
Lucrece wants to replace the birdsong of day with the voice of the nightin-
gale, to prevent day from shedding light on her shame in the aftermath of
the rape (1079–1148). Juliet does not say that she has been abducted and
raped by Romeo, but she does imply that, were Romeo to leave now, instantly,
then what has happened between them will have been little better than that.
Indeed, to have married the young noblewoman Juliet without her parents’
consent places Romeo in a murky legal category associated with rape; by
making Juliet even younger than she is in Brooke, Shakespeare assures the
criminality of the match by Elizabethan standards, which also means that
neither the Nurse nor the Friar—both of whom will lack the courage to de-
fend the couple in other moments of crisis—could support Juliet’s claim of
marriage without risking jail.32 The crime that first populated Rome (the rape
of the Sabine women) and that later made Rome a republic (the rape of Lu-
crece that provoked the overthrow of the Tarquins) hovers uneasily around a
Veronese youth with the exotic name of Romeo.33
2. The Underworld

Juliet’s imaginary nightingale sings from a pomegranate tree, surely direct-
ing our attention to a second classical story: Hades’ rape of Persephone, who
was obliged to remain as his bride part of every year because she ate some
seeds from an Underworld pomegranate tree. That story will resurface in
Shakespeare’s late plays: in both The Winter’s Tale (4.4.116–118) and The
Tempest (4.1.89) it serves to warn that even such princes among men as
Florizel and Ferdinand might become rapists, rather than fiancés, to young
women who love too much and trust too far.
In the first balcony scene, Juliet is already rehearsing for the role of
Persephone: “Sweet, good night! / This bud of love, by summer’s ripening
breath, / May prove a beauteous flow’r when next we meet” (2.2.120–122).
What presses the seasonal floral reference toward the classical myth is Juliet’s
suggestion, at the end of the Capulet ball, that the only alternative to mar-
rying Romeo would be a marriage to death and the Underworld: “If he be
married, / My grave is like to be my wedding-bed” (1.5.134–135). That sug-
gestion resounds through the remainder of the play: “earth hath swallowed all
my hopes but she,” says her father (1.2.14); “I would the fool were married to
her grave!” adds her mother (3.5.140).
In his associations with sycamore trees and westward darkness, and in
his vampire-like aversion to the light, Romeo from the beginning seems to
belong in the classical Underworld to which “dusky Dis” dragged Persephone
(1.1.121–122, 138; The Tempest, 4.1.89) because he knew that her mother,
Demeter, would never otherwise permit the marriage. Juliet’s famous soliloquy
anticipating the wedding night—“Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds, to
Phoebus’ lodging” (3.2.1–2)—reinforces that impression. “Phoebus’ lodging”
was generally understood to be the Underworld (where the solar chariot had
overnight parking privileges); so while Juliet’s principal reference is unquestion-
ably to that chariot, her desire for these steeds to hurry her to her deflowering
hints that she may instead be boarding the chariot of Hades which rushed
Persephone across the burning Phlegethon. As later with her eroticized ver-
sion of Lucrece’s suicide, Juliet here seems to be recapturing a rape story as,
instead, her own passionate will. In contrast to the suave irony with which
Thomas Carew’s “The Rapture” transforms the classic rape victims into lasciv-
ious partners, Juliet’s summoning of these steeds suggests her determination
to make something positive out of the worst-case scenarios that implicit-
ly haunt her throughout this courtship. “Give me my Romeo, and when I
shall die . . .” (3.2.21), says Juliet, anticipating his arrival upon their wedding
night and yet intimating a link, beyond the erotic pun, between Romeo and
her own mortality. When Juliet is told, shortly thereafter, that he has indeed
proven to be an agent of death, she says that news belongs “in dismal hell”
(44), and then goes on to depict him as a “serpent heart” among the flowers,
a “dragon” in a “fair . . . cave” (73–74), a potential Hades-figure destroying an
Edenic garden scene, invading innocent flesh, dragging nature down into the
dark Underworld: “O nature, what hadst thou to do in hell / When thou didst
bower the spirit of a fiend / In mortal paradise of such sweet flesh?” (80–82).
So it is appropriate for her to conclude, despairingly, “death, not Romeo, take
my maidenhead” (137): symbolically, there is not much difference.34
These Hades-Persephone references culminate when Lord Capulet
finds Juliet, seemingly dead, on her wedding morning:
Death lies on her like an untimely frost

Upon the sweetest flower of all the field. . . .
O son, the night before thy wedding-day
Hath Death lain with thy wife. There she lies,
Flower as she was, deflowered by him,
Death is my son-in-law, Death is my heir,
My daughter he hath wedded. (4.5.28–29, 35–39)
Even Romeo, who earlier dreamed of being “an emperor” among the
dead (5.1.9), echoes the allusion when he finds her beautiful body down in
the Capulet tomb:
Shall I believe
That unsubstantial Death is amorous,
And that the lean abhorred monster keeps

Thee here in dark to be his paramour?
For fear of that, I still will stay with thee,
And never from this palace of dim night
Depart again. (5.3.102–108)
Death, too, begins to look like a rapist, stealing women’s bodies in the dark-
ness, erasing their will. Henry Chettle’s Englands Mourning Garment (1603)
urges the shepherd to “remember our Elizabeth, / And sing her Rape, done
by that Tarquin, Death.”35
In the Persephone story, the messenger god Hermes arrives moments
too late to redeem her completely from the “palace of dim night,” the royal
family of the dead: she has already tasted its fruit.36 But the seasonal solution
to Persephone’s death is implicit in the play’s metaphysical and metatheatri-
cal suggestion that she may spring back up to life in some next cycle, as Juliet
does in the tomb—and also in every new production of the play—precisely
because of her willingness to die for love. In other words, the associations
with the rape of Persephone amplify the noble, as well as ignoble, possibili-
ties of a play where undying love and violent death are constantly striving to
surround and suppress each other, where comedy and tragedy compete for
the authority to frame this as a story either of renewal or of termination. The
notion of Romeo as Hades may suggest that he is a ravisher who destroys his
bride, but it also contributes to a pattern of redemptive hints that he carries
her—or rather, they carry each other—to another world on the far side of a
mortal barrier. This would be not rape, but rapture.
In this world, however—according to Shakespearean drama—Italy’s the
right place for rape.37 Even prospective husbands are sexual suspects. In Titus
Andronicus, when Lavinia’s gallant young fiancé Bassianus carries her away
to prevent a dynastic marriage that her father was imposing, he is accused of
rape, and has to answer, “Rape call you it, my lord, to seize my own, / My true
betrothed love, and now my wife?” (1.1.405–406).
The discrepancy between Lord Capulet’s protestations to Paris and his
practices with Juliet in 3.5.141–195 remind us only too clearly of the element
of coercion behind even seemingly consensual matches for aristocratic young
women in this period. Like several other prominent dynastic-marriage dramas
in the period, from The Spanish Tragedy to Webster’s great tragedies, Romeo
and Juliet effectively unravels the myth of “consent” (e.g. 1.2.17), hinting that
marriage often entailed a degree of rape.38 In Robert Mead’s The Combat of
Love and Friendship (1654) Melesippus tells his daughter that, though he
hopes she will accept his choice, it is “No Marriage; but a well nam’d Rape,
where friends / Force Love upon their Children; where the Virgin / Is not so
truly given, as betraid” (1.4.9–11). Sebastian in Cyril Tourneur’s The Atheist’s
Tragedie (1611) makes the point even more directly: “Why what is’t but a
rape to force a wench / To marry, since it forces her to lie with him she would
not?” (1.4.129–131). George Rivers’s The Heroinæ (1639) observes that “Dido
refused marriage, shee could not love. Marriage to her had been a rape, an-
other had enjoy’d her against her will: if a rape must bee avoyded with the
losse of life; through how many death[s] must she flie a loathed bed, where
every night she shall be ravished?” (87–88). This enforcement makes an even
more disturbing spectacle when the enforcer is the father, often insisting (as
in classical comedy) that the daughter marry someone close to himself in age;
it is hard to say whether the tradition of powerful theatrical fathers—such as
Theophilus Cibber in the 1740s and Charles Kemble in the 1830s—playing
Romeos to their daughters’ Juliets was an effort to exploit or to preclude the
transgressive aspects of the play’s sexuality.
Conceivably playing in Shakespeare’s mind, as he imagined Lord Cap-
ulet’s anguish about Juliet, was Agamemnon’s anguish about his daughter in
Euripides’ Iphigenia at Aulis: “And for this poor maid—why maid? Death,
methinks, will soon make her his bride—how I pity her! . . . Alas! to what
utter ruin Paris, the son of Priam, the cause of these troubles, has brought
me. . . .”39 In the history of sexuality as told to the Renaissance, a princely
figure named Paris carried a lovely young woman off from her legitimate hus-
band. In both stories, Paris thus occupies a middle category: not exactly a rap-
ist in the obvious criminal sense—though he was often listed alongside more
egregious rapists—but someone using force to take a woman to his bed, with
destructive consequences, as “The Rape of Lucrece” reminds us at some length
(1471–1568).40 Lucrece reproves him for committing this violation out of
“lust” (1473), while Troilus and Cressida calls him “wanton Paris” sleeping
with “the ravish’d Helen” (Prologue, 9–10). For both Helen and Juliet, though
in inverse ways, the figure of Paris ultimately asks at what cost a woman
can—by giving or withholding consent—defy the marriage demanded by the
social order.
Brooke’s poem emphasizes this onomastic connection. When Romeus
attends the Capilets’ Christmas party (not to be confused with the Capu-
lets’ midsummer feast), he glimpses Juliet: “At length he saw a mayd, right
fayre of perfect shape / Which Theseus, or Paris would have chosen to their
rape.”41 This couplet seems especially abrupt if we come to it, as most all of us
do, from Shakespeare’s tragedy. What Theseus (whose notorious perfidy with
women is recalled in A Midsummer Night’s Dream) or Paris (tampered jurist,
wife-abductor, war-inciter) should be doing here, at the precise moment of
origin of this exemplary relationship of true love, is therefore disturbing to
contemplate.42 Several versions of Helen’s story report that, as a very young
woman, she was carried off—long before Paris did the same—by Theseus,
who later went on a disastrous expedition to kidnap Persephone (with whom
we have seen Shakespeare persistently associating Juliet) from Hades. George

Turberville’s 1567 version of The Heroycall Epistles of . . . Publius Ovidius Naso
offers this tale in a way that again blurs the boundary between rape and Paris’s
abduction of Helen:
Cause Theseus wrongde me once,

well worthie am I deemde
To be a Ruffians rape againe,
and so to be esteemde?
The guilt was mine if I
allured were to yll:
But so I rapted were by force,
what coulde I doe but nill? (Epistle 16, 41–48)
Drawing on all these strands of cultural legacy, Shakespeare evokes the

tangle of consent and coercion for a young woman in his society.
Brooke does not exactly say that Romeus is like-mindedly a rapist, but
the energies released by the classical references—and by the rhyme that joins
the perfection of Juliet’s body with the idea of its violation—suggest that
characteristics within Romeus are here being emblematically expressed. Later
in Brooke’s poem, when Juliet has feigned agreement with the plan to marry
Paris, she tells her mother that she will seek to please her new husband by
wearing “the bravest garments and the richest jewels” she owns—”for if I did
excel the famous Grecian rape, / Yet might attire helpe to amende my bewty
and my shape”—echoing the rhyme that communicated Romeus’s love at
first sight, and expressing Juliet’s awareness of her bigamous predicament.43
Now, clearly, evidence against Brooke’s Romeus should not be admis-
sible in a trial of Shakespeare’s Romeo any more than Trojan Paris’s actions
should be held against County Paris. Nonetheless, an array of details from
the Tragicall Historye confirms the cultural reasons why Juliet, in both poem
and play, might well be wary of any wooer, let alone a gatecrashing Montague.
Interpreting Shakespeare through his sources is, of course, a tricky task. Find-
ing the secret meaning of a Shakespeare play precisely in what he chooses to
mute or omit seems perverse, though there could be an ironic production of
meaning in the audience if the source’s story was well-known—as Brooke’s
poem was—and value for the self-delighting playwright’s mind even if the
source were obscure.44 Some subliminal residue seems plausible in this heavily
allusive artistic culture. Since this residue needs to suggest nothing more than
a repressed impulse in Romeo or repressed fear in Juliet, a thin association
may nonetheless be sufficient and noteworthy. Indeed, scholarly exposition of
the plays may resemble (though many suspect quite the opposite) the nor-
mal workings of the human mind, which navigates through the internal and
external complexities of human experience by a layering of allusions, stories

of varying degrees of proximity and vividness, most of them indirectly inher-
ited, that tell us what to want and what to fear.
In thus naming and situating Paris, Brooke and Shakespeare pass on
their sources’ conflation of the notorious classical seizer of women with the
general figure of the unwanted husband.45 Furthermore, in the fights over
Juliet Shakespeare conflates the two main ways Renaissance women were de-
nied subjectivity and choice in the process of courtship: by their treatment as
objects of exchange and competition among men, and by deprivation of their
consent in their choice of spouses—though this was a problem for men also—
and in their sexual relations with those spouses.46 According to Ovid, Venus
actively promotes Persephone’s rape as advantageous to Venus’s dynastic am-
bitions, ordering Cupid to aim at Dis: “And wherefore then should only Hell
still unsubdued stand? / Thy mothers Empire and thine own why doste thou
not advaunce?”47 As if to focus on the element of rape in the enforcement of
marriage, Juliet’s solution to the proposed match with Paris echoes the pleas
of most women faced with rape in classical and Renaissance literature:
O, bid me leap, rather than marry Paris,

From off the battlements of any tower . . .
Or hide me nightly in a charnel house,
O’ercover’d quite with dead men’s rattling bones . . .
Or bid me go into a new-made grave,
And hide me with a dead man in his shroud. (4.1.77–78, 81–85)
The Friar does then give her death and entombment as the only way to stave
off Paris’s amorous intentions.48 From there on her body becomes an object
of adoration while she remains absolutely passive, though actually inwardly
alive; the necrophiliac appeal of the ending is another force drawing the
audience into fantasies of something like rape.
Even Paris’s attack on Romeo at the Capulet tomb seems founded on
the suspicion that Romeo intends to perform some necrophiliac violence (or
vandalism) against Juliet’s helpless corpse, “to do some villainous shame /
To the dead bodies” (5.3.52–53). It is not an unfounded fear, given the com-
monplace association between womb and tomb, and especially if (as happens
so often in Shakespearean tragedy) he partly overhears the worst of Romeo’s
words. Romeo tells Balthasar that he has come “partly to behold my lady’s
face, / But chiefly to take thence from her dead finger / A precious ring—a
ring that I must use / In dear employment” (29–32). The final scene of The
Merchant of Venice shows that Shakespeare assumed an association between
wedding rings and female genitalia; in Titus Andronicus he has Martius say, of
the corpse of a man whose wife has just been raped, “Upon his bloody finger
he doth wear / A precious ring that lightens all this hole” (2.3.226–227);
and Middleton’s The Changeling confirms what sexual import English Re-
naissance playwrights could convey by amputated ring-bearing fingers.49 The
same rather banal synecdoche appears here in the gendered pair of suicides,
one by cup and one by sword; the Capulets have every reason to believe,
at 5.3.205, that Romeo has stabbed her, and even our knowledge that this
was suicide rather than murder makes her destiny, her choice, only further
resemble that of Lucrece. The way Romeo continues from there is, however,
even more ominously vague:
But if thou, jealous, dost return to pry

In what I farther shall intend to do,
By heaven I will tear thee joint from joint,
And strew this hungry churchyard with thy limbs.
The time and my intents are savage-wild. (33–37)
So dark a secret must surely suggest, to a half-informed observer such as

Paris—as to Fernando at a notably parallel moment in John Ford’s Love’s
sacrifice—the prospect of Juliet’s posthumous rape by the prying Romeo.50
3. The Academy

Rape is thus the threat encompassing and permeating the physical actions,
the psychological tensions, and the classical allusions of what is widely
deemed the ultimate love story. Even among the male characters, the rela-
tionships (particularly in performance) seem to take on strong overtones of
sexual aggression, ranging from sexual teasing and playful wrestling to the
deadly serious phallic violence of swordfights.51 The problem is that rape is
hardly less complex or historically determined than sexuality in general: it
appears in various guises and various degrees. Modern commentators have
been understandably reluctant to address this problem, but Renaissance
playwrights—negotiating a culture whose notions of rape were multiple
and changing—repeatedly juxtapose the different forms and severities of
compulsion (including prostitution) by which women were deprived of
sexual choice. Compare, for example, the way Romeo and Juliet places socio-
economically compelled marriage alongside dishonest seduction and more
direct physical violence, with the various impingements on women’s erotic
will in Middleton’s Women Beware Women and The Changeling, Jonson’s Vol-
pone, The Alchemist, and Bartholomew Fair, Marston’s Sophonisba, and Ford’s
’Tis Pity She’s a Whore.
Shakespeare’s Paris—named after a famous quasi-rapist, and him-
self unwittingly attempting a quasi-rape—may either point up or channel
off Romeo’s associations with rape. Similarly, one could either defend or
prosecute Romeo by acknowledging that standard courtship, manipulative

seduction, underage marriage, offensive peeping, actionable stalking, and
criminal rape are parts of a continuum of male sexual aggression, however
sharply and rightly we might want to moralize and legislate the difference
between the extremes of that continuum. It is not just by chance, then, that
Friar Lawrence’s observation about how the same herbs can be medicine
or poison, depending on the dosage, leads directly into his efforts to evalu-
ate Romeo’s sudden passion for Juliet. There is certainly a crucial difference
between “grace” and “rude will”—indeed, they are “opposed”—but both “en-
camp them still / In man” (2.3.27–28). Later in the scene, “grace” becomes
Romeo’s euphemism for erotic requital (2.3.86), whereas “rude will” sug-
gests, in Elizabethan slang, male sexual aggression. Romeo is undeniably
announcing a deep—and, more importantly, a requited—love when he tells
the Friar:
but come what sorrow can,

It cannot countervail the exchange of joy
That one short minute gives me in her sight.
Do thou but close our hands with holy words,
Then love-devouring death do what he dare,
It is enough I may but call her mine. (2.6.3–8)
Yet, apart from line 6, Tarquin or Tereus could sincerely have said the same.
Of course we are not claiming that Romeo—even to the extent one
deems him a complete and independent being rather than a mere dramatic
character—is guilty of rape in the modern sense; only that Juliet might have
reason to doubt his innocence and to question the honor of his intentions.
Our understanding of this latent guilt is much like Edward Snow’s more
psychoanalytic perception that a fantasy of violence against the female body
“does not so much enter Romeo’s psyche as take its place in the haunted
male background which the gentleness of his own love stands out against but
never entirely exorcises.”52 Robert Appelbaum observes that, “because of our
current difficulty in discussing the structure of masculinity without putting
it on trial and pronouncing it guilty, our experience of tragic subjectivity in
Shakespeare has been unable to find a suitable critical vocabulary.”53 The same
problem hinders the search for a vocabulary of erotic aggression.
Much more could be said here to historicize the crime of rape.54 But
what about historicizing our discussion of it? What here could not have been
written thirty years ago, when feminist scholars began excavating analyses
of sexist violations from the depths of Shakespearean drama?55 Perhaps it
is enough to say that, for whatever reason, this particular piece of that story
went (to the best of our knowledge) unwritten; perhaps the implication that
specters of rape hover over even the most youthful and charming courtships
would have been so unpopular and deterministic as to undermine the social
advocacy such criticism often sought to perform. But even the most transcen-
dently romantic reading of the play’s bloody ending may remind us that, in
the biological scheme, the necessary prelude to new birth may look disturb-
ingly like an act of physical violence.
Why, then, has Romeo remained a fugitive from gender justice so long,
while Leontes, Hamlet, and several Claudios sat glumly in the dock hearing
their indictments? The easy answer is that Romeo is innocent. The hard truth,
though—however prettily the nightingale may sing it—is that the world is
not, and that the lover and the rapist are often separated by exactly the kind
of reassuring conventional boundary that Shakespearean drama is always
threatening to blur. The plays are part of an unacknowledged legislation of the
world that takes account even of those crimes that occur only in the desiring
and fearful minds of potential perpetrators and victims, where they appear as
uneasy dreams of a personal future that can be articulated only in terms of the
collective past, in the great stories of love and death.
The feud has trapped these lovers outside the social rules, leaving them
dangerously, exhilaratingly free to invent their own; but they are not outside
the culture, whose landmarks they still must use to orient themselves. There is
nothing so unusual about the ways Juliet (at 1.5.110) and Friar Lawrence (at
2.3.88) try to tease Romeo out of his bookish wooings; anti-Petrarchan satire
was commonplace. What makes this instance unusually compelling is the
persistent question of whether the lovers, having broken free from the scripts
of facile erotic complaint, can also pull free from more grandly tragic prec-
edents. Like Lorenzo and Jessica at the beginning of act 5 of The Merchant of
Venice, they can test their own situation only by brushing against tragic erotic
touchstones such as Troilus and Cressida, Pyramus and Thisbe, and Dido and
Aeneas—maybe even against Tarquin and Lucrece, Hades and Persephone,
and Paris and Helen.
Our main critical point, then, is how often Romeo and Juliet alludes
to rape, in all the different ways Renaissance law and literature defined it;
our metacritical point is how diligently commentary on the play has looked
away from those allusions. Not much in a major Shakespeare play has gone
unexamined by simple carelessness; so this gap in the discussion of a play in
which a young woman is about to be forcibly carried off to a bigamous bed
by a man named Paris, and is then repeatedly associated with Persephone
carried off to bed against her will by Hades, seems worth remarking, even
if Juliet did not also echo Philomel and Lucrece. A small but representa-
tive instance of the averted (or distracted) gaze of criticism is the fact that
neither the Variorum nor any standard modern edition of Romeo and Juliet
remarks upon the special Ovidian charge Shakespeare achieves by locating
an (imaginary) nightingale on a pomegranate tree in the Capulet orchard on

the morning after the couple’s sexual initiation. Commentary instead looks
to ornithology, folklore, travelers’ tales, or “poetic tradition” for an explana-
tion of this line.56
A meta-metacritical incident may help to explain this blind spot. This
article was previously submitted to another distinguished journal, where a
reader’s report scoffed at our reference to “phallic violence”—“I think they
mean ‘sex,’ ” the report suggested, though our point was that Romeo’s deeds
with Juliet blur into his deeds with Tybalt—while deciding that, by the “sexual
aggression” involved in mating, we must really have meant “rape.” This de-
termination to push all male sexual activity into one of two perfectly distinct
categories (for which we must simply have forgotten the words) is exactly the
kind of erotic essentialism we were trying to resist and what we were arguing
that the play resists. The other reader more openly objected to our failure to
assert clear divisions among things called lovers, husbands, and assailants: “It
really is important to recognize the distinction between seduction, courtship,
and rape, even, or especially, when arguing that the culture works to elide
them.” Yet we had been quite explicitly arguing exactly the opposite: that the
culture, as is morally imperative, works to distinguish these things, which in
experience can often be murky and shifting—especially for a young person
alone in the middle of them, deciding from moment to moment what to at-
tempt and what to permit, how to send and how to read the often intricate
and paradoxical signals of the human mating dance. The play persistently re-
minds its audience that people have to try to navigate by clear cultural mark-
ers—Is my suitor Petrarch or Tereus?—even while knowing that neither is
likely to tell the whole story reliably. As a Caroline handbook for English
gentlewomen would warn, “Your True-love may prove a Jason or a Theseus, and
leave you in the bryers for all your confidence.”57 Whether Romeo is to be
regarded as lover, husband, or rapist, depends on what each onstage observer
knows and does not know at that particular moment; exactly the same can be
said of his rival Paris (and of the Trojan Paris as well).
Since we had tried not to write obscurely, we conclude that something
else was obscuring our argument. This something sounded like indignation,
not only at our failure to emphasize the romantic aspect of the play, which we
thought hardly needed reiterating, but also at our rejection of the fantasy that
there is no third alternative between the benign melting-together of angelic
lovers—as in Donne’s “Air and Angels” and Milton’s Paradise Lost, devoid of
any element of physical aggression or potential exploitation—and sub-bestial
attacks, such as those upon Lucrece and Lavinia.58
Acknowledging middle cases which can be viably erotic while still
entailing physical aggression is risky, because many rapists have doubtless
exploited it to escape their due punishment; we trust it is clear that we are
neither denying nor justifying the fact of rape. But do these risks really jus-
tify steadfastly or reflexively averting our eyes from the deep questions this
play so forcefully raises? As with so many of Shakespeare’s other politically
disquieting moments (on race and class as well as gender), perhaps it is time
we moved from silent censorship to an open confrontation with the issues—
issues which the plays doubtless raise for their audiences whether or not
scholars like or admit it. In the Renaissance the availability of a romantic
reading did not automatically exclude the threat of what they called rape;
indeed, rape often led to marriage with a complacency now hard to fathom.59
Moreover, it is hard to imagine a more gorgeous evocation of poetically con-
ventional male erotic desire than the one Shakespeare provides for Tarquin
as he prepares to rape Lucrece.
Renaissance literature reflected a legal principle that women slip into
complicity with a rapist if they experience any pleasure, or conceive a child,
during the act.60 Though we now find that idea quite objectionable, scientifi-
cally as well as politically, it does mirror an important feminist argument that
consensual sex can become rape during the act; and this kind of psychological
vacillation of consent does not disappear from erotic experience just because
we fear the consequences of acknowledging it. In an influential Renaissance
analysis, Coluccio Salutati explained Lucrece’s suicide as partly the result of
her anguished recognition that she found some pleasure, however unwilling,
in the rape, and therefore partook of its guilt. The pain of the sword serves to
renounce and thus cancel any pleasure from the phallus:
Because rape takes place physically and psychologically inside, it

is, as Mieke Bal explains, “by definition imagined; it can only
exist as experience and as memory, as image translated into signs,
never adequately objectifiable. . . . Because of this difficulty
in representing rape, its depiction is often displaced; it is then
depicted as self-murder, as in Lucretia’s case where self-murder
stands for rape, the suicide becoming its metaphor.” The figuring
of rape through the image of suicide is perhaps most conspicuous in
the paintings of the period. Although paintings depict separately
the rape and the suicide, the weapon with which Tarquin initially
threatens Lucrece always prefigures the weapon she will later use
in her suicide, just as the weapon of suicide represents or stands in
for Tarquin’s weapon and the phallus it symbolizes.61
Juliet finally takes command of this destructive legacy, as she earlier had
appropriated Tarquin’s and Hades’ impatience for the dark night and its
sexual energies (3.2.1–31). She reclaims pleasure by consensual death with
Romeo; she brings together the phallus and the sword, welcoming Romeo’s
“happy dagger” into what she calls—as Shakespeare’s Lucrece did in a

parallel moment, 1723–1724—the “sheath” (5.3.169–170) of her body. By
attending to rather than trying to deny the complex weave of sex, power,
and violence in the play, we can see Juliet forcibly rearranging it to meet the
needs of the moment: her moment, but one shared—if only in metaphorical
or milder form—by many other women, then and now.
The same blurring of the boundaries distinguishing courtship, seduc-
tion, rape, and marriage is a prominent feature of A Midsummer Night’s
Dream, the play Shakespeare was most likely writing simultaneously with
Romeo and Juliet. When Shakespeare revises “The Knight’s Tale” into The
Two Noble Kinsmen, Chaucer’s clear “distinction between licit sexual in-
tercourse and rape is virtually obliterated.”62 Do we know that Caliban’s
actions toward Miranda were any more violent than, say, Silvius’s toward
Phoebe? The difference between the heroically/romantically persistent
wooer and the criminally persistent one is rightly in the eyes of the per-
son being courted, but may be hard—or, in cases of racism, too easy—for
others to see. Did Katharine in Henry V, or even Isabella in Measure for
Measure, have much more choice about her sex partner than Lucrece in
“The Rape of Lucrece” or Lavinia in Titus Andronicus? Does it resolve the
problem to assume that the wives will find more pleasure in and after the
consummation than the rape victims, or does that push us back toward
the repugnant old suggestion that a woman should seek pleasure even in
imposed sex acts, and the hardly-less-repugnant old legality that acquitted
men of rape if the woman ended up taking any pleasure or bearing any
progeny from those acts?
If we do not acknowledge the ancient specter of rape haunting this story,
we cannot recognize what Juliet does to exorcise it. The insistence that male
erotic desire is always categorically either perfectly inoffensive or a criminal
offense finally serves some urgent feminist causes no better than the division
of women into madonnas and whores. Nor does it serve very well the cause
of this great Shakespearean tragedy, which depends for both its pity and its
fear on the recognition that Juliet must find her own way into the uncertain
meaning of her own uncertain story, and pay for her final triumph over such
categories with her life.
The Nurse’s recollection of her late husband’s bawdy joke and the tod-
dler Juliet’s strangely equanimous reply suggests that Juliet’s destiny rests in
her character, and that it is not a purely tragic destiny:
“Yea,” quoth he, “dost thou fall upon thy face?

Thou wilt fall backward when thou hast more wit,
Wilt thou not, Jule?” and by my holidam,
The pretty wretch left crying and said, “Ay.” (1.3.41–44)
This may seem mere comic patter, but Shakespeare has the Nurse tell the
whole story three more times within ten lines, ending each time with Juliet’s
“Ay,” like James Joyce allowing Molly Bloom finally to lift sexual consent free
from ambivalence: “yes I said yes I will Yes.” In a play laden with foreshad-
owings, and fates adumbrated since birth, Juliet here shows her precocious
and prodigious determination to see what others might perceive as a danger-
ous fall as instead a positive choice; to take what the conventional elders see
as mere injury and affirm it as her erotic will; “to lose a winning match, /
Play’d for a pair of stainless maidenhoods” (3.2.12–13); to look ahead, stop
her tears, and say unflinchingly to the “perilous knock” (1.3.54) of sexual
experience, through pain and blood, “Ay.”
No t e s
1. All references to Shakespeare’s works follow The Riverside Shakespeare, ed.
G. Blakemore Evans et al., 2nd ed. (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1997).
2. References to Actaeon are especially noticeable in Shakespeare’s Elizabethan
comedies. As Barkan has shown, Shakespeare draws on the Actaeon myth clearly in
The Merry Wives of Windsor and extensively in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Twelfth
Night 1.1.18–22 conspicuously alludes to Actaeon’s transformation (without naming
him directly); Watson argues for the importance of the myth in As You Like It.
3. See Brooke, 468–469. (All subsequent references to Brooke will be by
line number; references to Bullough’s editorial material will be by page number.)
Thinking of himself as the even more tongue-tied Actaeon would allow Romeo
partly to excuse his obvious prying into Capulet affairs. Because Actaeon’s glimpse
of Diana was inadvertent—he was out hunting and, as Juliet might say, stumbled on
Diana’s counsels—his punishment was the result not of “desart / But cruell Fortune”
(Golding, 3.164–165; all subsequent references to Golding’s translation will be to
book and line number). Such a formulation later proves attractive to Romeo after he
kills Tybalt and exoneratingly proclaims himself “Fortune’s fool” (3.1.136).
4. Brooke, 440–441. Bullough, 297, glosses “tooting” as “peeping.”
5. Coke, chap. 13: “with which he desired the virgin, because of the sight of
her beauty.” Subsequent references add castration to the blinding, but that the initial
reference is to blinding seems remarkable.
6. Middleton and Rowley, 1.1.230.
7. M. Evans, 164, ll. 5–14.
8. When Romeo specifically imagines “carrion flies” that “may seize / On
the white wonder of dear Juliet’s hand, / And steal immortal blessing from her
lips” (3.3.35–37) it is difficult to avoid seeing her as a flyblown corpse that is
simultaneously the object of courtship. We have moved, here, disturbingly graveward
from the frolickings of Lesbia’s sparrow and its avian descendants in amorous verse,
where the wooer envies the bird’s access to the beloved. The fuller implications of
Romeo’s necrophiliac nuance, and of the idea of a Juliet who is always in some sense
dead, will be developed later in this article.
9. Franco Zeffirelli’s film of 1968 develops this confrontation in strongly
physical ways when an initially flirtatious Nurse undergoes what is arguably a
stylized, slapstick stripping and gang-rape by Mercutio and other not-so-gentle
men of Verona. Mercutio lifts her skirt from behind, feigns the escape of malodors
therefrom, yanks her huge veil about during the “hoar”/“hare”/“whore” flyting, then
removes it altogether and wears it as a kind of false bosom, as though having exposed
and captured her body. The Nurse is left with a kiss, knocked down on the stairs
in the public square. The scene as a whole visually and performatively foreshadows
the duel between Mercutio and Tybalt, fought in the same place and similarly
surrounded by onlookers, thus linking sex, violence, and intermittent comedy—riot
and laugh-riot—much as the play’s opening dialogue does.
10. Sig. H2r, lines 31–32.
11. Bate, 179. Certainly the well-read Juliet of Brooke’s Tragically Historye
worries that the literary odds almost assure her wooer’s treachery: “A thousand
stories more, to teache me to beware, / In Boccace, and in Ovids bookes too playnely
written are” (393–394).
12. See Gorges, bk. 4, 359–360: “If they by fight away would scape, / With
your sharp blades their bosomes rape.”
13. A more extended version of this parallel occurs in Twelfth Night, where
two unmanly suitors flee a duel in 3.4 before blood can be shed—suggesting the
fears preventing Orsino and Olivia from achieving marital consummations—only to
yield to true bloodshed and marital consummation in 4.1 when the truly masculine
Sebastian replaces the faux-masculine Cesario in brawl, and then in bed.
14. Capulet’s horrified “O heavens! O wife, look how our daughter bleeds!”
(5.3.202) similarly registers the confusing and tragic simultaneity of Juliet’s
maturation, consummation, and demise. While much of the language of the play’s
end shows the characters trying to lodge Romeo and Juliet in the sterilized past
of narrative, Capulet’s present tense directs public attention to the ongoing, active
messiness of the catastrophe.
15. Such fears echo onward into John Quarles’s “Tarquin Banished: or, the
Reward of Lust” (1655), where Lucretia finds that her “table fed a Serpent, not
a Dove” (2)—terms Juliet applies to Romeo at 3.2.73–76—and where Tarquin’s
response to banishment markedly resembles that of Romeo in 3.3. It is decided
that Tarquin’s sentence “should not be speedy death, but . . . a sad and lasting
banishment”: “This news arriving unto Tarquins ears / He soon begins to argue with
his fears: / Must I be sent, cryes he, into a place / Of no society, and there imbrace
/ Perpetual woe? Oh! how could Hell contrive / So great a plague to keep me still
alive? / What shall I doe in this extreme abysse / Of woe and torments? Death
had been a blisse / Beyond expression . . .” (7). Romeo also claims to prefer death
as “merciful” compared to banishment, which he likens to “purgatory, torture, hell
itself ” (3.3.12–18; cf. 47–48). This cluster of associations, established by verbal and
circumstantial allusion, may suggest that, by the seventeenth century, aspects of
Romeo and Tarquin have become conflated within the cultural memory.
16. Brooke, 385–388.
17. Ibid., 389–392.
18. Ibid., 1114, 1126.
19. For fears of murder in Brooke, see ibid., 1123–1128.
20. Barton, 32.
21. Brooke, 1591–1594.
22. Ibid., 1651–1654.
23. Burks, 769, quotes Aristotle’s Master-Piece—a notably “popular text on
reproductive biology” translated into English just before Shakespeare wrote Romeo
and Juliet—which warns parents to raise their girls carefully, “most of all the Virgins,
when they grow up to be marriageable, for if through the unnatural severity of rigid
Parents they be crossed and frustrated in their love, many of them, out of a mad
humour, if temptation lies in their way, throw themselves into the unchaste Arms
of a subtle, charming Tempter, being through the softness of good Nature, and
strong Desire, to pursue their Appetites, easily induced to believe Men’s Flatteries,
and feigned Vows of promised Marriage, to cover the shame; and then too late the
Parents find the effects of their rash Severity, which brought a lasting stain upon
their Family.” Notice again how poorly the boundaries separating ordinary sexual
desire and destructive sexual violation appear to have been marked.
24. Stimpson, 58, cites “political or familial revenge” as “the common
justification for rape”; see “Shakespeare and the Soil of Rape.” In Renaissance
culture generally, the woman’s willing death is the surest, perhaps the only, proof
that she really had been raped; see Williams, 105–108.
25. Brooke, 395–402.
26. Williams, 93, begins her impressive study by observing that “Brief
allusions to rape occur throughout Shakespeare’s work, combining maximum effect
with minimum critical perturbation.” She does not, however, mention Romeo and
Juliet, despite her recognition that “For Renaissance readers, the best-thumbed guide
to ancient riots, incests, and rapes is Ovid’s Metamorphoses” (97).
27. Lyly, 5.1.35–42.
28. Titus Andronicus, 2.4.41.
29. Cymbeline, 2.2.12, 44–45
30. A Midsummer Night’s Dream, 2.2.13, 24
31. Golding, 6:550; 589–590.
32. Dalton, 248, explains that “The taking away of a maide under sixteene
yeares of age, without the consent of her parents or governors, of contracting
marriage with her, or deflowering her, is no felony, but yet shall be punished with
long imprisonment, without baile, or with grievous fine.” Coke concludes his
chapter on rape by noting that marrying a woman below the age of consent without
her parents’ endorsement falls under the same category. John Donne discovered
unhappily that society would not forbear punishing a seducer of an aristocratic
young woman just because he was willing to marry her. In his complaint that “Young
beauties force [y]our love, and that’s a rape”—“The Autumnal,” 3—Donne shows
another way the category is elastic in this period.
33. Livy, bk. 1, chap. 9, describes the mass rape of the Sabine women as
Romulus’s ultimately successful tactic to populate Rome; Detmer-Goebel, 76,
asserts that “rape is the centerpiece of Shakespeare’s fictional history of Rome.”
34. Farrell, 144, observes that “Romeo imagines Juliet sexually enslaved
in the ‘palace’ of a ‘monster’ who is also a warrior-king. This fantasy projects the
long-denied dark side of the patriarchal forms in which the lovers have construed
each other. Romeo dissociates from himself as Death the part of him that would
be made an emperor by Juliet’s kiss. In this final moment of tenderness he rejects
the devouring triumphalism latent in all patriarchy. . . . Otherwise, loving such
an emperor-Romeo, Juliet would be submitting to rape like the women Sampson
fancies ‘ever thrust to the wall.’”
35. Chettle, 35–36.
36. Porter, 80–81, 104, 127, 192, explores the pertinence of Mercury (or
Hermes) to Mercutio in, among other ways, his role as conductor of souls to Hades’
Underworld.
37. Stimpson, 57.
38. It is important to remember, however, that modern concerns about
marriage as a way of achieving rape were less noticeable, four hundred years earlier,
than concern about rape as a way of achieving marriage, since a woman known to
have been violated became hard to wed to anyone but her violator, and widows could
sometimes be compelled to marry their attackers—both facts which men used to
enforce profitable matches. Coke, chap. 11, reports this misfortune befalling two
widows; cited by Burks, 768, n. 23.
39. Jones, 110–118, argues that Shakespeare drew on Iphigenia at Aulis in
writing Julius Caesar; a Latin translation had been published by Erasmus at the start
of the sixteenth century. There is also reason to believe that Shakespeare knew the
other Euripides play that Erasmus translated, Hecuba.
40. For example, see Robert Chester’s “To the kind Reader” in the 1601 Loves
martyr, which lists “Hellan’s rape” and “Lucrece rape” in parallel. The crimes are
similarly run together in Johnson, chap. 15: “What became of Hellens rauishment,
but the destruction of renowned Troy? What of Romane Lucresiaes rape, but the
bannishment of Tarquin? and what of Prognies foule deflowrement by her sisters
husband, the lustfull King of Thrace, but the bloudie banquet of his yong Son Itis,
whose tender bodie they serued to his table baked in a Pie?”
41. Brooke, 197–198.
42. For A Midsummer Night’s Dream, see especially 2.1.74–80; furthermore,
the entire opening scene of the play emphasizes that Theseus is taking a bride by
force.
43. Brooke, 2235, 2237–2238.
44. See Bullough, 1:275, on Brooke’s wide readership.
45. Levenson, 7, notes that in Bandello’s version of the tale, “in a rare moment
of wordplay, Giulietta describes Count Paris of Lodrone as a thief (‘ladrone’) who
steals another’s property.”
46. English legal history indicates that rape itself was evolving in the later
sixteenth century from a theft of male property toward a violation of female erotic
will. Williams, 99–100, reports that “The late sixteenth century is a watershed in
rape law. From Anglo-Saxon times, rape was defined as the abduction of a woman
against the will of her male guardian. Consent was often irrelevant; violation was
a side-issue: the crime was essentially theft.” Statutes in 1555 and 1597 broke rape
and abduction into distinct offences; Detmer-Goebel, 75–78, explores the growing
authority of women’s testimonies as rape, and the victim of rape, became thus
redefined in law. Though her discussion focuses on Lavinia in Titus Andronicus, it
also indirectly illuminates the way Juliet’s relatively isolated predicament informs her
rhetorical choices in articulating both her desires and her fears. For more on these
legal changes, see Bashar.
47. Golding, 5:466–467.
48. Any wedding-night intercourse with Paris would be both unwilling and
extramarital, thus placing it firmly in the category of rape, a charge from which
marriage often gave husbands immunity. However decorously floral Paris’s presence
in the graveyard may be, it disquietingly displaces his deflowering intentions for the
wedding-night, when—according to the Nurse’s bawdy speculation—Paris would let

her “rest but little” (4.5.7), and not in peace.
49. In 3.4 De Flores continues his digital assault on Beatrice by presenting
her with Alonzo’s severed finger, on which sparkles the diamond ring she had
been forced to send her unwelcome wooer. A complex sexual bargaining ensues:
though De Flores gets the ring for his murderer’s fee, his symbolic castration of a
rival—and his demand for Beatrice’s virginity—turns the scene into, among other
things, the parodic wedding of a couple “engag’d so jointly” (89) by guilt, for which
the unfortunate Alonzo serves as best man.
50. Romeo here closely resembles the penitent Duke in act 5 of Loves sacrifice,
who returns to the tomb of the beloved he has killed sounding oddly like Romeo:
“Peace and sweet rest sleep here; let not the touch / Of this my impious hand,
prophane the shrine / Of fairest purity, which houers yet / About those blessed
bones inhearst within”—returns to the tomb of the beloved he has killed, only to be
confronted by Fernando in the role Paris feels he must play. He is then confronted
by Fernando in the role Paris feels he must play: “Forbeare; what art thou that dost
rudely presse / Into the confines of forsaken-graues? / Has death no privilege? Com’st
thou, Caraffa, / To practise yet a rape upon the dead? Inhumane Tyrant; / Whats’
ever thou intend’st, know this place / Is poynted out for my inheritance: / Here lyes
the monument of all my hopes. / Had eager Lust intrunk’d my conquered soule, /
I had not buried living ioyes in death: / Goe, Revell in thy pallace, and be proud /
To boast thy famous murthers: let thy smooth / Low-fawning parasites renowne thy
Act: / Thou com’st not here” (395–407). That Ford seems to allude—extensively, if
parodically—to Romeo and Juliet in his ’Tis Pity She’s A Whore may lend extra weight
to these comparisons.
51. Though it is obviously a further reach, Romeo’s speech to the Apothecary
is oddly reminiscent of the sexual bullying in Lovelace’s poem “The Fair Beggar”—a
speech to a starving woman where seduction is again inextricable from extortion.
Associating the young men’s fights with sexual aggression has become standard
practice in recent productions.
52. Snow, 187, argues that Romeo’s “metaphors of grief ” suggest “a fantasy of
oral retaliation against the withdrawn, depriving maternal breast.”
53. Appelbaum, 257.
54. See, for example, Helms, especially 77–91; Ray; Catty; Wolfthal;
Bamford; Belsey; and Saunders.
55. Dworkin represents an extreme but noteworthy instance of radical-
feminist conflation of eroticism with rape; a more recent wave of theory—including
what has been called “lipstick feminism”—objects that Dworkin’s position tends to
exclude or occlude heterosexual women’s desire in a way that Shakespeare, here and
in Othello, clearly does not.
56. Evans’s and Levenson’s editions briefly discuss the possible Philomel
reference, but only to account for why Juliet’s bird is female when it is, in nature, the
male who sings. Levenson does note how thickly the play is textured with “allusions
to unrelated Ovidian stories” (16), but confines the Persephone legend to Romeo’s
speech about the unconscious Juliet as Death’s “paramour” (5.3.105).
57. Brathwait, 350.
58. For an example of the way this neat dichotomy hides (even from a leading
Shakespeare scholar) the play’s disturbing suggestion that, as the violence has a
sexual component, so the sexuality has a violent one, see Kahn, 173: “Romeo and
Juliet plays out a conflict between manhood as violence on behalf of fathers and
manhood as separation from fathers and sexual union with women.”
59. See the instances explored by Gossett. Coke, chap. 13, discusses the
problems—arising from the class system—with allowing a man to escape rape
charges by offering to marry his victim.
60. Foreste in D’Avenant’s The cruell brother (1630) argues that “‘If compulsion
doth insist, untill / Enforcement breed delight, we cannot say, / The femall suffers.
Acceptance at the last, / Disparageth the not consenting at the first: / Calls her
deniall, her unskilfulnesse; / And not a virtuous frost i’th’ blood’” (5.1). For the legal
version of this argument, see Dalton, 248: “If the woman at the time of the supposed
rape, doe conceive with child, by the ravishor, this is no rape, for a woman cannot
conceive with child, except she do consent.” Burks, 789, n. 42, cites several other
instances of this belief from the earlier seventeenth century.
61. Baines, 90, quoting Bal, 81.
62. Baines, 87; see also her discussion (76) of the way rape and seduction can
be mistaken for each other by ahistorical readers. Baines cites Lefkowitz, who argues
that what have been called rapes in Greek myth are often to be understood (within
the terms of their culture) as abduction or seduction instead. For an opposing view,
see Curran.
Wor k s Ci t e d
Appelbaum, Robert. “‘Standing to the wall’: The Pressures of Masculinity in Romeo and
Juliet.” Shakespeare Quarterly 48 (1997): 251–272.
Aristotle’s Master-Piece. London, 1595.
Baines, Barbara. “Effacing Rape in Early Modern Representation.” English Literary History
65.1 (1998): 69–98.
Bal, Mieke. “The Rape of Lucrece and the Story of W.” In Reclamations of Shakespeare, ed.
A. J. Hoenselaars, 75–104. Amsterdam, 1994.
Bamford, Karen. Sexual Violence on the Jacobean Stage. New York, 2000.
Barkan, Leonard. “Diana and Actaeon: The Myth as Synthesis.” English Literary Renaissance
10 (1980): 317–359.
Barton, John. Playing Shakespeare. London, 1984.
Bashar, Nazife. “Rape in England between 1550 and 1700.” In The Sexual Dynamics of
History: Men’s Power, Women’s Resistance, ed. The London Feminist History Group,
28–42. London, 1983.
Bate, Jonathan. Shakespeare and Ovid. Oxford, 1993.
Belsey, Catherine. “Tarquin Dispossessed: Expropriation and Consent in The Rape of Lucrece.”
Shakespeare Quarterly 52 (2001): 315–335.
Brathwait, Richard. The English gentleman and the English gentlewoman. 3rd ed. London,
1641.
Brooke, Arthur. The Tragicall Historye of Romeus and Juliet. In Bullough, ed., 1:284–363.
Bullough, Geoffrey, ed. Narrative and Dramatic Sources of Shakespeare. 8 vols. London, 1957.
Burks, Deborah G. “‘I’ll Want My Will Else’: The Changeling and Women’s Complicity with
the Rapists.” English Literary History 62 (1995): 759–790.
Catty, Jocelyn. Writing Rape, Writing Women in Early Modern England: Unbridled Speech. New
York, 1999.
Chettle, Henry. England’s Mourning Garment. London, 1603.
Coke, Edward. The Institutes of the Laws of England. London, 1644.
Curran, Leo C. “Rape and Rape Victims in The Metamorphoses.” Arethusa 11 (1978):
213–239.
Dalton, Michael. The Countrey Justice. London, 1618.
D’Avenant, William. The cruell brother. London, 1630.
Detmer-Goebel, Emily. “The Need for Lavinia’s Voice: Titus Andronicus and the Telling of
Rape.” Shakespeare Studies 29 (2001): 75–92.
Donne, John. The Major Works. Ed. John Carey. New York and Oxford, 1990.
Dworkin, Andrea. Intercourse. New York, 1997.
Evans, G. B., ed. Romeo and Juliet. 2nd ed. Cambridge, 2003.
Evans, Maurice, ed. Elizabethan Sonnets. London, 1977.
Farrell, Kirby. Play, Death, and Heroism in Shakespeare. Chapel Hill, 1989.
Ford, John. Loves sacrifice. London, 1633.
Golding, Arthur. Ovid’s Metamorphoses. 1567. Ed. John Frederick Nims. Philadelphia,
2000.
Gorges, Arthur. Lucans Pharsalia. London, 1614.
Gossett, Suzanne. “‘Best Men Are Molded Out of Faults’: Marrying the Rapist in Jacobean
Drama.” English Literary Renaissance 14 (1984): 305–327.
Helms, Lorraine. Seneca by Candlelight and Other Stories of Renaissance Drama. Philadelphia,
1997.
Johnson, Richard. The seven Champions of Christendome. Part 1. London, 1608.
Jones, Emrys. The Origins of Shakespeare. Oxford, 1977.
Kahn, Coppélia. “Coming of Age in Verona.” In The Woman’s Part (1980), 171–193.
Lefkowitz, Mary R. “Seduction and Rape in Greek Myth.” In Consent and Coercion to Sex and
Marriage in Ancient and Medieval Societies, ed. Angeliki E. Laiou, 17–37. Washington,
D.C., 1993.
Levenson, Jill L., ed. Romeo and Juliet. Oxford, 2000.
Livy, Titus. The History of Rome.
Loves martyr. London, 1601.
Lyly, John. Campaspe. Ed. G. K. Hunter. Manchester, 1991.
Mead, Robert. The Combat of Love and Friendship. London, 1654.
Middleton, Thomas, and William Rowley. The Changeling. Ed. George Walton Williams.
London, 1967.
Porter, Joseph. Shakespeare’s Mercutio: His History and Drama. Chapel Hill, 1988.
The Puritan. London, 1607.
Quarles, John. Tarquin Banished: or, the Reward of Lust. London, 1655.
Ray, Sid. “‘Rape, I fear, was root of thy annoy’: The Politics of Consent in Titus Andronicus.”
Rivers, George. The Heroinæ. London, 1639.
Romeo and Juliet. Videocassette. Directed by Franco Zeffirelli. 1968; Paramount: Hollywood,
CA, 2003.
Saunders, Corinne. Rape and Ravishment in the Literature of Medieval England. Rochester,
NY, 2001.
Shakespeare, William. The Riverside Shakespeare. Ed. G. Blakemore Evans et al. 2nd ed.
Boston, 1997.
Snow, Edward. “Language and Sexual Difference in Romeo and Juliet.” In Shakespeare’s Rough
Magic, ed. Peter Erickson and Coppélia Kahn, 168–192. Newark, DE, 1985.
Stimpson, Catharine. “Shakespeare and the Soil of Rape.” In The Woman’s Part (1980),
50–64.
Tourneur, Cyril. The Atheist’s Tragedie. Ed. Irving Ribner. Cambridge, MA, 1964.
Turberville, George. The Heroycall Epistles of . . . Publius Ovidius Naso. London, 1567.
Watson, Robert N. “As You Liken It: Simile in the Wilderness.” Shakespeare Survey 56 (2003):
79–92.
Williams, Carolyn D. “‘Silence, like a Lucrece knife.’” Yearbook of English Studies 23 (1993):
93–110.
Wolfthal, Diane. Images of Rape: The “Heroic” Tradition and its Alternatives. New York, 1999.
The Woman’s Part: Feminist Criticism of Shakespeare. Ed. Ruth Swift Lenz, Gayle Greene, and
Carol Thomas Neely. Urbana: 1980.
J ennifer A . L ow
“Bodied Forth”: Spectator, Stage,

and Actor in the Early Modern Theater
P icture the original staging of these two death scenes:

In Bussy D’Ambois, the title character fights off a host of assassins, then
turns to combat the man who has hired them. Upon conquering his enemy,
Bussy grants mercy to him just as a pistol shot from an assassin standing off-
stage wounds him mortally. Amazed that his body is “but penetrable flesh,”
Bussy swears to die standing, like Emperor Vespasian, and then apostro-
phizes his sword: “Prop me, true sword, as thou hast ever done! / The equal
thought I bear of life and death / Shall make me faint on no side; I am up /
Here like a Roman statue! I will stand / Till death hath made me marble. O,
my fame, / Live in despite of murder” (5.4.78, 93–98).1 In contrast, the hero-
ine of Romeo and Juliet rises from her catafalque only to learn, as the Friar
gestures toward Romeo’s body, that “A greater power than we can contradict
/ Hath thwarted our intents” (5.3.153–154).2 The Friar almost immediately
leaves Juliet. Seeking a means of suicide, she finds Romeo’s dagger: “Yea,
noise? Then I’ll be brief. O happy dagger, / This is thy sheath [stabs herself ];
there rust, and let me die” (5.3.169–170).
Bussy’s death is a public one—Monsieur and Guise look on from
above—and his final speeches demonstrate his concern with his position in
the social hierarchy rather than with his private life. The action foregrounds
his wounded but upright body which, because of the crowd of murderers,
Comparative Drama, Volume 39, Number 1 (Spring 2005): pp. 1–29. Copyright © 2005
Western Michigan University.
121
122 Jennifer A. Low
must necessarily be located at the forefront of the stage; similarly, because of

the combat with Montsurry, he must be close to or at center stage. Although
Bussy is surrounded by others, his opponent and the assassins would be sure
to stand well out of reach of his sword. Turned to watch him, Montsurry’s
face would reflect the audience’s own interest in the extent of Bussy’s injury.
Tamyra and the shade of the friar might clutter up the visual tableau by ap-
proaching Bussy—or strengthen it by allowing Bussy to stand unimpeded
until his death. Audience involvement would have been affected by two extra-
dramatic factors: intensified, perhaps, by their proximity to the indoor stage
of St. Paul’s and distanced, perhaps, by the fact that the actors were children:
the Children of Paul’s.
Produced by the Lord Chamberlain’s Men almost a decade earlier, Ro-
meo and Juliet was performed on the public stage. The tomb to which the
stage directions refer several times would, logically, have been represented by
the tiring-house, receding from the facade at the back of the large platform
stage.3 Audiences might even have had to squint or lean forward to see Juliet’s
exact gesture in that shadowy recess. Aside from the prone bodies of Romeo
inside and Paris just on the threshold, Juliet would have been quite alone as
she stabbed herself. The visual focus would have emphasized the narrowing
perspective created by distance and detail: a significant but not broad gesture,
staged in a visually uncluttered space, far back from the audience. Such stag-
ing would have pulled the audience in, forcing their involvement by making
them strain to see the action.
Both stagings enclose the death scene. Bussy’s is enclosed by the watch-
ing actors who mirror for the audience their spectatorial involvement. The
death scene is also enclosed mimetically (though not visually) by the scene’s
setting: Tamyra’s closet, the small room where she has already received Bussy
and the Friar as they rise through a trapdoor. The necessary staging suggests
Chapman’s enjoyment of visual paradox. Everything about Bussy’s death em-
phasizes its public nature: his concern with fame, the watchers above, the
presence of the tangentially involved assassins, the hero’s steadfast insistence
on dying on his feet (to impress whom if not those watching?); yet it occurs
in a private place, the one in which Tamyra has engaged her lover in intimate
acts and her husband in intimate conversations.4 By his theatrical mode of dy-
ing, Bussy transforms Tamyra’s private room into his showplace, the site of his
final enactment of epic fortitude. By reconfiguring its function, Bussy pushes
the limits of the imagined space outward. Ringed by the other characters, he
is enclosed by the space, but by his words he broadens it, dissolving Tamyra’s
bedroom into the larger frame of the playhouse of St. Paul’s. (Smaller than
that of Blackfriars, the stage of St. Paul’s was perhaps twenty feet wide and
fairly shallow, since the entire auditorium was less than sixty-six feet long.)5
“Bodied Forth”: Spectator, Stage, and Actor 123
In the death scene, Chapman has his theatrical cake and eats it too: he
concludes the play in the kind of intimate setting that functioned so effective-
ly on the stage of the private playhouse,6 yet he permits Bussy the rhetorical
gestures that transform Tamyra’s closet into an orator’s platform. While the
setting and the staging of the scene isolate the hero, his performance simulta-
neously reminds the watchers of their collectivity and their role—as watchers
—in apotheosizing him beyond a mere malcontent or bedroom cavalier. His
expectation that death will “make [him] marble” alludes to the permanence
of statuary and evokes both the vertical space of the statue and the horizontal
space of the tomb’s carved effigy.7 Thus, the setting becomes a metatheatrical
forum for Bussy’s aspirations to epic heroism: the rhetorical equivalent of a
modern stage blackout with a spotlight on the face of a soliloquizing actor.
Juliet’s death scene is also enclosed—by the setting of the tomb and its
stage equivalent, the tiring-house. Shakespeare uses Romeo to emphasize
the claustrophobic nature of the place in several ways: by having the youth
pry open the door with a mattock and a crowbar (5.3.22 and 48 s.d.); by
having him allude to Death as a monstrous Cupid who reenacts the myth’s
bedroom scene with Juliet (or Romeo himself ) as a new Psyche; by vividly
evoking the tomb through Romeo’s references to “worms that are thy cham-
bermaids” (5.3.109). For a straight Freudian interpreter, this Liebestod is
clearly a return to the womb.8 Romeo returns to his home in Verona and
buries himself, his last gesture an orgasmic kiss. Juliet ecstatically stabs her-
self; like Romeo, her last word is die, with its obvious double-entendre, and
her final gesture transforms her entire body into a sheath (punning on the
Latin vagina) for Romeo’s phallic dagger. The site of her budding fertility
becomes a place of death.
Both death scenes complicate the nature of the place in which they oc-
cur, going well beyond the usual complication of a stage set. Bussy’s speech
dissolves the fictional place in which the hero dies; Juliet’s tomb metonymizes
her body. Theorist Anne Ubersfeld asserts that
By virtue of the multiplicity of its concrete networks, stage space

can simultaneously convey the image of a metaphorical network, a
semantic field, and an actantial [activating or energizing] model. . . .
Likewise, once stage space can be simultaneously the figure of
a given text, of a sociocultural or sociopolitical network, or of a
topography of the mind, we can be sure that there are substitutive
crossovers between these different shaping structures.9
As the penetration of Juliet’s body has been thematized by imagery and re-
presented in her manner of death, it is more generally figured in Romeo’s
violent entrance into her tomb. Just as he has forced his way into the Capulet
124 Jennifer A. Low
home and the Capulet family, he now violates another stronghold of the
dynasty: their burial vault. Each of these family structures—including
Juliet’s body—is figured in Romeo’s final, frantic violation of the inner
room. Juliet symbolically repeats the process of violation when she stabs
her own body. The same symbolic structure appears to operate, though
more subtly, throughout Bussy D’Ambois, only concluding with Bussy’s
death. The hero has always entered Tamyra’s room (the site of several
trysts) by rising up out of a trapdoor from a secret passageway suggest-
ing (to a classic Freudian theorist, at least) the vagina. While Tamyra has
blocked her husband throughout the play in every way possible, refusing
to grant him the information he asks for even when he stabs her and racks
her, she is open to Bussy, even arranging his first visit to her through a
transparent stratagem:
And he I love will loathe me when he sees

I fly my sex, my virtue, my renown
To run so madly on a man unknown.
See, see, a vault is opening that was never
Known to my lord and husband, nor to any
But him that brings the man I love, and me.
(2.2.124–129)
The “vault” she refers to is literally the machinery raising Bussy and the
Friar from the cellarage below. But this is where Freud fails us: though it
is tempting to see the passage as female genitalia, there is no evidence to
suggest that Tamyra denies her husband access to her body. The vault, then,
represents something more sophisticated: an aspect of Tamyra hidden to the
world, one revealed only to her father confessor. Despite the focus on access
to Tamyra’s body, the true emphasis is on her subjectivity.10 As in Romeo and
Juliet, the playwright uses the fictional space as a figure for the heroine; the
hero’s penetration of that space, however, is a multivalent act.
The symbolic framework of such stagings, in which the stage space rep-
resents the self of a character in either physical or psychological terms, was
by no means an innovation. Such a framework is well known to dramatic
scholars today and was quite familiar to the early modern theatergoer as well.
Its precedent exists in the morality play, which allegorizes the Christian’s
struggle against worldliness as a series of external events. In the morality
play, while each psychological aspect of the protagonist is personified as a
separate character in a classic psychomachia (a representation of the conflict
of the soul), the stage serves as a map of the protagonist’s self, often drawing
on symbolic meanings of the compass points to justify a character’s entrance
from a specific direction. In such a play, the Christian figure is staged twice:
once as an actor in the play’s events and once as the performance site upon
which the struggle between good and evil is enacted. In Catherine Belsey’s
words, the Christian figure is “the momentary location” of a cosmic struggle.11
Though the diagram of the Macro manuscript figures the stage of The Castle
of Perseverance as a circle, that circle, a microcosm of the world, is also a mac-
rocosm of the Christian himself. Throughout the play, the stage is the site
for the wanderings of Mankind, who is enticed by various temptations that
stand upon scaffolds set at the stage’s perimeter. But these temptations, like
the figure of God, can also approach Mankind on the stage, thus penetrating
the space representing his self—what is alternately presented as his soul and
his consciousness.
At certain moments, early modern plays also use the stage (or part of
the stage) to embody the main character. Belsey has pointed out that, at
moments of particular tension, early modern playwrights tended to draw on
the morality tradition, engendering what she calls a “tension between real-
ism and abstraction” a moment when psychological drama reverts to almost
archetypal patterns.12 Such a pattern often develops in plays that thematize
penetration or repeatedly stage penetrative acts. I use the term penetration
advisedly. The word penetrate is etymologically related to the phallic penile
(suggesting a sexual, if not an erotic, component to the act) but also to the
geographical peninsula, deriving from the Latin penetrare, which could be
used to mean “to place within,” “to enter within,” or “to pierce.” These re-
lated terms emphasize the spatial, almost geographical aspect of penetration.
“To penetrate” means “to make or find its (or one’s) way into the interior of,
or right through (something): usually implying force or effort”.13 And even
by Shakespeare’s time, the word had developed its figurative meaning: “to
pierce the ear, heart, or feelings of; to affect deeply; to ‘touch.’” The Lati-
nate word was a latecomer to English; decried as an inkhorn term, it was
defended by Puttenham, who argues, “Also ye finde these words, penetrate,
penetrable, indignitie, which I cannot see how we may spare them . . . for our
speach wanteth wordes to such sence so well to be vsed.”14 I want to bring
the multiple valences of the word to bear on various dramatic and thematic
instances of penetration in order to suggest the subjectivity inherent in the
human being’s consciousness of embodiment.
In these dramatic instances, the penetration of space serves as a complex
representation of the act of gaining access to a character’s interior self. The
physical space that is penetrated may be the personal space of a character,
the space created by a grouping of actors, the space of the stage as a whole, or
even the personal space of the audience. The putative self represented by these
spaces may signify, variously, a purely corporeal body; a body part (such as a
vagina or a penis); a mind (or subjectivity); or a heart (either the physical or-
gan or the conventional symbol of the desiring self ). The varied meanings of
126 Jennifer A. Low
the “self ” suggested in these spatial intrusions indicate the complexity of the
early modern experience of selfhood. We can see the partial nature of each
possibility as we move toward developing a view more thoroughly grounded
in embodiment.15
In Belsey’s view, the model of self presented in the morality play pre-
cludes the possibility of a speaking subject, since even the main character
lacks agency. Belsey not only dismisses the morality play as a possible locus
of subjectivity but also presents the links between Renaissance drama and the
morality in a way that undermines longstanding critical arguments that liter-
ary subjectivity was born on the English Renaissance stage. Belsey draws her
definition of subjectivity from a liberal humanist model. Based on language
and the ability to speak itself, the subject that she envisions, a “discursive
hero . . . independent of providence and of language,” is wholly identified by
intellectual apparatuses; the subject’s corporeal status is entirely ignored.16
The Cartesian structures that define such a model also limit it, eliding the
phenomenological habitus, the experience of being in the body. Despite nu-
merous studies of the body, the interiority of physical experience—Gail Kern
Paster’s “subjective experience of being-in-the-body”—has been neglected in
favor of an “objective” examination of the appearance of experience.17 This
lacuna has only recently been addressed by theorists, and their work is only
beginning to be applied to the drama.
In fact, the physical experience of corporeality also generates a type of
subjectivity, one that is responsive to constant interaction with the physical
world—with the environment, as well as with both animate and inanimate
objects. This aspect of subjectivity is key to my argument, both because it ren-
ders the “penetration” I see visible and because it broadens the significance of
that penetration, enabling us to recognize simultaneous, multiple meanings
of “the self.” In his volume Production de l’espace, Marxist theorist Henri Le-
febvre initiated the reintroduction of the physical self into our understanding
of subjectivity. He argues that Descartes’ theories marked a crucial dissocia-
tion between self and body and led the understanding of the self in the wrong
direction, instantiating the germs of an eventual crisis: “With the advent of
Cartesian logic . . . space had entered the realm of the absolute.”18 As Lefebvre
explains, the idea of space became entirely abstract, as if the subjective could
be eliminated from our perceptions:
The scientific attitude, understood as the application of

“epistemological” thinking to acquired knowledge, is assumed to be
“structurally” linked to the spatial sphere. . . . Blithely indifferent to
the charge of circular thinking, that discourse sets up an opposition
between the status of space and the status of the “subject,” between
the thinking “I” and the object thought about. . . . Epistemological
thought . . . has eliminated the “collective subject,” the people as

creator of a particular language, as carrier of specific etymological
sequences. . . . It has promoted the impersonal “one” as creator of
language in general, as creator of the system. It has failed, however,
to eliminate the need for a subject of some kind. Hence the re-
emergence of the abstract subject, the cogito of the philosophers.19
In other words, scientific thought, in its dependence upon Descartes,

has permitted a longstanding rift between our (i.e., Western culture’s)
quantification of space and our (i.e., each individual’s) experience of space.
Philosophical thought, too, by following Descartes in its examination
of selfhood, has lost a fundamental component of the self, accepting the
“impersonal ‘one’” as a substitute for the social subject and the concrete
subject, the individual. Recent theorists of space as varied as Yi-Fu Tuan
and Edward T. Hall have reminded us that space as we know it is shaped
by the perception of our senses: sight, sound, and touch all play a part.
Moreover, as each individual shapes his concept of space, his sense of where
he is affects his sense of self. Although space is commonly used in such
metaphors as “the social hierarchy” and “the great chain of being,” space is
a literal experience—an experience of tactility. It is dry or wet, crowded or
empty, expansive or compressed, and so forth. Even this brief list of expe-
riential alternatives indicates the extent of the awareness based on physical
feeling, an awareness quite separate from one’s command of language or
will. Like the literary scholar Cynthia Marshall, who sees in early modern
culture “any number of signs indicat[ing] an experiential slippage from [the
conscious, self-determining individual],” I posit a sense of self that is not at
all dependent on reason or will.20 This experience of subjectivity is located in
the unmediated experience of physicality, specifically of proprioception, the
interpretation of stimuli concerning one’s sense of position and one’s experi-
ence of the movements of one’s limbs and other body parts. As Paster asserts,
“bodiliness is the most rudimentary form of self-presence.”21 Everyone’s
sense of existence comes first from the physical sense of one’s own body.
One’s experience of one’s own physical presence is partly determined by
biological factors. Twentieth-century social scientist Edward T. Hall builds
on several studies of mammals by such animal psychologists as Hediger,
C. R. Carpenter, and A. D. Bain in order to develop his analysis of human be-
ings’ territoriality. He extensively examines how the nerves in different parts
of the body help us to develop a sense of space through auditory, olfactory,
and thermal information. As Hollis Huston explains, Hall’s theory “describes
not a particular code of manners, but an invariant scale of stimulant thresh-
olds, to which individuals and peoples may respond in various ways.”22 The
scale refers to physiological experiences consistent across cultures and even
128 Jennifer A. Low
across mammalian species; however, different creatures or cultures may re-

spond differently to their stimuli. Hegemonic institutions may attempt to
restructure the way that certain groups respond to specific spatial experiences,
distinguishing women from men or aristocrats from the underclass or the
middling sort, thus dividing a culture along lines of gender or social rank;
in such a situation, those involved are engaged in structuring the doxa that
underlie a psychological response to physiological stimuli. Thus, beliefs may
intersect with action, and even sensation, though what is true for doxa—that,
as Bourdieu points out, “[t]he principles embodied in this way are placed be-
yond the grasp of consciousness, and hence cannot be touched by voluntary,
deliberate transformation, cannot even be made explicit”—is even more true
of the experience of bodiliness.23 Such an attempt at imposing rules upon a
specific social group is evident in the many early modern conduct books for
women: the body of the gentlewoman was no sooner distinguished as her
own than it became the subject of many social strictures intended to impose
a habitus that would become internalized. Women were taught to keep their
eyes downcast; timidity was encouraged and the blush considered a sign of
reverence and maidenly virtue.24 Women were also taught not to perceive
the physical proximity of others as an intrusion. Adult women, even those of
high status, were expected to endure the approach of others, and even to en-
dure disciplinary violence enacted upon their bodies.25 They were discouraged
from physical resistance to aggressive seduction or even sexual coercion.26
This thoroughly Foucauldian discipline almost certainly achieved the
goal of imposing a sense of self-abnegation upon the women who manifested
the demeanor considered appropriate for their sex and status. One aspect of
physical experience is the sense of owning or possessing the space around
ourselves, what we colloquially call “personal space.” Edward Hall developed
the term proxemics to refer to study of the individual’s structuring of and
perception of space. Hall’s research indicates that our sense of the extent of
the space we possess is structured by such elements as the perception of heat
as well as by more purely tactile and visual information. Hall theorizes that
“[u]ntil recently man’s space requirements were thought of in terms of the
actual amount of air displaced by his body. The fact that man has around him
as extensions of his personality the zones described . . . has generally been
overlooked.”27
In ’Tis Pity She’s a Whore, John Ford’s representation of the female habi-
tus, or experience of being in the body, manifests a significant confusion about
the nature of female selfhood. The play’s male characters so often allude to
Annabella in stock terms that they almost render the heroine a mere plot
device: a receptacle, an object of erotic desire that male characters wish to
enter. Staging of the erotic object in early modern drama often makes use
of mimetic forms such as entrance onto the stage, in fact: physical and/or
aggressive intrusion may be enacted in such a way as to suggest erotic bodily

penetration. But entering may also, depending on the setting, represent pen-
etrating a character’s subjectivity—entering into direct communication with
a character’s mind, heart, or soul. Though Annabella’s body is the focus of
several characters in Ford’s play, the author himself manifests a concern with
the relation between Annabella’s body and her “inwardness”; this concern is
literally staged throughout the play, as textual images force our attention to
connections between metaphor, staging, and plot.
Throughout ’Tis Pity, there are a plethora of metaphors about various
containers, and many of these figure Annabella as the container.28 But other
images of containment metaphorize the body more generally to express sub-
jectivity in ways that were common during the early modern period. After
the siblings have had sexual intercourse, Annabella tells Giovanni, “Go where
thou wilt, in mind I’ll keep thee here” (2.1.39).29 The idea that the beloved
is contained as an image within the mind or the mind’s eye of the lover fre-
quently recurs (and is read today as a sign of subjectivity) in Shakespeare’s and
Sidney’s sonnet sequences. Later, Ford strikingly echoes Antony’s opening
lines in Antony and Cleopatra (as well as the lyrics of John Donne, his contem-
porary) when Giovanni says, “Let poring book-men dream of other worlds,
/ My world, and all of happiness, is here” (5.3.13–14). It would be false and
reductive to suggest that this reference to Annabella is purely sexual.
Related imagery appears when other characters anxiously examine
Annabella’s motives. After advising Annabella, the Friar comments, “But soft,
methinks I see repentance work / New motions in your heart” (3.6.31–32).
Her heart represents her interior state; his vision, his ability to see beyond
her physical appearance. This reference to Annabella’s interiority is repeated
when Soranzo discovers his new wife’s pregnancy. Eventually, dissembling his
rage, Soranzo distinguishes between himself and her supposed lover: “Well
might he lust, but never lov’d like me. / He doted on the pictures that hung
out / Upon thy cheeks . . . Not on the part I lov’d, which was thy heart, / And,
as I thought, thy virtues” (4.3.125–129). These characters evince a desire for a
different, nonsexual penetration: discovery of the truth of Annabella’s heart.
Her consciousness, her subjectivity become as much of a focus of the play as
her body.
This concern is dramatized by staging and by verbal references to stage
action. In a play that begins with a speech about bodily space and continues
with a complaint about violent intrusions upon one’s space of private prop-
erty, we might expect to see intrusion staged repeatedly. Indeed, one of the
characters, Annabella’s maidservant, actually states this expectation: “How
like you this, child? Here’s threat’ning, challenging, / quarreling, and fight-
ing, on every side, and all is for your / sake; you had need look to yourself,
charge, you’ll be / stol’n away sleeping else shortly” (1.2.63–66). Yet there are
130 Jennifer A. Low
few, if any, scenes in which Annabella’s suitors aggressively enter upon her
solitude.30 When Giovanni and Annabella discover their mutual affection,
they do so in their father’s hall. This space, which is neutral ground to each,
enables them to meet without intrusion on the part of either. (Indeed, one
could read Annabella’s willingness to make her brother her erotic choice as an
extreme example of endogamy that makes it unnecessary for her ever to leave
the family circle.) When the two have pledged their love, they exit, presum-
ably to consummate their vow. But the next scene stages not their act of love
but the low comedy of Bergetto’s indifference to Annabella. Directly follow-
ing that scene, Giovanni and Annabella enter “as from their chamber”; they
renew their vows and agree to remain faithful to one another. Thus, the audi-
ence is denied the revelation of Annabella’s body. Instead, it enjoys a parodic
inversion of Giovanni’s courtship. The staging seems to reflect back on the
audience its prurient desire for the unveiled sex scene that the play initially
seemed to promise. As Patricia Fumerton argues, the subject at this time
lived in public view but always withheld for itself a “secret” room,
cabinet, case, or other recess locked away (in full view) in one
corner of the house. . . . the aristocratic self [enacted] a sort of
reflex of retreat, an instinct to withdraw into privacy so pervasive
even in the most trivial matters that there never could be any final
moment of privacy.31
It seems that this private room will never be revealed. Even to Putana,
Annabella pointedly refuses to offer any confidence about the details of
what has passed.
Despite their urgent desire to win the prize, Annabella’s other suitors
gain little access to her. Almost the only contact that Grimaldi achieves oc-
curs when Annabella and Putana enter “above” after his fight with Vasques.
The stage direction strongly implies that the two women peer down at the
fight from an upper window or a balcony overlooking the street. Annabella
remains “above” the violence, and apart from it—never seriously threatened.
Her meeting with Bergetto is only recounted, not staged; true, Annabella is
later summoned by her father to read the youth s letter, but after doing so,
she is permitted to dismiss the suitor without further ado. When Soranzo
courts Annabella, they walk in her father’s hall; her sense of security is evi-
dent in her raillery. Even when her husband discovers her previous sexual
activity, Annabella remains calm. Stage directions indicate their entrance:
“Enter Soranzo unbrac’d, and Annabella dragg’d in” (4.3.1 s.d.). We can de-
duce that they enter from a shared bedchamber after their mutual disrobing
reveals Annabella’s condition. The fact that Ford does not stage the scene in
the bedchamber itself emphasizes that Soranzo fails to penetrate Annabella’s
defenses. She steadfastly refuses to name her lover and sings a song that in-
dicates her indifference to death. Despite their wedding, Soranzo never gains
access to Annabella’s interior self.
Annabella’s bedchamber is not represented onstage until the scene of
her repentance. The stage direction says, “Enter the Friar sitting in a chair,
Annabella kneeling and whispering to him: a table before them and wax-
lights: she weeps and wrings her hands” (3.6.1 s.d.).32 The scene plunges in
medias res as the Friar comments, “You have unripp’d a soul so foul and guilty
. . . I marvel how / The earth hath borne you up” (3.6.2–4). He dominates the
scene with speeches punctuated only occasionally by exclamations from An-
nabella, graphically describing hell and its torments until Annabella asks, “Is
there no way left to redeem my miseries?” (3.6.33).33 His answer persuades
her that marrying Soranzo is the right choice: when the Friar asks if she is
content, she replies, “I am” (3.6.42).34
Though the stage direction indicates that Annabella and the Friar
appear onstage together, the pose described and the speeches that follow in-
dicate that Annabella’s concealed subjectivity has finally been revealed. The
scene depicts what we have long desired to see: Annabella’s bedchamber. This
feminized space is indeed penetrated by an aggressive male—the Friar, whose
coercive speeches constitute an assault upon Annabella’s privacy. But what
is exposed inside this sancta sanctorum is not Annabella’s body but her soul.
The long-awaited revelation of Annabella’s self presents not an overly-willing
woman but a thoughtful one. The Friar’s concerns gain him access to a purely
spiritual interior.
Yet this understanding of Annabella is undermined by the play’s conclu-
sion. Ford parts the bed curtains in 5.5, revealing Giovanni and Annabella
in bed once again.35 There is no need for Giovanni to make an aggressive
entrance; he has already taken possession of Annabella’s body. Now, on this
bed, Annabella’s inner space is reconstituted, this time in an erotic guise, and,
as the lovers use the time they have, they re-enact the primal act, staging An-
nabella as a body entered and conquered by a male. Stabbing her, Giovanni
penetrates the body violently as well as sexually, killing the fetus, the inter-
loper whose presence brought Soranzo into Annabella’s sphere (“The hapless
fruit / That in her womb receiv’d its life from me / Hath had from me a
cradle and a grave” [5.5.94–96]). Annabella’s interiority is turned inside out,
as the staging places her body on display and the script suggests that what
matters for Giovanni is not his sister’s soul, but her body. The space of the
stage represents Annabella’s interior once again, but that interior seems more
appropriately figured by her genitalia than by her heart.
The heart itself reappears at the end. Shrunk down to the actual organ,
however, interiority retains unknowability. What is internal is, as Katharine
Maus says, “beyond scrutiny, concealed where other people cannot perceive it.
132 Jennifer A. Low
And it surpasses the visible—its validity is unimpeachable.”36 When Giovanni

enters the stage “with a heart upon his dagger” (5.5.7 s.d.), the tableau inevi-
tably recalls the scene in which Giovanni urged Annabella to discover the
truth of his, feelings by cutting open his body to see his heart. The trope of the
heart as the seat of love, so common in the verses of Sidney, Shakespeare, and
Donne, is here literalized. Thus, Giovanni presents to all his triumph:
The glory of my deed

Darken’d the midday sun, made noon as night.
...
I came to feast too, but I digg’d for food
In a much richer mine than gold or stone
Of any value balanc’d; ’tis a heart,
A heart, my lords, in which is mine entomb’d:
Look well upon’t; dee know’t?
(5.6.22–29)
The speech leads us to expect a bawdy pun—surely the “richer mine” must
refer to Annabella’s queynt. But Ford surprises us by altering the mean-
ing of the container once again: Giovanni is proud that he has conquered
Annabella’s affections. The “case” is not the vulva but the heart, which
Giovanni believes will offer the pure, unequivocal sign of authentic feeling
that he desires. But, of course, it does not. Even Giovanni’s father fails to
recognize Annabella’s heart (as Giovanni says, “Why d’ee startle? / I vow ’tis
hers” [5.6.31–32]). When presented onstage, the heart is just a bloody hunk
of flesh: it lacks any identifying trait, let alone the symbolic value that it has
for Giovanni himself.37
On a theatrical level, one that comprises both plot and staging, the
revelation of Annabella’s interiority, though deferred for a while, is finally
reached—and is reached, in fact, more than once. Annabella’s interiority is
not only visible, but actually staged when her room and her bed are revealed
onstage. As Georgiana Ziegler has said in her discussion of The Rape of Lu-
crece, “the chamber metaphorically represents her ‘self,’ her body with its
threatened chastity.”38 But in this play, the “self ” is represented as several dif-
ferent constructs. It may be the soul, the conscience, the genitals, the womb.
Is fancy bred in the heart, in the head, inside the vagina? Ford cannot decide:
his stagings shift the seat of the self from one thing to another. Annabella’s
interiority remains a moving target; her characterization is nowhere more
ambiguous than at the play’s end.
’Tis Pity draws on the conventions of the morality play to stage the
female aristocratic body and to examine the nature of the subjectivity repre-
sented by that body. It also resembles the morality play in the psychological
distance that it maintains between the characters and the audience. Despite,
or perhaps because of, the play’s sensationalism, ’Tis Pity remains largely an
intellectual exercise for the audience member, a quest for the nature of Anna-
bella’s subjectivity. Unlike Macbeth, for example, ’Tis Pity offers no entrance
into the focal character’s experience but remains a cautionary lesson not un-
like morality plays themselves.
If ’Tis Pity does offer the audience a role, it is that of the onlooker,
the peeping Tom whose desires have been legitimized because commodi-
fied. What aspect of Annabella do we desire to see? Giovanni’s desire may
awaken our prurience, but the incestuous nature of his desire makes us ex-
perience any touch of kinship with Giovanni as distasteful. Even more than
its gore and its subject matter, the position in which it places its audience
members may be the element that links ’Tis Pity with an Artaudian Theatre
of Cruelty. Do we watch with Giovanni or over his shoulder? And in which
of these capacities are we more (or less) akin to him? This challenge to the
spectator’s role—when we are both enticed and sickened by our willingness
to be enticed—leads to larger questions about theatrical transactions between
actors and spectators. What draws us into the action? And how are our rela-
tions with the characters altered when we are? Do we empathize with each
character seriatim or with only one, enjoying a dual viewpoint as we relate to
the other characters through the lens that “our” character provides? No matter
what the action, it is evident that as soon as one actor establishes a relation to
another, he alters their spatial relations and realigns the audience with each of
them. As Hollis Huston explains,
To transfer Hall’s comprehensive analysis of behavior directly to

the stage [would be] a catastrophic mistake. A stage differs from
real life in a way that is essentially proxemic. . . . [T]he fundamental
relationship of the theater is not between two actors, but between
the two of them and those who watch: when the contract of mutual
responsibility is broken, the stage dies and the theater is void.39
Any consideration of staging is incomplete without discussion of its effect

upon the spectators. By extension, discussion of the body and its use in the
theater should also include the spectator as a third element, forming a triad
of related concerns.
Many antitheatrical pamphleteers who feared that dramas could have a
bad effect upon audience members inveighed against what they perceived as
a loss of control that resulted from watching plays. Stephen Gosson, for ex-
ample, writes repeatedly of the danger of “gazing.” In Playes Confuted in Five
Actions, he alludes four times to the effect of the spectacle—or, more exactly,
to the effects of gazing upon a spectacle:
134 Jennifer A. Low
Yf we be carefull that no pollution of idoles enter by the mouth

into our bodies, how diligent, how circumspect, how wary ought we
to be, that no corruption of idols, enter by the passage of our eyes
& eares into the soule? . . . that which entreth into us by the eyes
and eares, muste bee digested by the spirite.40
Phillip Stubbes perceives the theatrical experience similarly: “For such

is our grosse and dull nature, that what thing we see opposite before our eyes,
to pearce further, and printe deeper in our harts and minds, than that thing,
which is hard [sic] onely with the eares.”41 Both these writers characterize
sight as a way of opening up the body, as if the eye were a mouth that in-
gests visual stimuli. Sight becomes an invitation for stimuli to enter into the
body: a “piercing,” or penetration. To make sense of the assault upon the self
that these writers see in the very experience of play-watching, I revert to the
relation between what Hall calls “distance receptors—those concerned with
examination of distant objects—the eyes, the ears, and the nose” and “im-
mediate receptors—those used to examine the world close up—the world of
touch, the sensations we receive from the skin, membranes, and muscles” for
early modern theatergoers.42
How would early modern audience members have experienced the dra-
ma at the physiological and visceral levels? At the sensorial level? Based on
the contract for constructing the Fortune Theater, Bruce Smith asserts that
“no one in the Fortune or the 1599 Globe was more than fifty feet from an
actor standing downstage, at the focal center of the space.”43 Though this dis-
tance may have been small in terms of auditory experience, it is experienced
proxemically as somewhat remote, falling under the category that Hall calls
“public distance” the distance at which people lose a sense of connectedness
with one another.44 According to Hall’s research, actors attempting to make
their performance touch the spectator work with the limitations established
by that distance:
Most actors know that at thirty or more feet the subtle shades of
meaning conveyed by the normal voice are lost as are the details of
facial expression and movement. Not only the voice but everything
else must be exaggerated or amplified. Much of the nonverbal
part of the communication shifts to gestures and body stance. In
addition, the tempo of the voice drops [and] words are enunciated
more clearly.45
But for groundlings already in intimate contact with the stage, the actor’s
approach onto the platea (downstage area) of the stage would intensify the
experience of closeness resulting from the actor’s approach within social
distance. Hall characterizes the physical experience of such intimacy as

somewhat uncomfortable—certainly, it takes active observation to form an
impression of what is nearby. At a close social distance,
the area of sharp focus extends to the nose and parts of both
eyes; or the whole mouth, one eye, and the nose are sharply seen.
Many Americans shift their gaze back and forth from eye to eye
or from nose to mouth. . . . At a 60-degree visual angle, the head,
shoulders, and upper trunk are seen at a distance of four feet.46
Perhaps most significantly, Hall notes that “to stand and look down at a per-
son at this distance has a domineering effect.”47 One can easily extrapolate
from this (and from one’s personal experience) that craning one’s neck upward
to watch a performance would render one submissive to impressions.
In the public theaters, the thrust stage aggressively appropriated the
standing room of the audience. A raised platform jutting forty feet out into
a bare area, the stage must have served as a physical intrusion upon the per-
sonal space of those spectators pressed close to it. Despite the excitement
of proximity, those who stood around its actual perimeter would have been
uncomfortable at being pressed against the hard wooden platform—more so
than those more distant spectators who were pressed back against the walls of
the amphitheater. Surrounded by groundlings on three sides, an actor could
not possibly achieve the same visual effect as one performing toward only one
side. Yet in this case, the audience would be much more affected by actors’
entrances, particularly when they passed from locus (upstage area) to platea
(downstage area) for greater intimacy. These paired concepts are particularly
suggestive in this context. Robert Weimann argues that the platea “becomes
part of the symbolic meaning of the play world, and the locus is made to
support the dialectic of self-expression and representation.” In moving from
one to another, actors employed “transitions between illusion and convention,
representation and self-expression, high seriousness, and low comedy—each
drawing physically, socially, and dramatically on the interplay.” Further, Wei-
mann suggests, an early modern actor “uses certain conventions of speech and
movement that roughly correspond to locus and platea, conventions by which
the audience’s world is made part of the play and the play is brought into the
world of the audience.”48
How might specific scenarios or stagings further compel the audience
to open themselves up in the way that Gosson and Stubbes describe? Can the
audience themselves be penetrated by their experience of the theater? Not, one
might suspect, in seats of the nineteenth-century proscenium arch theater,
watching actors in the crowded Victorian setting of the typical box set—but
perhaps in the crowd surrounding the early modern amphitheater’s thrust
136 Jennifer A. Low
stage, when a bare stage awaits the actor’s entrance, which will shape the area
into meaningful space.
Not all theatrical entrances convey a sense of aggressive penetration, of
course (least of all when characters enter in the midst of conversation), but
a solitary actor might achieve this effect, particularly when the scene was set
for aggressive entry by previous imagery, conversation, setting, or the mode of
earlier entrances.49 Further, in moving from locus to platea, an actor not only
penetrates an empty stage but also steps into and above space that the audi-
ence would experience as their own. Gurr seems to support this view when he
argues, “The chief feature of the staging and its interaction with the audience
was the intimate connection between them. The spectators were as visible as
the players, and even more potently they completely surrounded the players
on their platform.”50
More than once throughout his dramatic career, Shakespeare created a
representative body onstage that stands in for the audience, thereby enabling
him to use the material conditions of his theater to manipulate the spectator’s
proxemic experience. How might the linkage of stage entrances to thematic
concerns with penetration and invasion of the body have brought the audience
to share the proxemic experience of the onstage (intradramatic) spectator?
Shakespeare’s Coriolanus not only makes use of a mob as an intradra-
matic spectator, it constantly thematizes the relationship between crowds and
individuals, parts and wholes, closed bodies and open bodies. Piercing and
penetration remain an underlying theme of the play, as Shakespeare con-
stantly draws our attention to openness, vulnerability, autonomy, and the
necessity for solidarity. In Coriolanus, the hero wins his name by penetrating
and opening up the town of Corioles, but he refuses to render himself vulnerable
to figurative penetration. He resists the traditional theatrical vulnerability of
the soliloquizer, in itself a metaphorical openness to penetration;51 he refuses
to show his wounds to the populace, blocking their gaze (a visual and sym-
bolic form of penetration); and he ignores the needs of both the metaphorical
stomach (the desires of the Roman populace) and those of the literal stomach
(food as fuel for the body), thereby refusing to acknowledge that the body
can be affected by external, or even internal, stimuli.52 Martius’s refusal to
acknowledge his vulnerability is most notable in the showstopping scene in
which he successfully penetrates the town of Corioles entirely alone.
Entrances and exits almost immediately become symbolic of thematic
concerns throughout the play. Coriolanus begins with action, possibly rein-
forced by confused sound: “Enter a company of mutinous Citizens, with
staves, clubs, and other weapons.”53 This is, as Arden editor Philip Brockbank
notes, the only play of the period to open with public violence.54 And, as critic
Jarrett Walker points out, the audience experiences this beginning as “a fron-
tal assault of bodies.”55 From an empty stage, we change to a confused milling
about of hostile, angry characters—as many extras as the King’s Men had on
hand. This would have been experienced as violence, as attack; the audience
would have felt the shock of reverberating boards, of crowdedness very differ-
ent from that of the spectators crammed together.56
Indeed, Zvi Jagendorf suggests that Shakespeare purposely contrasts the
“isolated and discrete body of the man who stands alone” with the common
body of the people:57
Both are prominent features of the play’s spectacle. The crowd—

the citizens in the street and marketplace, the common soldiers
on the battlefield—is a constant feature of the action. We hear
their shouts on and offstage. We are encouraged to imagine them
jostling for space in the victory parades, and we both see and hear
them in the mob scenes.58
Shakespeare, I am suggesting, brings together crowds and the figure of the

body by creating scenes in which crowds and (ultimately) the whole stage
come to “stand in” for a body, as Ford does through different techniques in
’Tis Pity She’s a Whore. Throughout the play, the thrust stage and the actors
create situations in which penetration of groups of bodies occurs. The open-
ing is a case in point: after the unruly multitude have assembled, they are
called to order by the First Citizen, who addresses the crowd. Whether they
stand in small clusters or assemble in a circle or semicircle, it is natural for
the next character who appears, Menenius, to enter from the back and push
through to the center of a crowd that then surrounds him. His penetration
of the crowd is his first move toward controlling and dispersing it. In enter-
ing and taking center stage, in fact, he seems to provide a visual emblem
of the belly in his fable. He becomes the visual center, around which there
would be a circle of empty space because the plebeians would have to stand
far enough off so that they could turn their eyes upon him.59 When Caius
Martius enters, he too would necessarily thrust his way through the crowd
of plebeians, but his presence would confuse the effect of the tableau. The
conversation would cease to be a dialogue between individual and crowd;
it would become more diffuse, less of a clear exchange, as Martius quarrels
both with Menenius and with members of the crowd.
Entering and exiting become the subject of discussion a scant two scenes
later, when Virgilia insists, “I’ll not over the threshold till my lord return from
the wars” (1.3.74–75). Although Valeria argues, “Fie, you confine yourself
most unreasonably,” Virgilia stands firm (1.3.76). Refusing to visit “the good
lady that lies in” (1.3.77), Virgilia insists on her own enclosure, her own con-
tainment. Walker actually comments that Virgilia’s silence itself is visual and
emblematic when framed by her talkative friend and her mother-in-law:
138 Jennifer A. Low
She is never fully separable from the women who surround her.
Accordingly, when I refer to Virgilia as a presence onstage, it is
with the understanding that Volumnia and Valeria are essential to
draw our attention to that presence and are thus, in phenomenal
terms, inseparable from it.60
Even in this scene, a closed circle is more than once broken in upon: Volum-
nia and Virgilia enter together, their paired-ness making us focus on their
interaction rather than on their penetration of the empty stage. But the
stage directions (which textual critics as venerable as Greg and as recent as
Werstine believe to have been written by Shakespeare himself) indicate that
the pair seat themselves on stools and begin to sew silently, creating a sense
of intimacy and community broken by Volumnia s first words: “I pray you,
daughter, sing, or express yourself ” (1.3.1–2). The circle is again disrupted
when a servant enters to announce Valeria’s arrival and Virgilia is with diffi-
culty prevented from exiting the stage. When Valeria appears with an Usher
and a Gentlewoman (presumably Valeria’s servant), the previous intimacy is
dissolved by the presence of too many bodies on stage.
In the next scene, the sense of the stage space that I have described is
reversed. Scene 1.4 stages the Roman attack upon Corioles. As well as the
main actors, the stage directions specify “Drum and Colours [extras], with
Captains and Soldiers . . . to them a Messenger.” The army of the Volsces,
which soon pours out of the tiring-house door, further confuses the visual
picture. They beat the Romans “to their trenches,” and then Martius appears,
“cursing”; he pursues the Volsces, who flee back to the gates of Corioles (the
doors of the tiring-house), and he follows them in. As the gates are shut and
the Roman general Titus Lartius immediately focuses on the possible loss of
Martius, the characters and the audience can only speculate on what is going
on behind the door in “Corioles.” Martius’s own powers of penetration are
best perceived by the audience not when he is fighting onstage but now, when
he is absent and all eyes are fixed upon the door through which he has passed.
Ironically, our attention is not directed toward the penetration of swords
piercing bodies behind the door; instead, we see the city of Corioles itself as
the thing that Martius has penetrated by entering it. Thus, the city becomes a
larger emblem of the cutting, wounding, and opening up of individual bodies
that Martius traditionally enacts in battle. As I have shown elsewhere, the
penetration indicated by the wound’s blood is a matter for shame, as it reveals
masculine vulnerability—a vulnerability associated, according to Gail Paster,
with a woman’s menstrual flow.61
When Martius emerges, “bleeding, assaulted by the enemy” (1.4.61
s.d.), the general Titus Lartius exclaims, “O, ’tis Martius! / Let’s fetch him
off, or make remain alike,” and the company of Roman soldiers rush toward
Martius, who turns and leads them all back into the city (1.4.61–62). This
action inverts the more usual sense of the stage as an area that can be pen-
etrated; instead, it focuses the watchers’ attention on a single point of exit or
entry. The possibility of forced penetration is outward—through the tiring-
house doors—but yet away from the audience. Thus, as Titus Lartius enters,
the extras pause, facing toward the door through which Martius has passed.
When he re-enters and turns about, they all follow him, and the flow of actors
abruptly pushes toward the single, central door, leaving the stage as empty as if
it had been evacuated. I hypothesize an effect as of tumescence and detumes-
cence—not in literal terms, but in the audience’s experience of the stage.62 As
the circulation of bodies onstage focuses on action occurring directly behind
the doors, the audience would not only focus on what the doors concealed,
but would experience the cessation of action as an abrupt slowdown—one
that they might even understand as resembling a sudden chill to flowing
blood. They would feel the stage’s detumescence as a sudden emptying out,
an absence of tension in the immediate vicinity and a sense of closure to the
scene that is suggested by the outflow, which, on a primitive level, would carry
a sense of the Romans’ attack as almost inevitably successful.
In architectonic terms, the staging implied by the action of Coriolanus
manifests two different ways of dwelling in space. Edward S. Casey character-
izes two extremes of architectural experience as “hestial” and “hermetic”: “Any
built place that aims at encouraging hestial dwelling will . . . tend to be at once
centered and self-enclosed. The implicit directionality will be from the center
toward the periphery and will thus obey the architectural counsel to ‘extend
inner order outward.’”63 In contrast, “the hermetic moves out resolutely”; it
“represents the far-out view, a view from a moving position.”64 Shakespeare
offers both these experiences to his audiences through the proxemics inherent
in the staging examined here. Each form of experience affects watchers viscer-
ally, and each develops a sense of self substantially different from that of the
region “between or behind the eyes.”65
The staging of the body affects the audience’s experience on many levels.
While related to proxemic concerns, the effect of entrances and exits goes
beyond that single dimension; it depends not only on proximity but on the
design and use of the stage within the theater itself. Thus, the stage space,
whether that of the thrust stage or the proscenium arch, organically affects
the experience of the spectator, as each stage design creates a different relation
between the audience and the action.
The self implicated by early modern metaphors of the body is not easily
defined, any more than is the self that comes into being through proxemic ex-
perience. Yet the validity of applying proprioceptive analysis to staging should
be evident. Freud’s paradigms have so thoroughly infused our culture that one
is likely to describe the audience’s proprioception as an unconscious response
140 Jennifer A. Low
to the staging of the action. Such a term denies the nature of the experience,
which is unrelated to psychic structures or intellectual activity. The “bodili-
ness” if you will, of the individual is an important constitutive element of
subjectivity—a subjectivity that must be recognized as a broader experience
than has been understood hitherto.
Scholars who have written about the early modern spectator’s experi-
ence have often intuitively done so in the context of considering bodily, even
proprioceptive, elements onstage. Not only does Belsey discuss the uses of
psychomachiae in The Subject of Tragedy, she treats similar issues in her analy-
sis of The Duchess of Malfi, a play whose focus could be defined as the question,
“Who controls the body of the Duchess?” When Huston Diehl addresses
audience experience, she does so in the context of her discussion of stage
violence.66 We must continue to examine how spatial elements construct the
subject, using the drama both as a mimetic form and as an intraperforma-
tive transaction between actors and audience members. The staged nature of
dramatic theater offers a unique opportunity to examine this dimension of
human experience.
No t e s
1. Quotations from Bussy D’Ambois refer to George Chapman, Bussy D’Ambois
ed. Robert J. Lordi (Lincoln, Nebr.: Nebraska University Press, 1964). This edition
is based on Q2, published in 1641.
2. Quotations from Romeo and Juliet and other Shakespeare plays (unless
otherwise noted) refer to William Shakespeare, The Riverside Shakespeare, ed. G.
Blakemore Evans (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1974).
3. At 5.3.48 s.d., Q1 states, “Romeo begins to open the tomb.” At 5.3.87,
Theobald includes the stage direction, “Laying Paris in the tomb.” Q1 also specifies
at 5.3.139 the stage direction “Friar stoops and looks on the blood and weapons”
directly before the Friar’s line, “Alack, alack, what blood is this, which stains / The
stony entrance of this sepulchre?” (140–141). Two lines later, the Douai MS offers
the stage direction, “Enters the tomb.” The many references to the tomb indicate
that it was represented by a physical structure, for which the obvious choice would
have been the tiring-house. Based on similarly circumstantial evidence, Gurr
confidently asserts that the tiring-house front “served as the Capulet house when
Romeo climbed to its balcony” (Andrew Gurr, The Shakespearean Stage, 1574–1642
[Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992], 182).
4. This point may be somewhat negated by the argument about bedchambers
espoused by Michael Danahy in “Social, Sexual, and Human Spaces in La Princesse
de Cleves,” French Forum 6, no. 3 (Sept. 1981): 212–224. Yet Danahy’s point is also
mine: when female courtiers lack any private space, and even lack the ability to
decide who may enter their bedroom and who may not, they may fail adequately
to develop an interior space, a sense of self that is distinct from the directions and
wishes of others.
5. See Andrew Gurr, The Shakespearean Stage, 160. As Gurr points out, “after
the adults took [the Blackfriars playhouse] over in 1608 swordplay was confined to
the occasional fencing bout and . . . battles and what Shirley called ‘target fighting’
were never tried there” (157). The size of the stage provides one explanation for why
Bussy’s epic duel in act 2 is described, not staged.
6. Consider the “boudoir atmosphere” (to coin a useful anachronism) of such
settings as Clerimont’s dressing room in Jonson’s Epicoene, the Duchess’s closet in
Webster’s Duchess of Malfi, and Tamyra’s closet in this play.
7. Indeed, the line may even have been intended as a reference to the golden
statues that apotheosize the lovers at the close of Romeo and Juliet.
8. Sigmund Freud, Introductory Lectures on Psychoanalysis, trans. and ed.
James Strachey (New York: Norton, 1966), 156.
9. Anne Ubersfeld, Reading Theatre, trans. Frank Collins, ed. Paul Perron
and Patrick Debbeche (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1999), 110.
10. These symbolic structures persist beyond Bussy’s death. After her lover’s
decease, Tamyra begs to depart from her husband’s house. Having failed to keep her
affair hidden, her bedroom matters private, she urges her husband to let her depart
until her stab wounds—“that never balm shall close / Till death hath enter’d at
them, so I love them, / Being opened by your hands”—heal (5.4.194–196). Having
been grotesquely penetrated by her husband’s phallic knife, Tamyra promises to bear
lovingly these signs of his ownership, his right to enter her body exclusively, and in
any way he wishes. She pledges, “I never more will grieve you with my sight, / Never
endure that any roof shall part / Mine eyes and heaven; but to the open deserts, /
Like to a hunted tigress, I will fly” (5.4.197–200). Leaving behind the empty shell of
a place that failed to offer her protection, she seeks the promise of nakedness that the
wilderness seems to offer. After Bussy’s death, she no longer needs any private place.
Violated by her husband’s knife and by his base murder of her lover, Tamyra becomes
a walking emblem of a woman who has nothing to hide, a woman whose interiority
contains nothing but a bleakness that she is willing to share with the world.
11. Catherine Belsey, The Subject of Tragedy: Identity and Difference in
Renaissance Drama (London: Methuen, 1985), 13. Michael Hattaway looks to
the future, borrowing the term gest from Brecht to characterize “moments when
the visual elements of the scene combine with the dialogue in a significant form
that reveals the condition of life in the play” (Elizabethan Popular Theatre: Plays in
Performance [London: Routledge, 1982], 57).
12. Catherine Belsey, “Emblem and Antithesis in The Duchess of Malfi”
Renaissance Drama 11 (1980): 117.
13. As an example, the OED cites Hall’s Chronicles, from Richard III, 56:
“With out resistence, [we] have penetrate [sic] the ample region . . . of Wales.”
The French cognate was also commonly used at this time to mean “to enter into a
space.”
14. George Puttenham, The Arte of English Poesie (Kent, Ohio: Kent State
University Press, 1970), 159.
15. Many critics, following Gail Kern Paster’s groundbreaking book, The Body
Embarrassed: Drama and the Disciplines of Shame in Early Modern England (Ithaca:
Cornell University Press, 1993), have investigated the relation between selfhood
and early modern humoral theory. My approach attempts to focus on actual physical
perception rather than on the physiological discourse of the time.
16. Belsey, The Subject of Tragedy, 14.
17. Paster, The Body Embarrassed, 3.
142 Jennifer A. Low
18. Henri Lefebvre, The Production of Space, trans. Donald Nicholson-Smith

(Oxford: Blackwell, 1991), 1.
19. Ibid.
20. Cynthia Marshall, The Shattering of the Self: Violence, Subjectivity, and
Early Modern Texts (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2002), 14.
22. Hollis Huston, The Actor’s Instrument: Body, Theory, Stage (Ann Arbor:
University of Michigan Press, 1992), 112. For more specifics, see Edward T. Hall,
The Hidden Dimension (Garden City, New York: Doubleday, 1966). Hall discusses
different cultures in Europe (123–138), Japan (139–144), and the Middle East
(144–153).
23. Pierre Bourdieu, Outline of a Theory of Practice, trans. Richard Nice
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977), 94.
24. Ruth Kelso, Doctrine for the Lady of the Renaissance (Urbana, Ill.: University
of Illinois Press, 1956), 43–44.
25. In The Family, Sex, and Marriage in England, 1500–1800 (New York:
Harper, 1977), Lawrence Stone quotes Lady Jane Grey as complaining of her
parents’ rigorous and even apparently spiteful discipline:
When I am in presence either of father or mother, whether I speak, keep

silence, sit, stand or go, eat, drink, be merry or sad, be sewing, playing, dancing,
or doing anything else, I must do it, as it were, in such weight, measure, and
number, even so perfectly as God made the world, else I am so sharply taunted,
so cruelly threatened, yea presently sometimes with pinches, nips and bobs, and
some ways I will not name for the honour I bear them, so without measure
misordered that I think myself in Hell. (167)
26. Jennifer A. Low, Manhood and the Duel: Masculinity in Early Modern
Drama and Culture (New York: Palgrave, 2003), 73–74.
27. Hall, The Hidden Dimension, 121.
28. In 1.1, Giovanni asks the Friar whether “[a] customary form . . . [should]
be a bar / ’Twixt my perpetual happiness and me?” (1.1.25–27). Since his happiness is
in the enjoyment of Annabella’s body, his reference to a bar implies that he conceives
of his sister’s body as a room with the entrance barred by the traditional prohibition
against incest. Later, when Giovanni learns of Annabella’s pregnancy, he asks
Putana, horrified, “But in what case is she?” (3.3.17). In this instance, the double
meaning is the author’s, not the character’s. The term clearly refers to Annabella’s
body as container—not, this time, an empty container with space for the phallus but
a full container, bearing the child that is the result of his “filling” her.
29. All quotations from ’Tis Pity She’s a Whore refer to John Ford, ’Tis Pity She’s
a Whore, ed. N. W. Bawcutt (Lincoln, Nebr.: University of Nebraska Press, 1966).
This edition is based on Q1, authored by Ford himself.
30. In contrast, consider the scene in The Duchess of Malfi when Ferdinand
enters the Duchess’s chamber just as she, speaking to Antonio, says, “You have cause
to love me, I ent’red you into my heart” ( John Webster, The Duchess of Malfi, ed.
Elizabeth Brennan, [New York: Norton, 1993], 3.2.61). As Judith Haber comments,
“When Ferdinand enters that space, uninvited and ‘unseen, he forcibly reappropriates
her body/room/stage and defines it as his container—the empty, passive receptacle
that is the ground of his existence. . . . At this point, understandably, the Duchess’s
speech undergoes a radical change” (“‘My Body Bestow upon my Women’: The
Space of the Feminine in The Duchess of Mafi,” Renaissance Drama 28 [1997]:
144). Georgianna Ziegler also pursues this line of reasoning in her discussion of
Cymbeline. “For Iachimo, a woman’s body is part and parcel of her room and can
be similarly violated. Though he does not physically rape Imogen, we nevertheless
feel that a rape has been committed in his voyeuristic intrusion on her privacy” (“My
Lady’s Chamber: Female Space, Female Chastity in Shakespeare,” Textual Practice
4, no. 1 [1990]: 82).
31. Patricia Fumerton, Cultural Aesthetics: Renaissance Literature and the
Practice of Social Ornament (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1991), 69.
32. The editor N. W. Bawcutt comments, “Q’s in his study clearly seems an
error, as the scene takes place in Annabella’s bedroom (see 3.4.33)” (’Tis Pity She’s
a Whore, 57). At the cited line, Florio says to the Friar, “Come, father, I’ll conduct
you to her chamber.”
33. According to editor Mark Stavig, the Friar’s speech draws substantially on
Ford’s poem Christ’s Bloody Sweat. See Stavig, introduction to ’Tis Pity She’s a Whore
(Arlington Heights, Ill.: AHM, 1966), vii–xix.
34. Claudine Defaye sees the scene as a representation of psychological
enclosure for which the Friar provides an egress: “It is as if, by conforming to the
role of sinner assigned by religion, terrible and constraining though it be, Annabella
succeeded in escaping from her own intimate and immediate torment, from a kind of
existential anguish, where all issues seem blocked” (“Annabella’s Unborn Baby: The
Heart of the Womb in ’Tis Pity She’s a Whore,” Cahiers élisabéthains 15 [1979]: 37).
35. The scene is almost surely set in the main bedchamber in Soranzo’s
house.
36. Katharine Eisaman Maus, Inwardness and Theater in the English Renaissance
(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1995), 4.
37. Many critics have attempted to clarify the personal symbolism of
Giovanni’s sensationalistic gesture. Among them are Ronald Huebert, who argues
that the gesture literalizes a flawed analogy between discovering a secret and ripping
up a bosom (John Ford, Baroque English Dramatist [Montreal: McGill-Queen’s
University Press, 1977], 145); Michael Neill, who makes some of the same points
that I do in his effort to sort out the “welter of competing definitions and explanations
[that the gesture] invites” (“‘What Strange Riddle’s This?’: Deciphering ’Tis Pity
She’s a Whore,” in John Ford: Critical Re-Visions, ed. Michael Neill [Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1988], 165); and Susan J. Wiseman, who asserts that
Annabella’s heart, for Giovanni, is “endowed . . . with all the private and confused
meanings of incest” (“’Tis Pity Shes a Whore: Representing the Incestuous Body,” in
Revenge Tragedy, ed. Stevie Simkin [New York: Palgrave, 2001], 222). Wiseman’s
article, excellent in many ways, nonetheless unthinkingly uses spatial concepts as
metaphor in a way that runs directly contrary to my goal of noting how space shapes
consciousness and vice versa. Most notably, Wiseman seems to collude with Ford’s
own rhetoric when she asserts that, in ’Tis Pity, “the female body is represented
as an ethical, financial, spiritual, amatory and psychological territory” and that
Annabella’s body “is located and relocated within these competing ways of looking
at the body” (215). Like me, however, Wiseman asserts that “the significance
of Annabella’s body is repeatedly transformed during the play by the powerful
discourses which . . . define it” (216).
38. Ziegler, “My Lady’s Chamber,” 80.
144 Jennifer A. Low
39. Huston, The Actor’s Instrument, 113.

40. Stephen Gosson, Playes Confuted in Five Actions, (1582; reprint, New York:
Garland, 1972), B8v.
41. Phillip Stubbes, The Anatomie of Abuses (1583; reprint, New York: Garland,
1973), A Preface to the Reader, quoted in Marshall, The Shattering of the Self, 17.
43. Bruce R. Smith, The Acoustic World of Early Modern England: Attending to
the O-Factor (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1999), 206.
45. Ibid., 120.
46. Ibid., 114–115.
47. Ibid., 115.
48. Robert Weimann, Shakespeare and the Popular Tradition in the Theater:
Studies in the Social Dimension of the Dramatic Form and Function (Baltimore:
Hopkins University Press, 1978), 83.
49. As Gay McAuley says,
The moment of entering the presentational space is extremely important for

the actor as is evident from the fact that conventions have been developed
in many different performance genres to heighten or mark the moment of
entrance. These may involve the material reality of the performance (the
drum roll, music flourish, and spotlight of circus or music hall) or be activated
from within the fiction . . . but the function is similar: to draw the spectators’
attention to the physical point of entrance into the space and to mark the
moment in some way.
Space in Performance: Making Meaning in the Theatre (Ann Arbor: University of

Michigan Press, 1999), 96.
50. The Shakespearean Stage, 179.
51. Cynthia Marshall alludes to this issue in “Wound-man: Coriolanus,
Gender, and the Theatrical Construction of Interiority,” in Feminist Readings
of Early Modern Culture, ed. Valerie Traub, M. Lindsay Kaplan, and Dympna
Callaghan (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 95.
52. Penetration is not the right word here, of course. Jarrett Walker’s comment
is useful: “Ultimately, [Coriolanus] does not distinguish between being nourished
and being wounded. Both are kinds of incorporation, and in both cases he responds
by ‘spitting back’ at the world in an automatic reciprocal action, a compulsive denial
of receptiveness” (“Voiceless Bodies and Bodiless Voices: The Drama of Human
Perception in Coriolanus,” SQ 43, no.2 [summer 1992]: 176). These terms enable
us, I think, to perceive more accurately what mechanism is at work. Starving, a
related term that invokes the process of digestion, is one of the principal foci of
Stanley Cavell’s groundbreaking essay “‘Who does the wolf love?’ Coriolanus and
the Interpretation of Politics,” in Shakespeare and the Question of Theory, ed. Patricia
Parker and Geoffrey Hartman (New York: Routledge, 1985), 245–272.
53. William Shakespeare, Coriolanus, ed. Philip Brockbank (New York:
Arden, 1976; reprint, New York: Routledge, 1988), 95.
54. Ibid., 95.
55. Jarrett Walker, “Voiceless Bodies and Bodiless Voices,” 172.
56. In discussing group experiential space, Yi-Fu Tuan asserts that crowds
may “not detract, but enhance the significance of the events: vast numbers of people
do not necessarily generate the feeling of spatial oppressiveness” if the people’s
reasons for being present are identical and are not directly opposed to the presence
of others (“Space and Place: A Humanist Perspective,” in Philosophy in Geography,
ed. Stephen Gale and Gunnar Olsson [Dordrecht: D. Reidel, 1979], 404).
57. Zvi Jagendorf, “Coriolanus: Body Politic and Private Parts,” SQ 41, no. 4
(winter 1990): 462. Similarly, Arthur Riss argues that the play develops a “nexus
between the land and the body,” establishing “a correspondence between the impulse
to enclose public land and Coriolanus’s urge to enclose his body” (“The Belly Politic:
Coriolanus and the Revolt of Language,” ELH 59, no. 1 (spring 1992]: 55).
58. Jagendorf, “Body Politic and Private Parts,” 462. For a different point of
view, see Ralph Berry, who analyzes the opening and concludes “that the Roman
crowd . . . is not the fearsome manifestation of the popular will that it might at first
appear. There is nothing here like the brutal capriciousness of . . . the blood lust
that Antony arouses during the Forum scene. On the contrary, we see a collective
of indeterminate and variable characteristics” (“Casting the Crowd: Coriolanus in
Performance,” Assaph C4 [1988]: 114).
59. An alternative interpretation of the scene would present the dialogue
between 1. Cit. and 2. Cit. center stage, surrounded by the mob. This staging would
create a small bubble of intimacy that would either be broken by Menenius’s entrance
or dissolve as the two citizens faded into the crowd. Michael Warren considers
various possibilities for staging the citizens in his article “The Perception of Error:
The Editing and the Performance of the Opening of ‘Coriolanus’” in Textual
Performances: The Modern Reproduction of Shakespeare’s Drama, ed. Lukas Erne and
Margaret Jane Kidnie (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 127–142.
60. Walker, “Voiceless Bodies and Bodiless Voices,” 179, n. 16.
62. Janet Adelman strongly endorses this view, though she is quite uninterested
in staging and uses a psychoanalytic framework for her argument. Adelman asserts
that
the scene at Corioli represents a glorious transformation of the nightmare

of oral vulnerability . . . into a phallic adventure that both assures and
demonstrates his independence. Coriolanus’ battlecry as he storms the gates
sexualizes the scene: “Come on; / If you’ll stand fast, we’ll beat them to their
wives” (I.iv.40–41). But the dramatic action itself presents the conquest of
Corioli as an image not of rape but of triumphant rebirth.
“‘Anger’s My Meat’: Feeding, Dependency, and Aggression in Coriolanus,” in

Representing Shakespeare: New Psychoanalytic Essays, ed. Murray M. Schwartz and
Coppelia Kahn [Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1980], 134.
63. Edward S. Casey, Getting Back into Place: Toward a Renewed Understanding
of the Place-World (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1993), 133.
64. Ibid., 137–138.
65. Edward Casey meditates on “hereness”: “[E]ven within my lived body, I
can distinguish a corporeally localized here from the here that is coextensive with
my body as a whole. At this level, my here is often identified with my head, and
146 Jennifer A. Low
even more particularly with a region between or behind the eyes” (Getting Back into
Place, 52).
66. See Belsey, The Subject of Tragedy: Identity and Difference in Renaissance
Drama; Belsey, “Emblem and Antithesis in The Duchess of Malfi,” 115–134; and
Diehl, “The Iconography of Violence in English Renaissance Tragedy,” Renaissance
Drama 11 (1980): 27–44.
L ina P erkins W ilder
Toward a Shakespearean “Memory Theater”:

Romeo, the Apothecary, and
the Performance of Memory
R omeo’s first reaction to the news of Juliet’s death is not mourning but a
lengthy and, according to some, unnecessary recollection of an apothecary
and the contents of his shop:
Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee tonight.

Let’s see for means. O mischief thou art swift
To enter in the thoughts of desperate men.
I do remember an apothecary—
And hereabouts a dwells—which late I noted
In tatter’d weeds, with overwhelming brows,
Culling of simples. Meagre were his looks,
Sharp misery had worn him to the bones,
And in his needy shop a tortoise hung,
An alligator stuff ’d, and other skins
Of ill-shap’d fishes; and about his shelves
A beggarly account of empty boxes,
Green earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds,
Remnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses
Were thinly scatter’d to make up a show.
(5.1.34–48)1
Shakespeare Quarterly, Volume 56, Number 2 (Summer 2005): pp. 156–175. Copyright ©
2005 The Johns Hopkins University Press.
147
148 Lina Perkins Wilder
Critics have long complained that this speech is inappropriate to Ro-

meo’s situation both practically and in its affect, that the speech has little to
do with the acquisition of poison (the scene’s ostensible purpose) and nothing
to do with the grief that one might expect Romeo to be feeling.2 I argue here
that the apothecary scene is appropriate, that it does express grief, and that it
does so by means of what I will call a “performance of memory.”
The apothecary scene in Romeo and Juliet is one of many performances
of memory in Shakespeare’s plays, moments in which one character’s seem-
ingly digressive recollection momentarily displaces dramatic action. Other
examples include the first of Justice Shallow’s scenes in 2 Henry IV (3.2);
reminiscences of Falstaff in Henry V (2.3); Hamlet’s scenes with the Ghost
(1.5), the First Player (2.2), and the skull of Yorick (5.1); Enobarbus’s recol-
lection of Cleopatra on the barge at Cydnus (2.2) and her “return” to Cydnus
as she prepares for death (5.2); and Prospero’s exposition (1.2), Miranda’s
half-memory of women (1.2), and Caliban’s dream in The Tempest (3.2). The
function of memory scenes in Shakespeare’s plays seems to be similar to that
of flashbacks in film: they give background and expand the work’s narrative
frame beyond its immediate physical and temporal borders. But the differ-
ence between what the audience sees onstage and the past events the character
is recalling creates a dissonance not present in cinematic flashbacks: stage
memory belongs to a register of experience separate from that of represented
action. In addition to tying events from the play’s or the character’s past to
those in the acted present, and to momentarily relaxing the pace of a play
such as Romeo and Juliet, in which narrative drive is otherwise relentless,3 the
performance of memory interrogates early modern ideas about memory and
about theater.
Looking backward over the action of the play and even toward events
outside the play’s scope, Shakespeare’s memory theater may invite both au-
dience and actors to see the play as a dramatic whole, an effect that Tiffany
Stern claims was unusual in the early modern English theater. “Plays seem to
have been watched,” she writes,
as they were performed, with the emphasis at least as much on parts

as on the whole. . . . Part-oriented response is reflected in the way
the audience might, for instance, take objection to single characters
in plays as well as to plays themselves, and in the preponderance of
actor-focused criticism over much of the period.4
She also notes:
Plays often indicate that an actor has privately learnt his role, but
does not know what parts his fellow actors are playing . . . , or
Toward a Shakespearean “Memory Theater” 149
whom he is supposed to be addressing. . . . [M]any actors, having

learnt to deal primarily with their own parts in private study, had
not learnt to think of the play as a unity.5
But Shakespeare’s performances of memory do more than counteract the

isolating effect of part-based memorization through having actors “recall”
events that took place earlier in the play or words spoken by other characters.
They actually attempt to recreate events that are not witnessed by the audi-
ence or even, in some instances, by the rememberer.
I. The Performance of Memory

Shakespeare’s performances of memory create a memory theater that draws
on and then upends the imagery and the vocabulary of the memory theaters
employed by such students of the art of memory as Giulio Camillo, Robert
Fludd, and John Willis: Using the metaphor of theater, the memory arts
imagine, and in some cases physically construct, a spatial and visible rep-
resentation of memory. Shakespeare’s memory theater returns memory to a
state of invisibility, inaccessibility, even mystery by refusing to provide the
spectacle that performed remembering implies, by not allowing us to see
otherwise-visible objects (such as Romeo’s “ill-shap’d fishes”).6 This is true
not only for the theater audience, which is made to feel that it is witnessing
an essentially private act made uncomfortably public, but for the remem-
berer himself or herself, for whom memory becomes not a tool for retaining
information but a means by which forgotten or overlooked information is
unexpectedly recovered or even “discovered,” seemingly for the first time.
The element of the unexpected in Shakespeare’s memory theater is
the product of disorderly, even random recollection, a conceptualization of
memory far from standard in the early modern period. Indeed an emphasis
on order is so ubiquitous both in discussions of mnemonics and in physical
treatises on the memory as to be more an assumption than a subject for argu-
ment, as we see in the work of such widely differing scholars of medieval and
early modern memory systems as Frances Yates, Lina Bolzoni, and Mary J.
Carruthers.7 As John Sutton has ably demonstrated, however, the equation
between memory and order in the period is not as simple as it seems. The
attempt to order the memory through artificial means reflects a fear that
memory could dissolve into complete disorder. The source of this disorder is
the body.8 It was generally accepted in the early modern period that memory
takes place in the brain, collecting in the rearmost of three or four “ventri-
cles” in which sensual impressions are formed, interrogated, and stored.9 But
the fluidity of this place, awash in the “animal spirits” that carry information
through and from the brain, is not conducive to order. Sutton argues that the
methods of the memory arts are a means of liberating the mind from “the
dirt added to thoughts by the body,” effected by imposing mental discipline

and moral control.10 Should this discipline fail, one could always turn the
page: treatises on the art of memory are nearly always paired with treatises for
improving the natural memory through physical means. These include lists of
recipes for treatments that can alter the physical makeup of the brain or the
humors that make the brain too hot, too cold, too dry, or too wet to retain
information, along with what might be called lifestyle advice (avoid drunken-
ness, too much sleep, venery, and, according to one author, wearing dirty shoes
to bed).11 But despite the fact that these instructions are bound in the same
volume as treatises on the memory arts, they seem to be viewed as a separate
solution to the body issue, even as a kind of crutch.
The memory arts themselves reimagine the role of the physical body not
as the location of memory but as an observer of external, well-ordered memory
scenes. The method of ordering provided by the memory arts is particularly
suggestive because it offers a model for joining memory and theater, one that
Shakespeare does not consistently exploit. Avoiding the sticky process of
humoral correction, localist models of memory extract recollection from the
interior of the rememberer’s body by imagining memory as an act of spectator-
ship.12 Instead of contemplating a potentially volatile interior space, memory
artists are advised to “walk” through towns, buildings, or rooms construct-
ed in their minds and to observe them as spectators. For example, Johannes
Romberch recommends constructing in one’s mind a town composed of a
series of memory loci, with places such as monasteries, restaurants, churches,
chapels, houses, and theaters.13 In many cases the memory locus is not an
imaginary space: some memory artists advise their readers to memorize a real
room, preferably empty, in which they can then imagine arranging memory
objects. The influential memory artist Peter of Ravenna gives a list of rules for
choosing a memory place: it should have windows and columns, and must be
neither too close nor too distant, neither crowded nor too high.14 Whether
imagined or real, a memory place functions like a map on which information
that might otherwise fall into disorder can be organized and easily recalled.
The memory objects in a particular locus might represent the main points of a
speech to be given in public; to stick to his text, the orator need only recall his
path through the memory locus and visualize, one by one, the objects that he
placed there, which will in turn evoke the words of his speech.
The ordering device of memory theater associates the memory artist’s
spectatorship overtly with the theatrical stage. The memory theaters designed
by Shakespeare’s contemporaries differ from their medieval predecessors in
that they resemble London stages rather than classical amphitheaters. The
seventeenth-century physician John Willis, for instance, imagines him-
self as a spectator in front of the theater of his own memory, as does his
contemporary Robert Fludd. Willis’s description of his imaginary “theater” is

striking in its physical detail:
A Repository is an imaginary fabrick, fancied Artificially, built

of hewen stone, in form of a Theater, the form whereof followeth;
suppose the Edifice to be twelve yards in length within the walls,
in breadth six yards, and in height seven yards, the roof thereof
flat, leaded above, and pargetted underneath, lying wholly open to
view, without any wall on that side supposed next us: Let there be
imagined a Stage of smooth gray Marble, even and variegated with a
party coloured border, which Stage is to be extended over the whole
length and breadth of the building, and raised a yard high above the
Level of the ground on which the said Edifice is erected. . . .
A Repository according to this fashion, is to be represented
before the eyes of our minde, wheresoever we are, as oft as we
intend to practise this Art; supposing our selves to stand about two
yards distant, against the midst thereof.15
Although the accompanying diagram indicates that Willis’s memory theater

is a proscenium rather than a thrust stage, its dimensions, materials, and
open construction, along with the fact that it is raised above the level of the
spectator, suggest the influences of stages like the ones on which Shake-
speare’s plays would have been performed. Fludd’s diagrams of his memory
theater led Frances Yates to speculate that it was modeled on the Globe.16
For the purposes of the memory arts, theater is defined by its ability to
make the internal external: as Bolzoni sees it, early modern memory inter-
nalizes that which theater “makes visible, . . . projects outward.”17 When the
memory artist Giulio Camillo constructed a physical edifice of ordered boxes
and shelves, Erasmus reports that he “called it a theatre because it can be seen
with the eyes of the body.”18 Through the use of physical objects, real or imag-
ined, this “memory theater” turns the mind inside out, places it on display. As
Camillo argues,
all the things that the human mind conceives but that cannot be
seen with the eyes of the body can . . . be expressed with some
bodily signs, so that everyone can see directly with his own eyes
all that which otherwise is submerged in the depths of the human
mind.19
But the question remains just how much this mnemonic theater has
to do with the places where plays are performed, or with the idea—the
process—of performance. Frances Yates’s supposition that Fludd’s drawings
of his memory theater were modeled on the Globe has not met with much
favor; other attempts to link the theatrical imagery of the memory arts with
actual theaters and actual plays have had limited success.20 Early modern
memory theaters seem to have more in common with tableaux than they do
with plays: images are arranged to be scanned by the inner (or outer) eye; they
may be “animated,” but their movement does not develop into narrative.21
While tableaux, dumb shows, and images meant to shock the spectator do
occur in early modern plays, they occur in the context of a larger process. It
seems clear that early modern English plays and memory theaters share, at
least to some extent, a visual appeal. But they do not share dramatic process;
they do not share narrative.
Shakespeare’s memory theater, in contrast, places memory in a narra-
tive context or, more specifically, in the narrative context peculiar to the early
modern English stage. Jill L. Levenson speculates that early modern English
audiences and players would have had a much more dynamic concept of dra-
matic structure than the one we have now. Rehearsing (if one did rehearse) or
performing a play in Shakespeare’s theater, she writes,
meant locating one’s character—second by second—on the fluid,

unlocalised stage, in relation to the other players, and without the
guidance of a director. . . . [T]he first productions of Romeo and
Juliet—or any English Renaissance drama—were performances in
the making: processes which integrated all parts of the dramatic
whole in view of a large, responsive audience. 22
Like Stern, Levenson sees the stage as embracing the uncertainty that
memory theaters seek to avoid. Levenson invokes the very metaphor of
“fluid[ity]” that is resisted by students of the art of memory because of
their fears of bodily disorder. “Ideals of powerful executive control,” Sutton
writes, “sat well with local memory, for independent ordered items in their
places were already passive, waiting for the active executive to hunt them
out.”23 The early modern English theater, lacking even “the guidance of a
director,” is a “hunt” of a very different sort, a hunt without an executive. 24
Shakespeare’s performances of memory reflect and invite the
“integrat[ion]” of structural elements on the part of the players as well as
the audience. Romeo’s extended memory of the apothecary gives audience,
character, and actor time to perceive the parallels in Romeo’s actions. Work-
ing from individual parts rather than complete scripts, the actors playing (for
example) Romeo, the apothecary, Friar Laurence, the Nurse, and the Cho-
rus might not recognize the implications of their lines until they heard each
other speak, and, as Stern and Levenson point out, limited rehearsal time
could mean that they heard each other’s lines for the first time in front of an
audience.25 For each of the groups involved, the process of discovery outlined
in Romeo’s performed remembering might have been entirely genuine. As I
will demonstrate, that process of discovery moves from the identification of
Friar Laurence with the apothecary to the more shadowy identification of the
Nurse with both figures and the incorporation of Romeo’s “defiance” into the
Chorus’s predetermined plot summary.
But the performance of memory requires more than a drawing of struc-
tural lines through a series of events that everyone—player, character, audience
member—witnesses at once. Romeo’s performance of memory evokes a scene
that he alone saw—and this “he” is Romeo the character, not the actor playing
Romeo. When Romeo remembers this absent scene, the theatrical commu-
nity described by Levenson dwindles to a single person, if he can be called
a person. Audience participation in Romeo’s “experience” of Mantuan roads
is limited to what the performance of memory can bring us. The memory
emblems and the tableaux of memorable objects that William Engel finds in
early modern plays invite the audience to participate in the play by remem-
bering its images. (Shakespeare does this occasionally: the dumb show that
precedes the Mousetrap in Hamlet is one example.26) In Shakespeare’s mem-
ory theater, though, the audience and indeed the actors participate along with
the characters only to a certain extent in the process of remembering. We see
Romeo seeking poison, not the evocative interior of the apothecary’s shop; we
see the aging Justice Shallow, not the (perhaps fictional) “lusty Shallow” of his
past (3.2.15);27 we see Yorick’s skull, not the lips that Hamlet remembers kiss-
ing; we see Cleopatra’s suicidal “return” to Cydnus, not her first appearance
there; we see Caliban cursing, not dreaming. The door in the wall remains,
essentially, closed; we see only quick flashes of the space behind it.
II. “I Do Remember”: Memory Theater in Romeo and Juliet

Two of Shakespeare’s clearest examples of memory theater occur in Romeo
and Juliet—one of them the apothecary scene (5.1), the other the Nurse’s
recollection of Juliet’s weaning (1.3). Both demonstrate many of the qualities
that I have described above: the disruption of dramatic action, the physi-
cal absence of otherwise vividly sensual remembered objects, the extended
performance of memory, the element of discovery. Romeo and the Nurse
create memory theater from objects that, because they are in the past or
because they are outside the capabilities of an only intermittently spectacu-
lar theater, are not visible to the audience: the interior of a shop with the
dusty remains of an inventory and desiccated fish hanging in the window,
a shaking dovehouse, a child fussing over the taste of a nipple daubed with
wormwood. Romeo’s and the Nurse’s recollections draw on the iconography
of the memory arts. Romeo in particular seems to have internalized the
principles that would lend order to his stored impressions. (Romeo describes
the apothecary’s shop as a place “which late I noted”; a habit of “noting”

was recommended as a way to create memory loci and to practice memo-
rization. 28 ) But the process of recollection, it seems, disrupts any system
imposed during storage.
The Nurse’s speech at 1.3.20–44 anticipates, through the reactions of
her onstage listeners, the impatience and embarrassment with which critics
would greet Romeo’s performed remembering in the apothecary scene. More
importantly, it introduces the device of performed remembering into the
play as the Nurse famously recounts the earthquake of Lammas Eve eleven
years earlier and Juliet’s weaning. The images animated by her performance
of memory draw her own interest, but as they multiply, they test the patience
of her auditors: Lady Capulet’s “Enough of this” (l. 49) is quickly followed
by Juliet’s “stint thou” (l. 58).29 Like the earthquake, the shaking dovehouse,
the pratfall, and the husband’s bawdy joke that punctuate the Nurse’s perfor-
mance of memory, the furniture of the apothecary’s shop is in accord with
the objects recommended by memory artists: the “merye, cruell, iniurious,
merueylous, excellently fayre, or exceedinglye foule thynges” which William
Fulwood claims “do chaunge and moue the senses, and . . . styrre vppe the
Memorye.”30 Romeo remembers an apothecary who is himself grotesque and
who is surrounded by grotesque objects: a man “[i]n tatter’d weeds, with over-
whelming brows, / Culling of simples,” who has been “worn . . . to the bones,”
and whose shop is filled with decayed reminders of death: the stuffed car-
casses of alligator and tortoise, “ill-shap’d fishes,” and stores that have grown
“musty” and “old.” But although they resemble objects placed to stimulate the
memory, the sparseness and disorganization of the apothecary’s wares sug-
gest a more haphazard version of memory than the one usually advocated by
memory artists.
The seemingly arbitrary dilation on the apothecary’s shop, which is
Shakespeare’s innovation,31 underlines the role in this scene of the memory
arts, in which apothecaries have a long history. The apothecary’s shop, first
of all, recalls the imagined cities filled with shops arranged in alphabetical
order by means of which some memory artists memorized words and phrases.
Johannes Romberch, for example, provides an engraving in which alphabet-
ized shops distinguished by simple images—a man dispatching a steer in
the Bovicida, books in the window of the Bibliopola—provide a mental path
that the memory artist could follow in order to collect remembered objects
left in each place.32 A few memory artists include apothecarius and related
words in their lists of alphabetized shops and professions.33 Further and more
significantly, the word apothecary is both etymologically and metaphorically
related to the organization of memory. As Carruthers notes, “storehouse,”
usually rendered in Latin as thesaurus or arca, is one of the conventional meta-
phors for memory. Apotheca also “means ‘storehouse,’ originally for wine, but
extended . . . to mean something like a ‘shop,’ a store full of precious things

laid away in order, any of which the apothecarius can bring forth immediately
in response to a request, and indeed, bring forth a host of related things too.”34
Carruthers then cites the memory treatise by Hugh of St. Victor:
This ark [arca, memory repository] is like to an apothecary’s shop,

filled with a variety of all delights. You will seek nothing in it
which you will not find, and when you find one thing, you will
see many more disclosed to you. Here are bountifully contained
the universal works of our salvation . . . [and] the condition of the
universal Church. Here the narrative of historical events is woven
together, here the mysteries of the sacraments are found, here are
laid out the successive stages of responses, judgments, meditations,
contemplations, of good works, virtues, and rewards. 35
The differences between the apothecary’s shop in Romeo and Juliet and
the one described by Hugh are as striking as the similarities. Compared to
Hugh’s apothecary shop, Romeo’s is disorganized and poorly stocked, and
its owner’s “penury” is predictive of his willingness to sell Romeo poison; but
this shop also reflects the qualities of Romeo’s memory. The items in the shop
in Mantua are not “laid away in order,” but “scatter’d.” The apothecary is not
present to “bring forth immediately” the items Romeo wishes to purchase
(or remember) and to produce associated items from neighboring shelves
but must be summoned from his shop (“What ho! Apothecary!” [5.1.57]).
Under normal circumstances the objects on the shelves of an apothecary’s
shop, like those carried by a modern drugstore, existed as much to distract the
patron into adding a few unnecessary items to his shopping bag as to heal his
ailments: as Hugh says, “when you find one thing, you will see many more
disclosed to you.” This is not the case in Romeo’s apothecary shop. Romeo’s
memory does not contain the easily reached copia of texts or objects with
which memory artists crammed their minds. The shop is not “full of precious
things”; in fact, as Romeo says, the apothecary’s inventory has reached des-
perately low levels, and there are only a few images set out in his apotheca.
The shop’s low inventory and the difficulty with which Romeo gains
access to what it does contain mirror the challenge of translating Romeo’s
past experience into his present situation. The performance of memory is an
act of self-conscious negotiation between present and past, a “repetition with
revision” (as Joseph Roach calls both memory and performance) that gives
the rememberer an increasingly precise orientation in the dramatic present.36
Remembering the shop’s contents brings Romeo physically into the scene as
he moves from a vague sense that the apothecary lives “hereabouts” (l. 38) to
the near certainty that “this should be the house” (l. 55):
Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee tonight.

Let’s see for means. O mischief thou art swift
To enter in the thoughts of desperate men.
I do remember an apothecary
And hereabouts a dwells—which late I noted
In tatter’d weeds, with overwhelming brows,
Culling of simples. . . .
Noting this penury, to myself I said,
‘And if a man did need a poison now,
Whose sale is present death in Mantua,
Here lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him’.
O, this same thought did but forerun my need,
And this same needy man must sell it me.
As I remember, this should be the house.
(ll. 34–40, 49–55)
Beginning awkwardly, with short sentences and numerous self-interruptions,

Romeo traces the process of recollection from the initial and silent thought
of poison back toward the remembered quip that produced it (ll. 50–52), the
thought that “did but forerun my need.” His memory of the apothecary finds
Romeo in the same physical location in which he formed a memory of the
shop’s contents and their possible use, but his changing circumstances make
it seem strange: “this should be the house,” he says. (Memory by places, it
seems, is not always as effective as memory artists would have us believe. 37)
It is important that the shop, often represented in performance by a door in
the back wall, be left to Romeo’s memory and the audience’s imagination.
Romeo does not actually enter the apothecary’s shop; instead, he calls the
apothecary to come forth. Since the shop is closed, shut behind a door that
leads to the dust and timber backstage, negotiations between Romeo’s past
and present perceptions of the shop take place entirely in words, and the
perspectives involved are exclusively Romeo’s. The apothecary’s shop, like
a psychic prop-room, exists only in the backstage of Romeo’s mind and is
brought forward only through his performance of memory.
As the scene continues, Romeo finds himself increasingly and involun-
tarily caught up in the associative logic of recollection. The backward trail of
Romeo’s memory does not end with his unstaged walk through the streets
of Mantua when he first arrived there, nor do his thoughts of poison begin
there. The apothecary scene shows Romeo to be more observant than his
previous behavior gives us reason to suspect and suggests that his habit of
“noting” began before he encountered the apothecary shop. Romeo’s descrip-
tion of the apothecary—a poor man “[i]n tatter’d weeds, with overwhelming
brows, / Culling of simples”—becomes a recollection of another character’s
first appearance, that of Friar Laurence. The first time we see Romeo and the
friar together, Friar Laurence is engaged in the activity by which Romeo later
identifies the apothecary:
Within the infant rind of this weak flower

Poison hath residence, and medicine power:
For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part;
Being tasted, stays all senses with the heart.
(2.3.19–22)
The apothecary, as Dominick Grace convincingly argues, is a double for

Friar Laurence. 38 Early in the play, Romeo sees Friar Laurence as he is per-
forming the same task of culling simples that he remembers the apothecary
performing. 39 Friar Laurence himself associates plant-cutting with the
manufacture of poisons. Although he distinguishes “precious-juiced flow-
ers” from “baleful weeds” early in the speech (l.4), medicinal and harmful
qualities grow less distinguishable as the speech proceeds. Since Romeo
enters just before Friar Laurence identifies the plant as half-medicine,
half-poison,40 he would hear most clearly not Friar Laurence’s moralizing
but his decidedly practical conclusion, in which the function of the plant is
made explicit. The connection that Romeo makes in the apothecary scene
between a man “Culling of simples” and that man’s ability to provide him
with poison may deliberately recall and certainly echoes his first scene with
Friar Laurence.
Romeo’s echo of Friar Laurence’s words rebelliously sweeps away all the
friar’s careful distinctions. When playing apothecary, Friar Laurence concocts
the “borrow’d likeness of shrunk death” (4.1.104, emphasis added); Romeo,
though he addresses his vial as “cordial and not poison” (5.1.85), wants the
real thing. His attempts at renaming—calling his gold “poison” and his poi-
son “cordial”—reflect the mind of a man schooled under Friar Laurence and
familiar with his multiple glosses, but the renamings do not conceal his un-
Laurentian purpose. The swiftness of the death Romeo demands—he wants
to die “[a]s violently as hasty powder fir’d / Doth hurry from the fatal cannon’s
womb” (ll. 64–65)41—justifies the friar’s misgivings three acts earlier:
These violent delights have violent ends

And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,
Which as they kiss consume. . . .
(2.6.9–11)
Friar Laurence picks up the gunpowder metaphor again in 3.3 after Romeo’s
banishment. “Thy wit,” he says,
Like powder in a skilless soldier’s flask

Is set afire by thine own ignorance,
And thou dismember’d with thine own defence.
(3.3.129, 131–133)
As T. J. B. Spencer writes, “What the Friar had prophesied as the conse-

quence of [Romeo’s] impetuous love, and his equally impetuous despair,
Romeo himself now asks for the poison to bring about.”42
Although Romeo could not be aware of the irony that he has, in ef-
fect, been “set afire by [his] own ignorance” that Juliet is not dead, he does, I
think, recognize how drastically he has departed from Friar Laurence’s ad-
vice. Checked in his rush toward suicide by the apothecary’s fear of Mantuan
law, Romeo finds himself repeating the past in a more subdued tone:
Art thou so bare and full of wretchedness,

And fear’st to die? Famine is in thy cheeks,
Need and oppression starveth in thy eyes,
Contempt and beggary hangs upon thy back.
The world is not thy friend, nor the world’s law;
The world affords no law to make thee rich;
Then be not poor, but break it, and take this.
(5.1.68–74)
Romeo’s world-weariness here recalls Mercutio’s disillusioned voice, the

voice that tells the lovesick Romeo to “[p]rick love for pricking” (1.4.28)
rather than fall prey to romantic self-destruction. And Romeo’s phrasing
echoes, once again, Friar Laurence. Perhaps half-hearing his own allusion
(5.1.64–65) to the gunpowder of the “skilless soldier” (3.3.131), Romeo
returns (at 5.1.72–73) to the Friar’s advice in 3.3:
What, rouse thee, man. Thy Juliet is alive,

For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead.
There art thou happy. . . .
The law that threaten’d death becomes thy friend
And turns it to exile. There art thou happy.
(3.3.135–137, 139–140)
Friar Laurence, the play’s earlier apothecary figure, stopped Romeo from
committing suicide on more than one occasion. Romeo’s determination not
to let the apothecary himself deter him from his purpose thus requires him
to negotiate not only with the man present before him but with his memory
of Friar Laurence’s advice. But when Romeo finds himself in the position of
negotiator, he takes on Friar Laurence’s role and reiterates the friar’s words.
Romeo says, quietly, “The world is not thy friend.” The word friend as well
as the rhythm of Romeo’s line recall the friar’s concluding argument: “The
law . . . becomes thy friend / And turns [death] to exile.” When Romeo
recognizes this perhaps unconscious echo of Friar Laurence’s diction and his
sententious iambs, he turns and revises his own words. “The world is not
thy friend,” he says aloud and then, half to himself, “nor the world’s law.”
The deliberate nature of Romeo’s rejection of Friar Laurence is underlined
by his departure from the metrical inevitability that marks Friar Laurence’s
advice: the trochee at the end of the line invites the actor playing Romeo to
slow down, to emphasize the line’s final words.
But before Romeo finds himself echoing Friar Laurence’s advice, he also
seems unconsciously to be echoing the Nurse’s vivid and disorganized recol-
lection of Juliet’s weaning.43 The Nurse’s memory, like Romeo’s, toys with and
discards the imagery of the memory arts. As Carruthers and Stephen Green-
blatt remind us, dovehouses are a potent image for memory theorists, and one
with somewhat equivocal implications.44 “Plato,” Greenblatt writes,
evidently felt obliged to supplement his primary image of the

wax in order to convey what that image conspicuously misses:
the sense that memories often seem alive, fluttering, and elusive.
The aviary metaphor . . . eschews any notion of systematicity, the
sense . . . that memory is like a treasure-house or strongbox with
distinct compartments where one can look for particular objects.
In the aviary, one must grope after memories that seem anxiously
determined to fly out of one’s grasp.45
The ordered nesting-places in which the Capulet doves rest are upset by the
very event that anchors the Nurse’s memory: the earthquake. Greenblatt’s
suggestion that avian memories are less systematic than memories inscribed
in wax applies here, but the remnants of method that he finds in the avi-
ary also lose their methodic character. The earthquake not only disturbs
the evocative rows of doves in their “pigeon-holes,” 46 but causes the Nurse
to move away from the dovehouse: “Shake! quoth the dovehouse. ’Twas
no need, I trow, / To bid me trudge.” The Nurse recalls the upheaval that
troubles the orderly pigeonholes, relishing the memory of the trembling
dovehouse and (one suspects) the squawking and squabbling doves inside it,
whose peaceful cooing contemplation is interrupted by the shaking of the
earth.47
In its partial rejection of the masculine and scholarly habits of the art
of memory, Romeo’s memory theater is in some sense a return to his “mother
tongue,” to the distrusted garrulity of a plebeian, uneducated nursemaid who
is also a voice for random reminiscence.48 The place where the Nurse situates
her recollection of Juliet’s weaning is as significant as the apothecary’s shop
and for largely the same reasons: it is both an evocation of memory systems
and a violation of their principles. Weaning by wormwood, like Friar Lau-
rence’s gathering of simples, mimics an apothecary’s activities. But both the
history of the apothecary’s profession and the order in which the characters
appear in Romeo and Juliet suggest that the formulation should be reversed:
the apothecary, rather than being a model for the Nurse, is himself modeled
on her domestic example. As Wendy Wall points out, in the sixteenth century
the medical profession and the profession of apothecary were both relatively
new phenomena. Most people still relied on “clergy, wise women, and most
commonly the housewife” for medical advice and treatment. Wall quotes Juan
Luis Vives’s The Instruction of a Christen Woman:
Because the business and charge within the house lyeth upon the
woman’s hand, I wolde she shuld knowe medycines and salves for
suche diseases as bee common, and reigne almost daily: and have
those medicines ever prepared redy in some closette wherewith
she maie helpe hir housebande, hir littell children, and hir
householde meny [servants], whan any nedeth, that shee nede not
ofte to sende for the phisicion, or bye thynges of the potycaries.49
In Vives’s formulation, physicians and apothecaries are to be called in only

when home remedies fail. Housewives’ remedies were not always pleasant.
The kitchen was, in an age before refrigeration, also a surgery: “Health,”
Wall writes, “smacked of licensed bloodshed.”50 The Nurse’s breast as the
source of food is replaced by a medicine that apes the working of poison.
She, like Friar Laurence, gives Juliet what is and is not a poison, hoping to
free her at this early stage from dependence on another person through a
minor loss, a mimicked death.
The apothecary has been present throughout Romeo and Juliet in his
wares (wormwood, simples, cordial, poison) and in the persons of the Nurse
and Friar Laurence. He is as much a part of a recognizably domestic sphere
as he is an alien element. Romeo’s performance of memory, however strange
it may seem to him, leads him homeward, toward the strangely familiar, the
Heimlich, toward Juliet, whose voice is excluded from the apothecary scene.
In that scene Romeo approaches her but does not reach her, turned aside to-
ward the “means” to reach her (a role that has been filled in the course of the
play by Friar Laurence and by the Nurse, as well as by the poison he is now
seeking) instead of toward their end. Rather than seeing Juliet’s face, Romeo
sees “old cakes of roses,” faded emblems of female beauty scattered on a poor
apothecary’s shelves.
The sense of the play’s past, implied and staged through the perfor-
mance of memory, is never complete. It is restricted not only by the ab-
sence of the remembered object (always absent or it would not have to be
remembered) but also by the rememberer’s limited experience. “There is
nothing in the intellect that was not first in the senses,” as memory artists
often remarked.51 Romeo cannot remember scenes that he did not witness,
cannot recognize structural connections between events that he does not
understand and over which he has no control. The irony in his defiance of
the stars (5.1.24) is lost on him, since he did not hear the Chorus predict
that the “star-cross’d lovers” (1.Pro.6) would follow the course of action that
he now undertakes as if it were his own idea. The sense of structure gener-
ated by performed remembering is always, often tragically, defined by the
rememberer’s experience and perspective. Performed remembering can cre-
ate new things, new connections, but it occasionally ignores (literally, does
not know) old ones.
III. Conclusion
In Shakespeare’s memory theater remembered objects are not always visible,
nor are the mechanics of memory. This is true not only of the mechanics
of other people’s memories but also of the mechanics of one’s own. Romeo’s
astonishment at the working of his memory (“O mischief thou art swift”) is
a more sinister counterpart to the Nurse’s satisfaction at the way her memory
works separately from herself (“Nay I do bear a brain”). Reminiscent of the
recipes for salves, pills, and “gargarismes” (solutions for gargling) that were
attached to treatises on the art of memory are the pharmacological objects
remembered by the characters in Romeo and Juliet: the Nurse’s wormwood,
the friar’s simples, the apothecary’s potions. These objects represent a series
of attempts to change or to manipulate the body through medicinal means
that accompany and sometimes coincide with manipulations of the plot.
Though involved in the language of physical exchange, the recollections
of these objects come to emphasize the barriers as much as the continuity
between the embodied experience of individuals. The poison around which
Romeo’s performance of memory develops is gone when Juliet tries to follow
Romeo; he has “[d]runk all” (5.3.163). Because Juliet’s sleeping potion—
among the play’s most significant medicinal interventions—is missing from
Romeo’s experience, all the detail in his recollection of the apothecary’s shop
cannot lead him to discover it.
The visual precision with which the objects in Shakespeare’s memory
theater are recalled suggests a desire to manifest the inaccessible—the past,
the internal, the unstaged. The emphasis on the visual points to a separate
mode of representation which transcends and embraces the physical limits of
the early modern English stage. As Julie Stone Peters argues:
As the stage poet says in Gabriel Chappuis’s The Celestial Worlds

(1583), “the thing represented live” in the theatre is represented
“exactly as it was done.” Because of its connection to the worldly
icon, theatre was seen (as it often still is) as a more immediate
form of representation than the purely verbal arts of the page. . . .
Identical with its correlate phenomenon in the world, the stage
icon seemed not to require of the spectator the same efforts of
translation required of the reader or mere listener.52
Like Erasmus of Rotterdam, who explains that Camillo’s memory theater is

so called “because it can be seen by the eyes of the body,” Peters argues that
the early modern theater was primarily a visual environment, marked by a
direct appeal to the “spectator.” This view is not universally accepted: Cyn-
thia Marshall, for example, has objected strongly to “the reliance on specular
response that guides much current dramatic criticism”; others emphasize the
rhetorical aspect of playacting, which also requires an audience more aurally
than visually attuned.53 What we find in Shakespeare’s memory theater is
neither the one nor the other; instead, it is a crossing of these two means
of apprehension, an aural landscape coded in a visual language. By appeal-
ing to the sense of sight and then refusing to satisfy it, the performance
of memory produces an atmosphere of unfulfilled desire. Shakespeare’s
memory theater, while placing memory in a narrative context, also uses
memory to break the frame of that narrative, to gesture toward what the
play does not show: Romeo’s past and, later and more tantalizingly, in plays
that space does not allow me to discuss here, Shallow’s, Falstaff ’s, Hamlet’s,
Antony’s, Cleopatra’s, Miranda’s, Caliban’s past, the space and time outside
the boundaries of the “two hours’ traffic of our stage” (1.Pro.12), even a
sense of inwardness. By evoking an extradramatic past, the performance of
memory in Shakespeare’s plays intimates that the rememberer’s existence is
not limited to the immediate physical present of the stage, and thus that he
or she is to some degree separable from the play.
But Shakespeare’s memory theater has to do with more than the vexed
question of character. Recent critics have demonstrated in a variety of ways
how deeply Shakespeare’s art is implicated in a past (personal, cultural, or
material) outside the action of particular plays.54 I am suggesting that Shake-
speare’s concern with the past is also dramaturgical. It is no accident that
scenes of performed remembering in Shakespeare’s plays are often associated
with excess: the rhetorical trope of dilatio, a departure from the plot. From
Seneca and his Elizabethan imitators, Shakespeare learned that a past evoked
but unstaged can enrich and motivate present staged action. The excessive
intrusion of the past in Shakespeare’s memory theater lays the groundwork
for the romances and the mature tragedies, particularly Othello, Macbeth, and
King Lear, all of which have to do with perturbed or mutilated recollection.

Ultimately this dramaturgical strategy leads toward a theater that is a cross-
roads of the physical present and an absent, immaterial, but inescapable past.
No t e s
I would like to thank Lawrence Manley, Annabel Patterson, and the readers
(anonymous and otherwise) at Shakespeare Quarterly for reading and rereading drafts
of this essay. Earlier versions were presented at the 2002 annual conferences of the
Shakespeare Association of America and the Group for Early Modern Cultural
Studies.
1. Quotations from Romeo and Juliet here follow Brian Gibbons’s edition for
the Arden Shakespeare (London: Methuen, 1980).
2. This passage from an anonymous eighteenth-century critic presents the
typical response to the apothecary scene: “Shakespeare . . . makes [Romeo] in the
midst of his affliction for the death of his wife, and while the horrible design of
killing himself was forming in his mind, give a ludicrous detail of the miserable
furniture of a poor apothecary’s shop; a description which, however beautiful, is
here ill-timed and totally inconsistent with the condition and circumstance of the
speaker” (“An Account of the Novel and Play of Romeo and Juliet” [1764], quoted
here from Shakespeare: The Critical Heritage, Brian Vickers, ed., 6 vols. [London:
Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1974–1981], 4:538–539). For defenses of the apothecary
scene, see Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Shakespearean Criticism, ed. Thomas Middleton
Raysor, 2 vols. (London: Dent; New York: Dutton [1961–1962]), 1:11; Harley
Granville-Barker, Prefaces to Shakespeare, 5 vols. (London: Sidgwick and Jackson,
Ltd., 1927–1947), 2:56; G. Wilson Knight, Shakespeare’s Dramatic Challenge: On
the Rise of Shakespeare’s Tragic Heroes (London: Croom Helm, 1977), 42; Clifford
Leech, “The Moral Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet” in English Renaissance Drama:
Essays in Honor of Madeleine Doran and Mark Eccles, Standish Henning et al., eds.
(Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1976), rpt. in Critical Essays on
Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, Joseph A. Porter, ed. (New York: G. K. Hall,
1997), 7–22, esp. 14–15; and James H. Seward, Tragic Vision in Romeo and Juliet
(Washington, DC: Consortium Press, 1973), 183. For a recent extended reading of
the apothecary scene, including a summary of its negative reception, see Dominick
Grace, “Romeo and the Apothecary,” Early Theatre: A Journal Associated with the
Records of Early English Drama 1 (1998): 27–38, esp. 29.
3. On the role of time in Romeo and Juliet, see E. Pearlman, “Shakespeare
at Work: Romeo and Juliet,” English Literary Renaissance 24 (1994): 315–342;
Lloyd Davids, “‘Death-Marked Love’: Desire and Presence in Romeo and Juliet,”
Shakespeare Survey 49 (1996): 57–67; Thomas Pughe, “‘What an Unkind Hour’:
Time in Romeo and Juliet,” Q/W/E/R/T/ Y: Arts, Littératures & Civilisations du
Monde Anglophone 2 (1992): 5–15; David Lucking, “Uncomfortable Time in Romeo
and Juliet,” English Studies 82.2 (2001): 115–126; Jill L. Levenson, Shakespeare in
Performance: Romeo and Juliet (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1987), 16
and passim; and James Calderwood, Shakespearean Metadrama: The Argument of the
Play in Titus Andronicus, Love’s Labour’s Lost, Romeo and Juliet, A Midsummer
Night’s Dream, and Richard II (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1971),
85–119.
4. Tiffany Stern, Rehearsal from Shakespeare to Sheridan (Oxford: Clarendon

Press, 2000), 13–14.
5. Stern, 64, 98.
6. See “On Memory and Recollection” in Aristotle: On the Soul, Parva
Naturalia, On Breath, ed. and trans. W. S. Hett (Cambridge, MA: Harvard
University Press, 1957), 288–313, esp. 311, 313. On Aristotle and memory, see
David Farrell Krell, Of Memory, Reminiscence, and Writing (Bloomington: Indiana
University Press, 1990), 13–50; and Janet Coleman, Ancient and Medieval Memories
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 15–38.
7. See, for example, Helkiah Crooke: “Finally, all these [Ideas or Notions] are
receyued by the Memory, which as a faithful Recorder or Maister of the Rolles doth
preserue, store vp and dispose in due order all the forenamed Notions or abstracted
formes” (Mikrokosmographia, or, A Description of the Whole Body of Man [London,
1615], 502, emphasis added). See also Frances A. Yates, The Art of Memory (London:
Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1966), 2, 306, and passim; Lina Bolzoni, The Gallery of
Memory: Literary and Iconographic Models in the Age of the Printing Press, trans. Jeremy
Parzen (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2001), xxii, 155; Mary J. Carruthers,
The Book of Memory: A Study of Memory in Medieval Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1990); Douwe Draaisma, Metaphors of Memory: A History of Ideas
About the Mind, trans. Paul Vincent (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000);
and Paolo Rossi, Logic and the Art of Memory: The Quest for a Universal Language,
trans. Stephen Clucas (London: Athlone Press, 2000). For discussions of theater
and the visual imagery of the art of memory, see William E. Engel, “Mnemonic
Criticism and Renaissance Literature: A Manifesto,” Connotations: A Journal for
Critical Debate 1 (1991): 12–33; Engel, Mapping Mortality: The Persistence of Memory
and Melancholy in Early Modern England (Amherst: University of Massachusetts
Press, 1995); and Engel, Death and Drama in Renaissance England: Shades of Memory
8. John Sutton, “Body, Mind, and Order: Local Memory and the Control of
Mental Representations in Medieval and Renaissance Sciences of Self ” in 1543 and
All That: Image and Word, Change and Continuity in the Proto-Scientific Revolution,
Guy Freeland and Anthony Corones, eds. (Dordrecht and Boston: Kluwer Academic
Publishers, 2000), 117–150, esp. 117–121, 123, 127–128, 142n.
9. See Katharine Park, “The Organic Soul” in The Cambridge History of
Renaissance Philosophy, Charles B. Schmitt et al., eds. (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1988), 464–484; G. W. Bruyn, “The Seat of the Soul” in Historical
Aspects of the Neurosciences, F. Clifford Rose and W. F. Bynum, eds. (New York: Raven
Press, 1982), 55–81; and Walter Pagel, “Medieval and Renaissance Contributions to
Knowledge of the Brain and Its Functions” in History and Philosophy of Knowledge
of the Brain and its Functions, F.N.L. Poynter, ed. (Oxford: Blackwell Scientific
Publications, 1958), 95–114.
10. Sutton, “Body, Mind, and Order,” 121–130, esp. 129. See also Sutton,
Philosophy and Memory Traces: Descartes to Connectionism (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1998).
11. “To sleepe hosed and shued especially with foule sockes, doth hinder the
Memorie, because of the reflection of ye vapours: feebleth the sight, and causeth
the bodie to waxe hot and burne” (William Fulwood, The Castel of Memorie
[London, 1573], sig. D2v). Fulwood’s treatise, first printed in 1562, is a translation
of Guglielmo Gratarolo’s De Memoria Reparanda, Avgenda, Servandaqve Liber vnus.

De Locali vel Artificiosa Memoria Liber alter (Rome, 1555).
12. I borrow the phrase “localist model” from Sutton; see “Body, Mind, and
Order,” passim.
13. Johannes Romberch, Congestoriu[m] Artificiose Memorie (Venice, 1520),
sig. B7r.
14. See Peter of Ravenna, Foenix D[omi]ni Petri Rauenatis Memoriae Magistris
(Venice, 1491), sig. B3r–v.
15. John Willis, Mnemonica; or, the Art of Memory, Drained out of the pure
Fountains of Art & Nature . . . (London, 1661 [first published in Latin in 1618]),
sigs. E2v–E3r, E4v. Bolzoni draws an analogy between acting and the construction
of memory images (173). See also Engel, Death and Drama, 52–53.
16. See Yates, 342–367. Yates reproduces both Willis’s and Fludd’s diagrams
in her chapter on Fludd.
17. Bolzoni, 241.
18. Erasmus of Rotterdam, Opus epistolarum, ed. P. S. Allen (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1941), 10:29–30, quoted here from Bolzoni, 159 (emphasis
added).
19. Letter from Viglius Zuichemus to Erasmus, quoted here from Bolzoni, 159.
20. See Engel, Death and Drama; Nigel Alexander, “Hamlet and the Art of
Memory,” Notes & Queries 213 (1968): 137–139; Bernard Richards, “Hamlet and
the Theatre of Memory,” N&Q 233 (1981): 53; Adam Max Cohen, “Hamlet as
Emblem: The Ars Memoria and the Culture of the Play,” Journal of Early Modern
Cultural Studies 3.1 (2003): 77–112.
21. See Bolzoni, 173.
22. Levenson, 14–15.
23. Sutton, “Body, Mind, and Order,” 125.
24. On the lack of dramatis personae and other markers in early modern
playtexts and performances, see, Margreta de Grazia and Peter Stallybrass, “The
Materiality of the Shakespearean Text,” Shakespeare Quarterly 44 (1993): 255–283,
esp. 267.
25. Stern, 46–123, esp. 52–79; and Levenson, 14.
26. See Engel, Death and Drama, 37–45.
27. Quotations from The Second Part of King Henry IV follow A. R.
Humphreys’s edition for the Arden Shakespeare (London: Methuen, 1966).
28. Fulwood explains that “[t]he right way to haue artifical Memorie, is
the collocation & diligent obseruation of thinges” (sig. F8r). Willis emphasizes
the importance of “noting”: “Natural Memory is a faculty which every man hath
naturally to apprehend and retain note-worthy things” (sig. K4r); Willis also advises
students that, among other disciplines (such as eating raisins for breakfast), “[t]he
mind must be constantly exercised in learning some sentences by heart (yea though
there be no need) that the faculty of remembring may be quickned by use and
practice” (sig. L4r).
29. On Juliet’s and Lady Capulet’s attempts to interrupt the Nurse, see Stern,
89–90.
30. Fulwood, sig. G4r. This principle, drawn from classical Latin sources
(Cicero, Quintilian, the anonymous Ad Herennium), recurs in most treatises on the
memory arts. See Engel, Death and Drama, 53; and Yates, 10.
31. Jill Levenson points out that Bandello’s novel does not contain an
apothecary at all; the role is added in later versions of the story to explain Romeo’s
acquisition of poison (“Romeo and Juliet Before Shakespeare,” Studies in Philology
81 [1984]: 325–347, esp. 340–341). Arthur Brooke’s Romeus and Juliet includes
the apothecary and much of the language from the scene but excludes the role of
memory. Romeus’s search for an apothecary’s shop takes place in real time and space
rather than in his memory; see Arthur Brooke, Brooke’s ‘Romeus and Juliet’, being the
original of Shakespeare’s ‘Romeo and Juliet’, ed. J. J. Munro (New York: Duffield and
Co.; London: Chatto and Windus, 1908), ll. 2563–2567. See also Grace, 28.
32. Romberch, sig. D4r. Yates points out that both Romberch and Giordano
Bruno suggest shops as memory loci (112f [Pl. 5a], 250–251).
33. See Romberch, sigs. D6r, F6v–F7r; and the anonymous Ludus artificialis
obliuionis (Leipzig, 1510), sig. B1r.
34. Carruthers, 45.
35. Hugh of St. Victor, “De arca Noe morali,” quoted here from Carruthers, 45.
36. Joseph Roach, Cities of the Dead: Circum-Atlantic Performance (New
York: Columbia University Press, 1996), 3–4, 29–30; the term derives from
Margaret Thomson Drewal’s discussion of parody in Yoruba Ritual: Performers,
Play, Agency (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1992), 4–5. See also Roach,
“Reconstructing Theatre/History,” Theatre Topics 9 (1999): 3–10. My thanks to
Emily Hodgson Anderson for this reference.
37. According to Willis, “particularly as to Places, their usefulness doth hence
appear, that if a Traveller observe any remarkable thing in a cross way, or some noted
place of his journey, returning the same way, he doth not onely remember the place, but
calleth to mind what soever he had seen here, though at present removed. The same
thing often happeneth in Repetition of Idea’s; for the mind as it were walking through
the same Places . . . is much assisted in recalling Idea’s to mind there placed ” (sigs.
A3v–A4r).
38. See Grace, 30, 31, 33, 35.
39. Grace also notes this parallel: “Now, when Romeo describes the
apothecary, he recalls he first saw the man ‘Culling of simples’—that is, gathering
herbs, just as Friar Laurence was doing when first we saw him” (35).
40. The stage direction that places Romeo’s entrance immediately preceding
line 19 comes from Q2 and is reprinted in the Folio.
41. His odd word choice—the “cannon’s womb”—may also echo Friar
Laurence’s earthy womb-tomb at 2.3.5–6, although Romeo is not present to hear
that part of the speech.
42. T.J.B. Spencer, ed., The Penguin Shakespeare Romeo and Juliet (London:
Penguin Books, 1967), 31–32. See also Grace, 28.
43. In Brooke’s Romeus and Juliet, Romeo is present when the Nurse recalls
Juliet’s childhood (ll. 651–662).
44. See Carruthers, 35–36; and Stephen Greenblatt, Hamlet in Purgatory
(Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2001), 214–218.
45. Greenblatt, 214–215.
46. The earliest use of the word pigeonhole in English in its modern sense is
in the eighteenth century, but the concept is present from antiquity onward. See
Carruthers, 36.
47. The association of the cella columbarum with other memory cellae may or
may not be the reason that so many memory theorists recommend that their readers
eat turtledove. Fulwood, for example, departs from his source to mention the fact
that “[i]t is also sayde, that the flesh of a Turtle Doue doth encrease the wit” (sig.
D5r).
48. See Wendy Wall, Staging Domesticity: Household Work and English Identity
in Early Modern Drama (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press,
2002), 74.
49. Juan Luis Vives, A Fruteful and pleasant boke called the Instruction of Christen
Woman (London, 1529), 108, quoted here from Wall, 164.
50. Wall, 195.
51. Ludus artificialis obliuionis is one of the many treatises to repeat the phrase
“Et nihil est in intellectu nisi prius fuerit in sensu” (sig. C6v). Park identifies this as
a “commonplace” (470).
52. Julie Stone Peters, Theatre of the Book 1480–1880: Print, Text, and
Performance in Europe (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 171–172.
53. Cynthia Marshall, “Man of Steel Done Got the Blues: Melancholic
Subversion of Presence in Antony and Cleopatra,” SQ 44 (1993): 385–408, esp. 397;
see also Hélène Cixous, “Aller à la Mer,” trans. Barbara Kerslake, Modern Drama
27 (1984): 546–548, esp. 547 (cited in Marshall, 397). On theater and rhetoric,
see Joseph Roach, The Player’s Passion: Studies in the Science of Acting (Newark:
University of Delaware Press, 1985), 32; Leo Salingar, “Uses of Rhetoric: Antony
and Cleopatra,” Cahiers Élisabéthains 55 (1999): 17–26, esp. 18–19. On the use of
the terms audience and spectators in early modern English theater, see Andrew Gurr,
Playgoing in Shakespeare’s London (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987),
86–98.
54. See, for example, Greenblatt, passim; Michael Neill, Issues of Death:
Mortality and Identity in English Renaissance Tragedy (Oxford: Clarendon Press; New
York: Oxford University Press, 1997); Ann Rosalind Jones and Peter Stallybrass,
Renaissance Clothing and the Materials of Memory (Cambridge and New York:
Cambridge University Press, 2000); and Katharine Eisaman Maus, Inwardness and
Theater in the English Renaissance (Chicago and London: University of Chicago
Press, 1995).
T homas H onegger
“Wouldst thou withdraw love’s faithful vow?”:

The Negotiation of Love in the Orchard Scene
( Romeo and Juliet Act II )
1. Introduction
S hakespeare’s dramatic dialogues have, for obvious reasons, been repeat-

edly the subject of historical pragmatic studies.1 Romeo and Juliet, however,
may not strike one as the most obvious choice for historical dialogue analysis.
Most critics have stressed the lyrical-poetic quality of its dialogues rather than
their interactional finesse. Yet the one does not necessarily exclude the other,
as I have shown (Honegger 2005) by means of a discussion of the sonnet-
sequence that constitutes the very first verbal exchange between Romeo and
Juliet (Oxford 1.4.206–223; Arden 1.5.92–109).2 The main focus of this
article, then, is on the complexities involved in the negotiation of love in
the ensuing orchard scene in the second act. These are compared with the
corresponding passages in Shakespeare’s most immediate source, Arthur
Brooke’s The Tragicall Historye of Romeus and Juliet (1562), 3 contrasted with
the conventions of traditional (courtly) wooing and set against the meta-
comments on courtly interaction as found in Count Baldassare Castiglione’s
The Book of the Courtier (1528, English translation 1561).
2. Preliminaries
Romeo and Juliet, who meet for the first time at the feast of the Capulet
family, fall in love with each other at first sight. Their first exchange of
words (Oxford 1.4.206–219; Arden 1.5.92–105) adapts the form of a joint
Journal of Historical Pragmatics, Volume 7, Number 1 (2006): pp. 73–88. Copyright © 2006
John Benjamin Publishing Company.
169
170 Thomas Honegger
sonnet and the two approach both a dramatic and poetic climax with the
imminent completion of the sonnet. The final couplet, with its verbal paral-
lelisms (move, prayer) and the fact that the two adjacent lines spoken by the
protagonists share the same rhyme, immediately precedes and foreshadows
the harmonious physical union by means of a kiss.
Romeo’s lonely Petrarchism, as evidenced before in his lines about love
in general and Rosaline in particular (Oxford 1.1.167ff; Arden 1.1.169ff ), and
also in his verses upon perceiving Juliet for the first time (Oxford 1.4.157–
166; Arden 1.5.43–52), is modified and shared by Juliet in their joint sonnet.
Shakespeare, by showing Juliet as taking up Romeo’s metaphors of pilgrim-
age, has her observe one of Baldassare Castiglione’s recommendations for
elegant courtly conversation, namely, “so the metaphors be well applyed, and
especiallye yf they be answered, and he that maketh answere continue in the
self same metaphor spoken by the other” (Cox 1994: 173). Moreover, the two
lovers-to-be follow Castiglione’s advice of exploring each other’s feelings
with such sobermoode, and so warilye, that the woordes maye

firste attempt the minde, and so doubtfullye touch her entent and
will, that they maye leave her a way and a certein issue to feine the
understandinge that those woordes conteine love: to the entent if
he finds anye daunger, he maye draw backe and make wise to have
spoken or written it to an other ende (Cox 1994: 276).
Lastly, Juliet’s participation in the composition of the sonnet foreshadows

her active role in the developing relationship with Romeo, which in turn
may be seen as mirroring the historical changing attitude towards woman
who was “no longer merely a necessary vessel for procreation but an active
sexual partner” (Neely 1985: 13). As will become clear, Juliet’s interactional
patterns are going to be different from those of a typical Petrarchan heroine
and she is the very opposite of a Petrarchan heroine in that she falls imme-
diately in love with Romeo.
For Romeo, Petrarchan language, formerly the expression of his amo-
rous frustration and isolation, has become the very instrument to conquer
and win over the beloved lady.4 The sonnet, as a lyrical work of art, should
end with the kiss. Yet the world of Verona is not all Petrarchan conceits, nor
is the play a string of sonnets. Romeo’s “post-oscular” line acknowledges the
fact that it is one thing to sonnetise about kissing, but another actually to do
it. The imaginary curve that indicates the face-threatening potential peaks
with the kiss, which constitutes a possible point of interactional transition.
The dangers inherent in a kiss, even if it is prefaced by and embedded in
Petrarchan language and regulated by social etiquette, are not to be underes-
timated. Already medieval theorists on love warned: “Li baisiers autre chose
“Wouldst thou withdraw love’s faithful vow?” 171
atrait.”5 And neo-platonic theory of love is also ambiguous about kissing.

Castiglione’s Peter Bembo voices the following warning: “For sins a kisse is a
knitting together both of body and soule, it is to be feared, least the sensuall
lover will be more inclined to the part of the bodye, then of the soule” (Cox
1994: 354).6
Romeo and Juliet could be expected to abandon their pretensions
towards witticisms after the first kiss and resume their conversation on a dif-
ferent, more intimate level. This is not the case. We must not forget that the
metaphoric language of the sonnet has been playful and ambiguous, and a
man would be naïve to think himself the object of love when a lady is so cour-
teous as to allow him to kiss her. In such a context, the (non-verbal or verbal)
reaction immediately after the kiss is of crucial importance.7 Romeo forestalls
misleading interpretations of his action by framing it with the comment “Thus
from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged” (Oxford 1.4.220; Arden 1.5.106),
continuing this way their conversation on the same metaphorical level. This
is, interactionally speaking, rather a step backwards—even if it is “reculer pour
mieux sauter”. Juliet seems to enjoy Romeo’s playful advances and, taking the
cue from him, prompts him to kiss her once more with her “Then have my
lips the sin that they have took” (Oxford 1.4.221; Arden 1.5.107). It is only
now, after the second kiss, that she seems to signal a readiness to abandon the
pilgrim-and-saint metaphor, although she still retains a facetious tone in her
“You kiss by th’book” (Oxford 1.4.223; Arden 1.5.109),8 which completes the
first quatrain of a second sonnet. Yet the witty tone cannot hide the fact that
the second kiss poses something of an interactional problem. The first kiss can
be accounted for within the framework of Renaissance greeting habits. The
second kiss, then, is “superfluous” and legitimised only by means of the two
protagonist’s word-play. Unfortunately we are in a play and not in a Sidneyan
sonnet sequence and the lovers’ second sonnet composition is interrupted by
the nurse. Juliet is whisked away to see her mother, so that the audience is
expertly guided back into the more prosaic world of drama where marriage is
still largely dependent on parental consent. Romeo and Juliet, before the close
of what modern editions have called Act I, are to discover their respective
identities, and what started with a kiss as tender dalliance turns for both into
something far more serious and threatening than expected.
3. A Declaration of Love?

Anything that comes after the sonnet sequence between the two lovers-to-
be at the end of the first act must look like an anticlimax. The following
orchard scene, which replaces and condenses Arthur Brooke’s description of
Romeus’s long-drawn suffering into one scene, may add to the organisation
and development of the plot, yet it is, if one expects a “traditional” wooing
sequence with reluctant and aloof lady and patiently suffering lover, oddly
172 Thomas Honegger
disappointing. Yet the scene’s “deficiencies” are, as will be shown, more

than compensated for by Shakespeare’s introduction of new interactional
complexities and by making Juliet a much more active protagonist than her
predecessor in Arthur Brooke’s Romeus and Juliet.
The first encounter between Romeo and Juliet and the orchard scene
are separated by a sonnet spoken by the Chorus, which calls in a new era of
mutual love, and the scene with Mercutio and Benvolio, that marks the return
to less highly strung levels of language and interaction, providing a relaxation
from the “high style” of the sonnet dialogue. Romeo’s entrance, too, contin-
ues rather his former Petrarchan “luf-talkyng”9 than the inspired language of
the sonnet dialogue. Wells (1998: 915) describes him as follows: “Wandering
about in Capulet’s orchard trying to catch a glimpse of his new beloved, he
runs through some of the standard lines in the Petrarchist’s repertoire, much
as a musician might warm up with some arpeggios before an important per-
formance.” Indeed, the spontaneous yet poetic language of the first encounter
gives way to the former monologic exploration of Petrarchan imagery—at
least as long as Romeo is not talking directly to Juliet. It is she who gets down
to the reality of love and the problems that such a liaison creates, whereas
Romeo is still busy searching for new oxymorons and metaphors. Her Saus-
surean analysis (“avant la letter,” though) of the relationship between signifier
and signified (Oxford 2.1.81–92; Arden 2.1.38–48) ends with her impas-
sioned plea: “Romeo, doff thy name, / And for thy name, which is no part
of thee, / Take all myself ” (Oxford 2.1.90–92; Arden 2.1.47–49).10 Romeo
has overheard the entire speech hidden in the darkness of the garden, which
stands in contrast to Arthur Brooke’s version of the story, which features a
longish monologue by Juliet (Bullough 1957: 296–297) in the seclusion of
her bedroom. Romeo’s eavesdropping seems to be a Shakespearean innova-
tion. Shakespeare’s Romeo, then, takes Juliet’s lines as his cue, self-selects
himself for the next turn11 and steps forward, addressing Juliet with “I take
thee at thy word. / Call me but love, and I’ll be new baptized: / Hence-
forth I never will be Romeo” (Oxford 2.1.92–94; Arden 2.1.49–51). These are
not bad lines, since they refer to Juliet’s argument about the arbitrariness of
names and signal that the speaker has overheard her speech. Unfortunately,
they are lost on Juliet, who is simply too surprised to attend properly to the
utterance. As a consequence, Romeo’s elegant self-identification fails, too. Yet
young Montague perseveres in his endeavour, and now that he has Juliet’s full
attention, he succeeds with his second attempt (Oxford 2.1.96–100; Arden
2.1.53–57). Again, he alludes to her preceding speech and addresses her as
“dear saint” (Oxford 2.1.98; Arden 2.1.55). This form of address connects the
shadowy figure in the garden with the young man at the ball and functions as
the shibboleth for the two protagonists.
Yet Juliet, although clearly positively affected by Romeo’s sudden entry,

is in no mood to continue in the playful spirit of their last encounter. Her “Art
thou not Romeo, and a Montague?” (Oxford 2.1.103; Arden 2.1.60), which
Romeo tries to counter lamely with his “Neither, fair maid, if either thee dis-
like” (Oxford 2.1.104; Arden 2.1.61), touches upon the sore spot of his family
affiliation and all it implies. The following turns (Oxford 2.1.105–127; Arden
2.1.62–84) show the two talking, at least stylistically, at cross purposes. Juliet’s
brief utterances, often no longer than one line, focus on concrete questions
(“By whose direction found’st thou out this place?” Oxford 2.1.122; Arden
2.1.79) and dangers (“If they do see thee, they will murder thee” Oxford
2.1.113; Arden 2.1.70), whereas Romeo’s answers keep up the high poetic
style of his former speeches. It is only after some time that Juliet seems to
have found her inner balance again. She, in contrast to her predecessor in
Brooke, does not have the chance to sort things out soliloquisingly in the
privacy of her bedroom before meeting again with her beloved. Romeo has
committed a grave interactional sin by overhearing, albeit accidentally, what
was never intended for anyone else’s ears. He may be forgiven for his trespass,
but he should never have gone on record with information gathered from
her speech. Firstly, it is a question of tact and the discovery of Juliet’s feelings
severely impinges upon her interactional freedom. Secondly, a lady has to
be careful not to give away her feelings before she can be certain of a man’s
sincerity—as Brooke’s Juliet makes explicit:
(1) Juliet What if his suttel brayne to fayne have taught his tong,
And so the snake that lurkes in grasse thy tender hart hash stong?
What if with frendly speache the traytor lye in wayte,
As oft the poysond hooke is hid, wraps in the pleasant bayte?
(Bullough 1957: 296, ll. 385–388)
A woman evidently has to be wary and test the sincerity of her suitor,12
although Shakespeare’s Juliet seems to be less concerned with this aspect
and more troubled by the restriction of her interactional possibilities. The
fact that Romeo has witnessed Juliet’s soliloquy makes it impossible for her
to play the traditional role of the “reluctant” or even “cruel” lady. As a con-
sequence, the interactional equilibrium between suitor and lady has been
severely disturbed. Arthur Brooke’s couple can make do with the traditional
role distribution of active suitor and conceding lady, but Shakespeare’s com-
plication of the plot calls for a less conventional solution. It is therefore no
deliberate decision by Juliet to “refuse [ . . . ] to engage further in these
elaborate, ritualized negotiations and exchanges of erotic power that consti-
tute courtship” as Callaghan (1994: 81) argues. Romeo’s open references to
174 Thomas Honegger
her lines has rendered their content on-record, i.e. Juliet knows that Romeo
knows and that he wants her to know that he knows, so that Juliet no longer
has the option of simply ignoring her self-exposure and relying on his tact.
As it is, she cannot, and probably does not want to unsay her confession of
love. Yet she is likewise reluctant to continue their conversation or to accept
Romeo’s protestations of love before having clarified some points. Her long
address is of great import for the further development of their relationship:
(2) Juliet Thou knowest the mask of night is on my face,

Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek
For that which thou hast heard me speak tonight. 130
Fain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny
What I have spoke; but farewell, compliment.
Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say ‘Ay’,
And I will take thy word; yet if thou swear’st,
Thou mayst prove false. At lovers’ perjuries 135
They say Jove laughs. O gentle, Romeo,
If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully;
Or if thou thinkest I am too quickly won,
I’ll frown and be perverse and say thee nay,
So thou wilt woo, but else not for the world.13 140
In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond,
And therefore thou mayst think my behaviour light;
But trust me, gentleman, I’ll prove more true
Than those that have the coying to be strange.
I should have been more strange, I must confess, 145
But that thou overheard’st, ere I was ware,
My true-love passion. Therefore pardon me,
And not impute this yielding to light love,
Which the dark night hash so discovered.
(Oxford 2.1.128–149; Arden 2.1.85–106)
Juliet renders explicit the physical symptoms of her embarrassment in the

first lines of her speech. These references function as “in-built” stage props
(“night, Juliet blushes”) for effects that would not be easy to bring about
spontaneously. Furthermore, Juliet’s lines convey to Romeo that she is a
maiden who has lost considerable face due to his eavesdropping, and that the
content of her soliloquy, and especially her confession of love, is now a mutu-
ally acknowledged on-record topic (Romeo now knows that she knows that
he knows). The central problem of love, however, is touched upon only after
she has given this metacomment on their interactional mishap which pre-
vents her from making her confession of love in style. In the following, she
pays Romeo back in kind. He is forced to listen to another “soliloquy”, yet
this time his declaration of love is taken for granted, analysed, and discussed.
Whatever Romeo’s interactional shortcomings, he would certainly not have
cast his confession in the form of the monosyllabic, pitifully un-Petrarchan
“Ay”, but would certainly “fain have dwelt on form”.14 Juliet signals that they
have gone beyond matters of form. It is clear to her that Romeo wants her to
believe that he loves her in return. Yet although she wants to believe it, and
tells him that she does so, she is aware of the danger inherent in accepting
his protestation of love without further proof. Unfortunately, the traditional
formats and scripts for initiating a love relationship have been rendered
useless by Romeo’s eavesdropping, so that she cannot “test” him by playing
hard to get. Juliet alludes to this in her offer to act the part of the reluctant
lady if he wishes her to do so. She knows that very often “the form is the
message” and if Romeo needs more “traditional” proof of her constancy and
chaste virtue—and maybe an occasion to produce some verses “To His Coy
Mistress”—then he is welcome to it. Besides this, she signals that she, for
her part, would prefer to do without the conventional trappings of wooing.
This may be also the meaning of her request that Romeo “pronounce it [i.e.
his love] faithfully” (Oxford 2.1.137; Arden 2.1.94). In brief, her speech can
be interpreted as a plea to abandon the traditional interactional patterns and
to talk, if not exactly business, then at least more plainly than Petrarchan
lovers in general, and Romeo in particular, are wont to do.15
The following exchange, then, is dominated by Juliet’s endeavour to re-
establish her interactional sovereignty and motivate Romeo to abandon his
Petrarchan effusions. Consequently, she cuts short his attempts to bring about
his protestation of sincere love in style by playing on her “light” (Oxford
2.1.148; Arden 2.1.105) and “dark” (Oxford 2.1.149; Arden 2.1.106). Her
critical gloss on his choice of metaphor catches him completely unawares. As
yet he has had dealings only with Rosaline, who kept both her silence and her
distance, and his one encounter with Juliet at the feast has been harmoniously
collaborative, with her following his metaphoric lead. Juliet’s unexpected in-
terruption stops him dead in his Petrarchan tracks and he asks: “What shall
I swear by?” (Oxford 2.1.155; Arden 2.1.112).16 His second, presumably also
Petrarchan attempt to swear his love does not get beyond the first five words
before Juliet intervenes again, calls the entire interaction into question, and
makes a move to terminate their late-night conversation:
176 Thomas Honegger
(3) Juliet I have no joy of this contract tonight:

It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden,
Too like the lightning which doth cease to be
Ere one can say ‘It lightens’. Sweet, good night.
This bud of love, by summer’s ripening breath,
May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.17 165
Good night, good night. [ . . . ]
(Oxford 2.1.160–166; Arden 2.1.117–123).
This, then, is sufficient to put a stop to Romeo’s poetic outpourings, even

though Juliet is considerate enough to sweeten the pill of (temporary) rejec-
tion.18 His incredulous question “O wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?”
(Oxford 2.1.168; Arden 2.1.125) marks his sudden fall from Petrarchan
heights and prompts Juliet to ask for disambiguation: “What satisfaction
canst thou have tonight?” (Oxford 2.1.169; Arden 2.1.126). Romeo’s answer,
then, finally hits the right tone. His “Th’exchange of thy love’s faithful vow
for mine” (Oxford 2.1.170; Arden 2.1.127) is simple, unpretentious, and has
the ring of truthfulness. Furthermore, it establishes the spirit of mutuality
that has been absent from their interaction in the orchard so far. Romeo’s
“Wouldst thou withdraw it [i.e. love’s faithful vow]? For what purpose,
love?”19 (Oxford 2.1.173; Arden 2.1.130) brings about the final restitution
of Juliet’s interactional freedom that has been so severely infringed by his
unnoticed presence in the garden. She is given the opportunity to take back
her words without denying them, to return to the moment before she uttered
the fateful lines and to retake her decision. It is this imaginary construct
that enables Juliet to overcome the interactional impasse which has been
the direct consequence of the informational imbalance created by Romeo’s
eavesdropping. So far, Juliet has not been able to act freely or to negotiate
the terms of the interaction that has been sprung on her. The first part has
been dominated by her effort to win back her interactional rights. Now that
she has succeeded in doing so, she is finally able to give vent to her feelings
as she wants and to dwell on form:
(4) Juliet My bounty is as boundless as the sea,

My love as deep; the more I give to thee,
The more I have, for both are infinite.
(Oxford 2.1.176–178; Arden 2.1.133–135)
She not only reverts to Petrarchan language, 20 but also takes up Romeo’s sea
image from before (Oxford 2.1.125–126; Arden 2.1.82–83) and thus signals
her willingness to enter into a love-relationship with Romeo.
The harmony between the lovers is hardly re-established when the be-
ginnings of a potential joint action are disrupted by the outside world in form
of the nurse, whose interference will punctuate the remaining exchanges.
When Juliet again addresses Romeo,21 she seems to have taken the cue for
her next turn from the intrusion of the outside world:
(5) Juliet Three words, dear Romeo, and good night indeed. 185
If that thy bent of love be honourable,
Thy purpose marriage, send me word tomorrow,
By one that I’ll procure to come to thee,
Where and what time thou wilt perform the rite,
And all my fortunes at thy foot I’ll lay, 190
And follow thee, my lord, throughout the world.
Nurse (within) Madam!
Juliet I come, anon!—But if thou meanest not well;
I do beseech thee—
Nurse (within) Madam! 195
Juliet By and by, I come!—
To cease thy strive and leave me to my grief.
Tomorrow I will send.
(Oxford 2.1.185–198; Arden 2.1.142–153)
Petrarchan “luf-talkyng” has rather quickly given way to no-nonsense mar-

riage talk or, as Whittier (1989: 37) formulates it more elegantly: “She
[ Juliet] readily harnesses Eros in social form.” We are obviously no longer in
the world of chivalry where the suitor has to prove his worth and the sinceri-
ty of his love by means of long-drawn service or suitable chivalric exploits. In
Shakespeare’s Verona—and also in his London—it is the suitor’s willingness
to commit himself in marriage to his beloved that proves his honourable
intentions. This is not so conspicuous in Romeo and Juliet because the main
focus is on the first encounter and the climactic falling in love of the two
protagonists, but it is nevertheless there. Juliet’s linking of “honourable love”
and “marriage” is, of course, a rather obvious hint at what Romeo should
have done, namely to declare his love and to propose. Yet Romeo is too pre-
occupied with love to proceed immediately to the “business” part.
178 Thomas Honegger
The text analysed in the preceding paragraphs differs considerably from

the First to the Second Quartos and so does, as a result, the interpretation of
the exchange. Many lines of the passage discussed above, namely lines 164 to
178, do not occur in the text of the First Quarto; Juliet’s wish for a pause for
thought is immediately followed by the first interruption of their night-time
conversation and her offer of marriage (see Praetorius 1886: 26–27). The lat-
ter is not introduced by the preceding exchange and, as a consequence, comes
rather as a surprise. The text of the Second Quarto, with its mitigating pas-
sage that re-establishes some understanding between the lovers, is therefore,
from an interactional point of view, preferable.
The third and final part of the interaction between Romeo and Juliet
(Oxford 2.1.204–235; Arden 2.1.158–193) is much more harmonious than
the preceding ones. The important questions concerning their relationship
have been discussed and agreed on, and the interactional imbalance created by
Romeo’s faux pas has been corrected. The shared metaphors derived from the
world of falconry are, on a stylistic level, an expression of this re-established
harmony, and after agreeing on the time for the messenger, there remains
nothing much to do. Yet the two lovers are loath to part and fill in time with
lines on remembering and forgetting (Oxford 2.1.216–221; Arden 2.1.170–
175). This brief passage has neither dramatic interest nor poetic metaphors to
recommend itself and is mostly phatic in function. It provides, in its simplicity
and even-handed distribution of turns, an appropriate penultimate chord to
the interactional piece that began with the first encounter at the feast. The final
chord comprises Juliet’s resumption of the falcon metaphor (Oxford 2.1.223–
227; Arden 2.1.177–181) and ends in the couplets spoken by the lovers ( Juliet:
Oxford 2.1.230–231; Arden 2.1.184–185; Romeo: Oxford 2.1.232–235; Ar-
den 2.1.186–193).22 The “dissonance” that characterised the first part of their
encounter in the orchard is counterbalanced, the two lovers part in concord,
and the initial phase of their relationship comes to a conclusion.
4. Conclusion: Shakespeare at Work

We have already pointed out some of the most important differences
between Shakespeare’s presentation of the lovers and the one in his probable
source, Brooke’s Romeus and Juliet. There are, apart from the alterations due
to the transfer from novella to drama, namely the dialogisation of all rel-
evant information and the condensation of narrative time, two momentous
changes which are not (primarily) motivated by the exigencies of adapting
a narrative for stage performance. Firstly, the initial encounter between the
two at the feast is cast in the form of a jointly composed sonnet. Secondly,
Romeus’s conventional declaration of love and his offer of marriage during
the balcony scene in Arthur Brooke’s text are replaced by a complex passage
that comprises not only a reversal of roles but also considerable interactional
complications. Shakespeare, in terms of plot organisation and dramatic

structure, shifts the focus from the confession of love to the first encounter
and the falling in love. The interactional climax of the first phase in their
relationship is thus not identical with the actual declaration of love, but, in
the framework advocated in Castiglione’s The Book of the Courtier, would
coincide with the first tentative explorations undertaken by the socially
competent courtier, which then may be followed by a more direct confession
of love. The first encounter and the falling in love would be, in a less con-
densed account, more clearly separated from the actual declaration of love
by intervening events, which would allow for two independent focal points.
Shakespeare’s dramatic compression of the interaction between the two
lovers does not favour such a solution. He packs most of the declaration’s
poetic and dramatic potential into the joint sonnet so that it has the impact
one usually expects from the confession of love proper. Nicholas Brooke’s
(1968: 98) confusion of the lovers’ first meeting at the feast with the ensuing
betrothal in act 2 (orchard scene) and his evaluation of “betrothal” and wed-
ding proves this point: “The betrothal [i.e. the sonnet-encounter at the feast
or, as Brooke (1968: 106) also calls it, ‘the dance-betrothal of Act I’] was
given maximum ceremonial as the climax to Act I; the wedding is reduced
to an absolute minimum in the end of Act II.” It is also noteworthy that
Shakespeare has not conflated the sequence of falling in love with an imme-
diate confession, but kept them somewhat apart. This separation allows him
to exploit the strengths of both sequences. The emotional impact of the
first meeting is not adulterated or watered down by the admixture of ele-
ments that would detract from the elated Petrarchan mood. The two young
people have as yet no idea of their respective identities so that the inception
of their love is not hindered by social considerations. The discussion of such
disquieting and potentially disruptive issues as family membership and the
problem of how to cast their love in concrete social forms are relegated to
the ensuing orchard scene. By means of the joint sonnet, Shakespeare has
come as close as possible to what Barthes (1977/1990: 150) “hallucinates”
about: “I hallucinate what is empirically impossible: that our two profferings
[i.e. confessions of love] be made at the same time: that one does not follow
the other, as if it depended on it.”
Shakespeare, because he has played his strongest “emotional card” in
the fashioning of the first encounter, must have felt that a conventional con-
fession of love would offer little dramatic interest. Furthermore, from the
point of view of narrative organisation it would add nothing new towards
the development of either characters or plot. His decision to deviate from
the traditional pattern creates new dramatic interest and opens new possibili-
ties for protagonist characterisation and plot development. As a consequence,
Juliet increasingly gains a voice of her own. Romeo’s lyric praise of her beauty
180 Thomas Honegger
(Oxford 1.4.157–166; Arden 1.5.43–52) is not yet matched by a similar speech

on her part, but already their first face-to-face encounter is characterised by
the fact that Juliet contributes her part to the sonnet—even though she is
still largely following Romeo’s lead. Her overheard soliloquy in the orchard
and the ensuing conversation with Romeo then show her as a person who is
able to speak her own mind, who refuses to be imposed upon by Romeo’s Pe-
trarchan rhetoric, and who fights for her right to declare her love in her own
words and style. This development reaches its climax in the epithalamium, a
form traditionally assigned to the bridegroom, yet here spoken by Juliet in
expectation of her newly wed Romeo (Oxford 3.2.1–31; Arden 3.2.1–31).
As Böschenbröker (1996: 52) notes, this reversal of conventional roles turns
Juliet “zum Subjekt, das in eigener Verantwortung spricht and handelt and
sich somit gleichberechtigt neben Romeo stellt” ‘into a subject who speaks
and acts in her own right and thus makes herself Romeo’s peer’.
No t e s
1. See, for example, Rudanko (1993), the numerous publications by Norman

F. Blake and Brown and Gilman (1989).
2. I quote from The Oxford Shakespeare edition by Levenson (2000). The
references to the Arden edition are to The Arden Shakespeare edited by Gibbons
(1980). I prefer Levenson’s (2000) edition of Romeo and Juliet because it gives the
text of the Second (or “Good”) Quarto (1599) and does not conflate it with the First
(or “Bad”) Quarto (1597), the text of which is printed in an appendix at the end of
the book.
3. See Bullough (1957: 284–363) for Brooke’s text.
4. See Muller (1995: 323): “Drastisch formuliert, benutzt er, wenn auch
vielleicht nicht bewusst, die Sprache der Liebeslyrik der Renaissance als Mittel der
Verfüthrung.”
5. Quoted from Robert de Blois’s (fl. 1233–1266) Chastoiement des dames (Fox
1950:136, l. 127). Translation: The kiss attracts other things.
6. See Perella (1969: 143) on the influence of this concept: “There is no doubt
that the soul-in-the-kiss image received its greatest impetus in the Renaissance
through Castiglione’s presentation, for no man of letters could be ignorant of the
Book of the Courtier. Henceforth the conceit was destined to become one of the most
abused commonplaces in the literature of love.”
7. Twentieth-century iconographic convention, as evidenced in movies and
TV series, has it that the ratification of a kiss’s meaning occurs immediately after its
completion—either with a gasping for breath and renewed kissing or, if things have
not yet been properly sorted out, with a gasp followed by a clout.
8. Fritz (1999: 148) gives the translation “Ihr küsst nach allen Regeln der
Kunst.” Müller (1995: 322–323) interprets Juliet’s comment as follows: “Für sie folgt
Romeo als Liebender zu sehr literarischen Modellen und höfischen Etikettbüchern.
Sein Kuss ist für sie kein echter, sondern ein literarischer Kuss.” This point of view
is shared by Bly (1996: 100), who calls it “a mild rebuke”. Brooke (1968: 95) sees it
as a rejection of Romeo’s effort to continue in the same mode: “The formality which
was right, is now wrong, once the pattern is completed in its final cadence.” Leisi
(1997: 103), however, translates Juliet’s sentence as “Ihr habt das Küssen aber raus”,
i.e. as a compliment.
9. Colie (1974: 140) points out: “Romeo by no means abandons sonnet-
language because he has in fact fallen truly in love.”
10. Juliet, who has formerly always used you to address Romeo, changes to
thou in her “soliloquy” and continues in the ensuing dialogue. Her use of thou can
be interpreted first as a sign of fear and indignation about the intrusion, but then
as a sign of her affection for Romeo. See Finkenstaedt (1963: 91–173) and Stein
(2003) for a discussion of the pronouns of address in the sixteenth (and seventeenth)
centuries.
11. See Sacks, Schegloff, and Jefferson (1974/1998) for the organisation of
turn-taking. Since Juliet intended her speech as a soliloquy, there are no proper
transition relevance places.
12. See also Rychard Hyrd’s (1540) translation of Juan Luis Vives’s Instruction
of a Christian Woman (1523), which gives the following warning: “Give none ear
unto the lover, no more than thou wouldst do unto an enchanter or sorcerer. For
he cometh pleasantly and flattering, first praising the maid, showing her how he is
taken with the love of her beauty, and that he must be dead for her love, for these
lovers know well enough the vainglorious minds of many, which have a great delight
in their own praises, wherewith they be caught like as the birder beguileth the
birds—” (quoted in Neely 1985: 12).
13. These lines seem to contradict Wells’s (1998: 916) assessment of Juliet as
“young and inexperienced. Unlike these men-about-town, she does not know that
according to the rules of the game that Romeo is playing, you are meant to be cold
and aloof when your lover reveals his wounded heart, and that you are supposed to
freeze the flames of his passion with your icy disdain. Instead she tells him she is
in love and asks him if he loves her. [ . . . ] Such simplicity is touching.” A careful
reading of the relevant passage also reveals that her handling of the interaction with
Romeo evidences less touching simplicity than emotional sincerity under difficult
conditions.
14. Declarations of love often function like performatives. It is therefore of
some importance that the lover himself is able to give expression to his love in
suitable words.
15. It is not by accident that she uses, among others, the form of address
“fair Montague” (Oxford 2.1.141; Arden 2.1.98), thus focussing on Romeo’s socio-
political situation.
16. Romeo, in the same line in the First Quarto, is given yet another abortive
attempt at protesting his love: “Now by” (Praetorius 1886: 26).
17. Juliet’s metaphor echoes that of Romeo’s father in Oxford 1.1.147–149;
Arden 1.1.149–151, who compared the effect of Romeo’s private suffering to a “bud
bit with an envious worm / Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air / Or dedicate
his beauty to the same.”
18. Not so in the text of the First Quarto. See Praetorius (1886: 26–27).
19. The simple yet intimate form of address that Romeo uses now for Juliet,
namely “love”, is also indicative of the change in tone.
20. Colie (1974: 143) comments on the lovers’ Petrarchan language and makes
an important point: “As we look back over the lovers’ utterance, we can see very
plainly the problem of expression: petrarchan language, the vehicle for amorous
182 Thomas Honegger
emotion, can be used merely as the cliché which Mercutio and Benvolio criticize;
or, it can be earned by a lover’s experience of the profound oppositions to which that
rhetoric of oxymoron points. When Romeo and Juliet seek to express their feelings’
force, they return constantly to petrarchanisms hallowed with use—but having
watched their development as lovers, an audience can accept as valid the language
upon which they must fall back.”
21. Neither the First nor the Second Quarto has a stage direction.
Circumstantial evidence makes it likely that Juliet exits and re-enters a few moments
later at 2.1.185.
22. Levenson (2000: 219) follows the line-attribution of the First Quarto.
The Second Quarto ascribes “Iu. Sleep dwel vpon thine eyes, peace in thy breast”
(Greg 1949, ll.ii.187) to Juliet and has Romeo speak two additional couplets which
are repeated virtually unchanged at the beginning of 2.2.
Wor k s Ci t e d
Barthes, Roland. 1977/1990. A Lover’s Discourse. Fragments. (Translated from French by
Richard Howard. Title of the original: Fragments d’un discour amoureux. 1977.)
Harmondsworth: Penguin Books.
Bly, Mary. 1996. Bawdy puns and lustful virgins: The legacy of Juliet’s desire in comedies of
the early 1600s. In: Stanley Wells (ed.). Romeo and Juliet and Its Afterlife. (Shakespeare
Survey 49). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 97–109.
Böschenbröker, Rita. 1996. Repräsentationen der Liebe in Romeo and Juliet: das Epithalamium.
Shakespeare Jahrbuch 132, 44–57.
Brooke, Arthur. 1562. The Tragicall Historye of Romeus and Juliet. In: Geoffrey Bullough
(ed.). 1957. Narrative and Dramatic Sources of Shakespeare. Volume I. Early Comedies,
Poems, Romeo and Juliet. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 284–363.
Brooke, Nicholas. 1968. Shakespeare’s Early Tragedies. London: Methuen.
Brown, Roger, and Albert Gilman. 1989. Politeness theory and Shakespeare’s four major
tragedies. Language in Society 18, 159–212.
Bullough, Geoffrey (ed.). 1957. Narrative and Dramatic Sources of Shakespeare. Volume I. Early
Comedies, Poems, Romeo and Juliet. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul.
Callaghan, Dympna C. 1994. The ideology of romantic love: The case of Romeo and Juliet. In:
Dympna C. Callaghan, Lorraine Helms and Jyotsna Singh (eds.). The Weyward Sisters.
Shakespeare and Feminist Politics. Oxford: Blackwell, 59–101.
Colie, Rosalie L. 1974. Shakespeare’s Living Art. Princeton: Princeton University Press.
Cox, Virginia (ed.). 1994. Count Baldassare Castiglione: The Book of the Courtier. (First
published 1528. Translated by Sir Thomas Hoby 1552–1555, published 1561.
Everyman Library). London: Dent.
Finkenstaedt, Thomas. 1963. You and Thou: Studien zur Anrede im Englischen (mit einem
Exkurs zur Anrede im Deutschen). Berlin: de Gruyter.
Fox, John Howard (ed.). 1950. Robert de Blois: Son oeuvre didactique et narrative. Paris:
Nizet.
Fritz, Ulrike (ed. and trans.). 1999. Shakespeare: Romeo and Juliet / Romeo und Julia. (Englisch-
deutsche Studienausgabe). Tübingen: Stauffenburg.
Gibbons, Brian (ed.). 1980. The Arden Shakespeare: Romeo and Juliet. (Reprinted 1997.)
London: Nelson.
Greg, W. W. (ed.). 1949. Romeo and Juliet. Second Quarto, 1599. (Shakespeare Quarto
Facsimiles 6.) London: The Shakespeare Association and Sidgwickand Jackson.
Honegger, Thomas. 2005. Die Transformation der höfischen Liebe in Shakespeare’s Romeo
und Julia. Jenaer Universitätsreden 17, 201–217.
Leisi, Ernst. 1997. Problemwörter und Problemstellen in Shakespeares Dramen. Stauffenburg:
Stauffenburg.
Levenson, Jill L. (ed.). 2000. The Oxford Shakespeare: Romeo and Juliet. Oxford: Oxford
University Press.
Levin, Harry. 1960. Form and formality in Romeo and Juliet. Shakespeare Quarterly 11, 3–11.
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Kusses in der englischen Literatur. Literaturwissenschaftliches Jahrbuch 36, 315–337.
Neely, Carol Thomas. 1985. Broken Nuptials in Shakespeare’s Plays. New Haven and London:
Yale University Press.
Perella, Nicolas James. 1969. The Kiss Sacred and Profane. Berkeley and Los Angeles:
University of California Press.
Praetorius, Charles (ed.). 1886. Romeo and Juliet. The First Quarto, 1597. (A Facsimile from
the British Museum Copy C 34 k 55). London: Praetorius.
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Timon of Athens. Lanham, New York and London: University of America Press.
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Shakespeare Quarterly 40, 27–41.
D aryl W . P almer
Motion and Mercutio in Romeo and Juliet
There is nothing permanent that is not true, what can be true that
is uncertaine? How can that be certaine, that stands upon uncertain
grounds?1
I t is by now a commonplace in modern scholarship that drama, particu-

larly Tudor drama, poses questions, rehearses familiar debates, and even
speculates about mere possibilities.2 In 1954, Madeleine Doran spelled out
some of the ways in which debate “affected the structure of Elizabethan
drama.”3 In turn, Joel B. Altman, having eloquently extended Doran’s
examination, concludes that “the plays functioned as media of intellectual
and emotional exploration for minds that were accustomed to examine the
many sides of a given theme, to entertain opposing ideals, and by so exercis-
ing the understanding, to move toward some fuller apprehension of truth
that could be discerned only through the total action of the drama.”4 Alt-
man points to Henry Medwall’s Fulgens and Lucres (c. 1490) as an exemplar
of this practice. Although the interlude instructs and entertains, “the center
of interest has shifted from demonstration to inquiry. The action develops
not from an abstract assertion, but from a specific question: who is the
nobler man, Cornelius or Gaius?”5 By the time William Shakespeare began
to write his plays, inquiry was an essential part of dramatic construction. So
Juliet asks, “What’s in a name?”6 Hamlet opens with the question: “Who’s
Philosophy and Literature, Volume 30, Number 2 (October 2006): pp. 540–554. Copyright ©
2006 The Johns Hopkins University Press.
185
186 Daryl W. Palmer
there?” (1.1.1), and achieves a kind of apotheosis in the figure of its hero:
“To be, or not to be, that is the question . . .” (3.1.55). Everyone recognizes
these familiar questions, and we know (or think we know) how to describe
the most viable answers. I want to suggest, however, that this familiarity
has dulled our appreciation of the drama’s interrogative range. As a way of
resisting this tendency, I want to argue that Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet
takes up an ancient conversation about motion, a dialog that originates with
the pre-Socratics. This is not to say that the play is ultimately about motion.
It obviously engages a panoply of thematic materials. I have simply chosen,
in this limited space, to concentrate on the way the playwright stages his
questioning as a kind of fencing lesson. My goal is to produce neither a
“reading” of the play nor an allegory of philosophy, but rather to recollect the
ways in which Shakespeare’s drama qualifies and extends an ancient inter-
rogative tradition. In so doing, I follow Stanley Cavell who maintains “that
Shakespeare could not be who he is—the burden of the name of the great-
est writer in the language, the creature of the greatest ordering of English
—unless his writing is engaging the depth of the philosophical preoccupa-
tions of his culture.” 7
Some of the most venerable documents of Western philosophy fix on
the problem of motion. If we go back more than 2,300 years, we come upon
Plato’s Theaetetus, in which Socrates explains a “first principle” to the title
character, namely that “the universe really is motion and nothing else.”8 A
kind of history lesson in ontology and epistemology, this tentative explanation
has its origins in Heraclitus or Empedocles or Protagoras or some combina-
tion of the aforementioned. Perhaps the most famous expression of this ideal
comes from Heraclitus: “You cannot step twice into the same river, for other
waters and yet others go ever flowing on.”9 More to the point is the follow-
ing declaration from the same philosopher: “Everything flows and nothing
abides; everything gives way and nothing stays fixed.”10 In this spirit, Pro-
tagoras declares, “All matter is in a state of flux.”11 Such precedents provide
the backdrop for Socrates in the Theaetetus as he summarizes: “The point is
that all these things are, as we were saying, in motion, but there is a quickness
or slowness in their motion” (Thea, 156c). In this historical spirit, he identi-
fies “a tradition from the ancients, who hid their meaning from the common
herd in poetical figures, that Oceanus and Tethys, the source of all things, are
flowing streams and nothing is at rest” (Thea, 180d–e).
To be sure, the dialog depends on the rehearsal of such positions, but
far more important for our purpose is Plato’s attempt, through the figure of
Socrates, to grasp motion through dialog. More inclined toward Parmenides’
distrust of motion, Socrates has, from the outset, been setting up the terms of
inquiry in a form that anticipates the dramatic shape of the Renaissance play
by fixing the (ineffable) object of study so that it gives up its essence, its being.
Contemporary critics and philosophers will of course raise many objections

to this motive,12 and rightly so; but in the conversation I want to trace, the
motive endures dramatically. Plato even pays attention to character. From
the outset, Theaetetus marks himself as a green pupil, charming and polite.
The young fellow finds Socrates’ talk hard to follow. He becomes wary: “Real-
ly, I am not sure, Socrates. I cannot even make out about you, whether you
are stating this as something you believe or merely putting me to the test”
(Thea, 157c). As Shakespeare will always emphasize, character emerges out of
dialog. Human disposition inflects inquiry. Maturity affects analysis.
Assuming that every change is a “motion,” Socrates proceeds to con-
front his pupil with the difficult task of studying motion only in terms of
motion, change in terms of change. That which fixes undoes what we study,
but how difficult to adhere to such an injunction! Later in this dialog, The-
odorus complains of thinkers who attempt such a task: “Faithful to their own
treatises they are literally in perpetual motion; their capacity for staying still
to attend to an argument or a question or for a quiet interchange of question
and answer amounts to less than nothing . . .” (Thea, 179e–180a). According
to his plan, Plato is preparing his readers to admit that they can only have
knowledge of being. That which is ever becoming (something other) may be
perceived, but not known. Motion, if it can be probed at all, will register as
perception, not knowledge, a crucial distinction for what follows because lit-
erary scholarship often conflates perception and knowledge (Thea, 186e).13
This is not to say that Shakespeare read a given dialog by Plato as a
source the way he read Ovid. To approach the Renaissance is to encoun-
ter Plato in every nook and cranny. We know, in general, that early modern
thinkers read Plato, but his presence was more ubiquitous than simple cita-
tion would indicate.14 Paul F. Grendler explains that “The Renaissance drew
upon a centuries-old tradition whose roots went back to Plato’s Laws and
Republic, as well as Christian antiquity . . .”15 With more particular appli-
cation to Shakespeare’s world, Sears Jayne declares, “at no time during the
Renaissance were the English people ever limited, as the myth suggests, to a
single conception of Plato; rather, they knew about Plato from many different
sources, and entertained several different conceptions of his work.”16 Finally,
Melissa Lane describes the way the philosopher’s heirs have understood their
role in the conversation: Plato “was, after all, Aristotle’s teacher and a key
source for Ciceronian Rome and Augustinian Christianity. And this status
made him a magnet in the search for originality—both as the beginning and
as the inspired genius.”17
I take this “search” to be paradigmatic for subsequent centuries as it
pops up in learned books and busy streets, even among the rapiers and dag-
gers of Elizabethan London. As J. D. Aylward puts it in The English Master
of Arms, most Englishmen of the period wanted to associate themselves with
188 Daryl W. Palmer
the practice of swordplay.18 Theater audiences relished the expert fencing

of actors.19 London buzzed with talk of Continental fencing masters who
claimed followings in their schools and in print. To these masters, fencing
was both physical and mental, a palpable conflict and the basis for intellec-
tual dialog. Vincentio Saviolo illustrates this motive in his Practice (1595).
For Saviolo, combat comes down to discernment. He complains that “There
are many that when they come to fight, runne on headlong without discre-
tion.”20 In this same spirit, Giacomo Grassi warns his readers of the need
for judgment, noting that, “amongst divers disorderlie blowes, you might
have seen some of them most gallant lie bestowed, not without evident
conjecture of deepe judgment.”21 Disorder must be avoided; the point, in
other words, is to approach the physicality of combat through reason honed
by reading. George Silver, Saviolo’s main English competitor, remarked the
project’s difficulty by foregrounding motion: “The mind of man a greedie
hunter after truth, finding the seeming truth but chaunging, not alwayes
one, but alwayes diverse, forsakes the supposed, to find out the assured cer-
taintie: and searching every where save where it should, meetes with all save
what it would.”22 No Socrates, Silver nonetheless shares a certain skepticism
with the ancient philosopher.
More confidently than Silver, Saviolo pursues his inquiry in keen prose
carefully tied to illustrations. The combatants appear on a grid that suggests
geometric attention to their motion. The diagram, like the words in a dialog,
seems to stabilize motion and permit thoughtful evaluation. In this manner,
Saviolo scrutinizes the “cut.” An obviously dramatic maneuver, the cut adds a
thrilling sound to motion in ways that modern directors of action films take
for granted. An audience can easily appreciate a cut, and an opponent must
respect the obvious wound. Such satisfactions, however, cannot be the test of a
movement. In order to grasp this argument, the student will want to make the
motion answerable, fixing it in some manner, questioning it, and responding
to it. Saviolo does precisely this when he outlines the cut in a mathematical
diagram.23 With the aid of his illustration, the author explains the move’s
limited effectiveness, numbering positions so as to better fix the represented
motion. In the end, he concludes that the cut may satisfy the passions, but it
will not win the combat.
With this lesson and many others like it, Saviolo returns to his primary
theme, warning his reader about motion inspired by “e-motion.” Indeed, every-
thing in the treatise aims at distancing the pupil from his passions. Master
and pupil sit on a riverbank. Urging calm attention, this sage spokesman takes
advantage of the stillness to advocate deliberate attention to speed and slow-
ness. Not unlike Socrates, Vincent encourages his young pupil to “expounde
questions.”24
For some time now, scholars have recognized that Shakespeare and his
contemporaries were reading these manuals. Indeed, as Joan Ozark Holmer
explains, Saviolo’s “articulation of the ethic informing the truly honorable
duello . . . significantly illuminate[s] the tragic complexity of the fatal duels
in Romeo and Juliet.”25 What has not been fully appreciated is the way the
manuals’ emphasis on Platonic dialectic informs the practice of questioning at
the heart of Shakespeare’s great love story. Depending on the drama’s inquisi-
tive tradition, Shakespeare could center his love story on scenes of combat in
order to expound questions about motion because he knew that his principal
players were capable swordsmen.
Juliet wants to know what is in a name. Shakespeare, in writ-
ing Romeo and Juliet, might well have answered, motion. We know that
“Romeo” suggests the wandering pilgrim; but long before Shake-
speare, Plato emphasized the physics of such a name. In the Craty-
lus, Socrates muses about the letter “r,” suggesting that the great “im-
poser of names” used the letter “because, as I imagine, he had observed
that the tongue was most agitated and least at rest in the pronuncia-
tion of this letter, which he therefore used in order to express motion.
. . .”26 No mere allusion, the name Romeo demands that players agitate
their tongues so as to play a part in the main character’s motion. Moreover,
the rough “r” of Elizabethan speech would have heightened this effect.
There is, after all, no rest in Romeo, and so it makes sense that his cher-
ished friend is named Mercutio. As we have already noted, the Greeks
thought of any change as motion. Mercutio embodies that sense of the
word as he restlessly engages his friend’s sphere of activity, even threaten-
ing to displace Romeo as the play’s real interest.
All of this activity takes shape in the streets of Verona, where the play’s
initial questioning turns on the nobility of moving versus standing. Standing,
it turns out, is a kind of obsession in this play: the words “stand” and “stands”
occur some 30 times. Throughout the drama, the words signal a nexus of male
identity in combat, sexual arousal, and simple motionlessness. Sampson and
Gregory quickly announce the theme:
Gre.: I strike quickly, being mov’d.

Sam.: A dog of the house of Montague moves me.
Gre.: To move is to stir, and to be valiant is to stand; therefore, if
thou art mov’d, thou run’st away.
Sam.: A dog of that house shall move me to stand!
(1.1.6–11)
With breathtaking alacrity, Shakespeare initiates his tale of “star-cross’d

love” with a dialog devoted to motion. Gregory puts his faith in speed, and
190 Daryl W. Palmer
does not doubt that he can be moved to anger. Yet he willingly abandons this
formulation in order to sport with Samson’s expression of resolution. Does
motion or fixity define the valiant man? More clown than philosopher,
Samson chooses to stand even as he boasts of his desire for maidenheads:
Sam.: Me they shall feel while I am able to stand, and ‘tis known I
am a pretty piece of flesh.
Gre.: ’Tis well thou art not fish; if thou hadst, thou hadst been
poor-John. Draw thy tool, here comes [two] of the house of
Montagues.”
(1.1.28–32)
That all this talk of motion evolves inevitably into talk of manhood may
seem forced to a modern audience, and the playing of this translation on the
stage can easily elide the way that Gregory baits Samson through these stages
of “thought.” A pitiful imitation of Socrates, Gregory adopts that old Platonic
device of the dialog, but his instruction ends in an ambiguous validation of
“standing.” Because of the way it merges with male sexuality, this “proof ” be-
comes an integral part of the play’s deadly orchestrations.
Of course the real assay of this discourse in Romeo and Juliet (as in
Saviolo’s treatise) will demand “swords and bucklers” (1.1.1SD). For this rea-
son, Samson’s battle cry deserves attention: “Draw, if you be men. Gregory,
remember thy washing blow” (1.1.62–63). Primed by his partner, Samson
draws his “tool,” confident that he can determine his manhood by doing so.
The caesura concretizes the character’s recognition that his manhood is linked
to “washing blows” and other sorts of codified motion.
Such is the world inhabited by Romeo, Tybalt, and Mercutio, the main
interlocutors of the play. Extensions of Samson and Gregory, these young men
confound all attempts to tutor them. When Mercutio rhapsodizes of Queen
Mab, Romeo tries in vain to lead him home (1.4.95). For his part, Capulet
fruitlessly tries to teach Tybalt about hospitality (1.5.76–81). Benvolio fails
to lead Mercutio out of the hot day (3.1.1). This list goes on and on, leaving
Shakespeare’s audience with real doubts about the possibility of successful
pedagogy and utter suspicion of all attempts to make motion answerable.
At the play’s beginning, Romeo and the Friar seem to embody the
old Platonic model as they discuss Romeo’s new love on a “grey-ey’d morn”
(2.3.1). Romeo propounds his notions with an “early tongue” (32). In this
pastoral setting, the counselor challenges his young pupil’s passion with an
energy worthy of Socrates and Saviolo. Adopting the language of fencing
that already permeates the play, the Friar expresses a certain self-confidence
in his analytical abilities: “then here I hit it right— / Our Romeo hath
not been in bed to-night” (41–42). In early modern England, the study of
motion seems to hinge on being able to “hit it right.” Having done so, the Fri-
ar presses on: “And art thou chang’d? Pronounce this sentence then: / Women
may fall, when there’s no strength in men” (2.3.79–80). Galvanized by the
sudden appearance of Romeo’s change, the teacher wants to make the motion
answerable. He seizes on the passion with a question followed by a caesura,
indicating the instructor’s cogitation before he attempts to fix the phenomena
with a legalistic phrase: “Pronounce this sentence.” As in Saviolo’s dialog, this
pastoral pedagogy ends up being about “strength in men.”
As it did in Plato’s dialog, the scene also takes shape through the old
tension between youth and experience as the pupil attempts to come to terms
with motion: “O let us hence, I stand on sudden haste” (2.3.93). Romeo here
casts himself in a comic version of the manly debate between Gregory and
Samson. Shakespeare’s audience would have understood what Romeo meant,
but many probably laughed at the callow bawdy and the embedded contradic-
tion. Literally, Romeo insists on haste, but his “standing” would also suggest
an erection and/or a kind of standstill that frustrates haste. The typical pupil,
Romeo’s passion will frustrate his execution.
And what of the Friar? His wisdom fits neatly into the second line of
a couplet: “Wisely and slow, they stumble that run fast” (2.3.94). In his own
imperfect way, more Heraclitus than Socrates, Friar Lawrence tries to respond
to this turmoil by attending to the question of speed. He urges slowness, and
it remains his constant focus. A little later in the play, he insists on the due
and proper speed: “Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow” (2.5.15). To be sure,
the play’s critics have been divided over how they view the Friar’s sagacity,
but I think Socrates provides the perfect measure for his advice. Instead of
knowledge, the Friar deals in perception; and this focus has the ring of com-
mon sense even though it lacks knowledge. It is worth noting that praise for
Friar Lawrence’s mental faculties comes from the Nurse (3.3.160).
In the end, the Friar is so fearful of speed that he orchestrates standstill.
When faced with Romeo’s murder of Tybalt, he counsels waiting so “we can
find a time” (3.3.150). (One could contextualize the Friar’s taste for slow-
ness by pointing out that the fencing community endorsed it with its formal
requirements for a duel alla stoccata.) Sizing up the lover’s situation, he con-
cludes, “here stands all your state” (3.3.166). How appropriate then that his
plan for peace involves a vial of “distilling liquor” that will leave Juliet fixed, in
a state like death (4.1.95). Frightened by motion, the Friar’s passion for fixity
seems to poison the whole play. When Paris and Romeo each arrive at the
Capulet tomb, they tell their men to “stand” aloof (5.3.1; 5.3.26), and the two
lovers destroy each other. How ironic that the Friar, having discovered the
carnage, misreads the motionless forms and abandons the sleeping Juliet. The
Friar’s absurd reason flows through a single line: “Come go, good Juliet, I dare
no longer stay” (5.3.159). Unable to make motion answerable, the counselor
192 Daryl W. Palmer
is reduced to “Come go.” At the play’s end, he reckons his own part in the
action with these words: “here I stand both to impeach and purge / Myself ”
(5.3.226–227).
At the other end of the spectrum, Tybalt buzzes about the stage, all
motion and little scrutiny. Saviolo might have invoked Tybalt as the perfect
illustration of the fighter doomed by his own passions. When Benvolio would
part the contestants in the play’s first scene, Tybalt cries, “What, drawn and
talk of peace?” (1.1.66–67). The very presence of the sword and buckler in
his culture seems to truncate all dialog. Nowhere is this more apparent than
at the Capulet’s ball, when the host must rage in order to get his attention:
“What, goodman boy? I say he shall, go to! / Am I the master here or you?
Go to!” (1.5.77–78). In a culture of combat that revered the role of master,
Tybalt has no time for authority. When he announces that he goes “to speak
to them” at the beginning of 3.1, we know that he really seeks what Mercutio
offers, namely “a word and a blow” (3.1.40). The inherently bad pupil explains
that, for this, “You shall find me apt enough” (3.1.41).
Mercutio, by contrast, has more of the philosopher in him, and this as-
pect takes shape in terms of fencing. Unafraid of motion, he can, nonetheless,
step back and observe. In ways no other character in the play does, Mercutio
recollects knowledge; he understands numbers and technical terms. As the
Queen Mab speech brilliantly shows, he has the capacity to reflect on the
nature of motion and Shakespeare indulges him with impressive set speeches:
“Sometime she driveth o’er a soldier’s neck, / and then dreams he of cutting
foreign throats, / Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades” (1.4.82–84).
Whatever we make of Queen Mab, we may admit that she instantiates, for
Mercutio, a deadly dreaming realm of perception where passion leads men to
their doom. If the soldier gives into passion, we may lay the blame on Queen
Mab. Mercutio’s auditors cannot follow such a poetical lesson. “Peace,” Romeo
pleads, “peace, Mercutio, peace! / Thou talk’st of nothing” (1.4.95–96). We
may hear in this complaint (and not for the only time in the play) something
of Theaetetus: “Really, I am not sure, Socrates. I cannot even make out about
you, whether you are stating this as something you believe or merely putting
me to the test.” Whereas Romeo and Tybalt embody motion, Mercutio puts
motion to the test, but his pupils always fumble over the examination.
Nowhere are Mercutio’s aspirations on this score more apparent than in
2.4. The scene opens with Benvolio and Mercutio discussing the whereabouts
of Romeo, but it turns quickly into a fencing lesson. Mercutio expands on
his theme with Tybalt as his subject: “He fights as you sing prick-song, keeps
time, distance, and proportion; he rests his minim rests, one, two and the third
in your bosom: the very butcher of a silk button, a duellist, a duellist; a gentle-
man of the very first house, of the first and second cause. Ah, the immortal
passado, the punto reverso, the hay” (2.4.20–26). Mercutio offers a complex
lesson here, laden with technical vocabulary, real and invented. His reference
to “the very first house” identifies Tybalt with both a family and a school of
fencing. As though he were consulting Saviolo, Mercutio sets forth the terms
that always organized a critique of fencing, namely time, distance, and pro-
portion.27 Meanwhile, words such as “passado,” “punto reverso,” and “hay” give
the instructor the opportunity to demonstrate each technique, animating the
pictures Saviolo made popular. Mercutio even coins the term “duellist,” a feat
that suggests the teacher’s original mind. Yet for all of this learning and bra-
vado, Mercutio frames his lesson in the most thoughtful of ways by returning
to the Platonic concern “with due occasion, due time, due performance.”28 For
Plato, a life lived among perceptions would have to aim for the “right” time,
occasion, etc. Mercutio notes (rather enviously, I think) that Tybalt embod-
ies this attention, and so finds his point “in your bosom.” In ways a modern
audience will find difficult to follow in performance, Mercutio aims to dazzle
his auditor with a discourse as applicable to life as it is to fencing. A veri-
table Theaetetus, Benvolio tries to follow this brilliant account. He says, “The
what?” (2.4.27). A better teacher would listen to his pupil’s question, perhaps
pause to recollect the matter and begin anew. Mercutio merely presses on in
his pedagogical fury, halting only when he sees Romeo approach.
At this point, Mercutio spies a more intriguing pupil and commences
a history lesson: “Laura to his lady was a kitchen wench . . . Dido a dowdy,
Cleopatra a gipsy . . .” (39–41). When Romeo attempts to make an apology
for having missed his friends the night before, noting that “in such a case as
mine a man may strain courtesy,” Mercutio diagnoses Romeo’s strain: “That’s
as much as to say, such a case as yours constrains a man to bow in the hams”
(50–51, 52–53). Mercutio believes that Romeo has so indulged in amorous
motions that he can no longer perform the simple courtesy of a bow. Romeo
catches on, and Mercutio declares, “Thou hast most kindly hit it” (55). In ways
that Benvolio cannot manage, Romeo proceeds to take up this challenge; and
the two exchange verbal hits until Mercutio cries, “Come between us, good
Benvolio, my wits faints” (67–68). Romeo, for his part, demands more intense
motion: “Switch and spurs, switch and spurs—or I’ll cry a match” (69–70).
Brighter than Benvolio, Romeo knows how to play, but he lacks a certain
capacity for reflection. Mercutio, by contrast, has the prescience to embrace
motion and draw away in the same instant. “Nay,” he chides Romeo, “if our
wits run the wild-goose chase, I have done; for thou hast more of the wild
goose in one of thy wits than, I am sure, I have in my whole five” (71–74). In
this lively exchange, we come to understand Mercutio’s aspirations. Like the
Friar, Mercutio wants to be a kind of pedagogue. At the same time, he envies
Tybalt’s passion and remains too interested in the competition to drive his
point home. Mercutio wants to know if he has won the verbal duel: “Was
194 Daryl W. Palmer
I with you there for the goose?” (74). Like the Friar, Mercutio fails. Romeo
never learns his lesson.
In fact, Mercutio’s insights into motion were probably lost on the audi-
ence members as well. As Adolph L. Soens remarked some time ago, Mercutio,
who seems to fight by the Italian book after the English habit, identifies Ty-
balt with the “Spanish book of fence as mannered and artificial as that book
of poetics by which Romeo makes love and sonnets.”29 Soens argues convinc-
ingly that Shakespeare’s audience would have wanted to dislike Tybalt’s brave
manner even as they respected his technical expertise (Soens, p. 125). What
fascinates me about this set of identifications is less their relative accuracy
than their effectiveness in (apparently) fixing motion in ethnic stereotypes
for the Elizabethan audience. Silver announces this combative agenda in his
treatise when he complains that Englishmen “have lusted like men sicke of a
strange ague, after the strange vices and devises of Italian, French, and Span-
ish Fencers. . . .”30
To his credit, Soens avoids this trap and offers a stunning description of
motion that I quote at length in order to suggest a more formalistic apprecia-
tion for the way motion matters to Mercutio’s death. At the beginning of 3.1,
Shakespeare envisions a hot street that ensures motion. Soens explains:
The efficient and popular Italian fencing of Mercutio contrasts

in posture and motion, as well as implications with the formal,
deadly, and pedantic Spanish fencing of Princox (I.v.84) Tybalt.
Mercutio and Tybalt circle each other, Tybalt upright, his arm
outstretched, rapier and shoulder in a line, trying to keep his point
in Mercutio’s face; Mercutio, crouched in stoccata, holds his rapier
low, by his right knee, cocked back for a thrust. Both extend their
daggers toward the opponent to parry thrusts or to beat aside a
threatening rapier in preparation for a thrust.
Their motions contrast as effectively, though not so absolutely, as their

postures. Tybalt dances to and fro, attempting to evade his opponent,
to catch him off balance and to gain angular advantage, while Mercutio
moves with wider steps (and both move a great deal) and rushes in a series
of tangents to the circle whose radius is Tybalt’s outstretched rapier and
sword-arm. Mercutio, in other words, rushes rapidly in and out of distance,
hoping to catch Tybalt unprepared, and to throw a thrust from stoccata or
imbroccata (in which the sword is held, knuckles up, over the head) while
Tybalt is both off balance and within distance. Both parry with the dag-
ger as a rule, although stop thrusts combined with parries can be found
in both the Italian and Spanish manuals. The difference in styles suggests
the mechanics of Mercutio’s death. Mercutio takes his fatal thrust, not by
accident, but in a situation where the advantage is all with the Spanish
style . . . (Soens, p. 126).
In ways that no other scholar has done for this scene, Soens helps us to
grasp Mercutio’s death as a matter of contrasting motions. For Soens, this
difference is the point: Romeo’s intervention puts Mercutio’s fighting style at
a disadvantage. More compelling still is Romeo’s well-meaning yet clumsy at-
tempt to bring all this complex motion to a standstill in the name of “reason”
(3.1.62, 70). In Platonic terms, reason would be precisely what these men
need, but Romeo is talking about “reason” colloquially as “cause,” specifically
his marriage to Juliet (Holmer, p. 182). Romeo wants to stop the motion,
but lacks the reason to do so. For Holmer, this confrontation recalls Savio-
lo’s condemnation of ill-considered quarrels spurred on by fury (Holmer, pp.
181–185).
Just as important, I contend, is Saviolo’s pragmatic recognition that
some of the most compromised of motions, say combats between friends and
kin, do not permit analysis. For the teacher who longs for truth and justice
in quarreling, certain situations nonetheless demand an end to thought. In a
description that seems to anticipate the conflict in Romeo and Juliet, Saviolo
urges his pupil to abandon reflection:
consider that he which challengeth him, dooth not require to

fight with him as a freend, but as an enemye, and that he is not to
think any otherwise of his minde but as full of rancour and malice
towards him: wherefore when you see one with weapons in his
hand that will needs fight with you, although hee were your freend
or kinseman, take him for an enemy. . . . 31
Saviolo’s account neatly exposes Romeo’s error. Faced with such a predica-
ment, Romeo appeals to the “minde” and encourages Tybalt and Mercutio
“to think any otherwise,” contrary to Saviolo’s advice. As Holmer has noted
(Holmer, p. 174), Mercutio’s dying words come straight from Saviolo: “They
have made worms’ meat of me” (3.1.107). Only when it is too late does
Romeo grasp at the master’s injunction: “take him for an enemy.”
Even as Shakespeare offers his audience a veritable laboratory of fencing
mechanics and the geometric spectacle of Mercutio’s death, the playwright
spins out a mechanics of catastrophe that cannot satisfy the rational mind.
Romeo’s teacher sends “a friar with speed,” but the messenger arrives too
late (4.1.123). Romeo chooses “quick” drugs that enable him to die before
Friar Lawrence arrives and Juliet awakes. A moment too late, Friar Law-
rence exclaims, “how oft tonight / Have my old feet stumbled at graves!”
(5.3.121–122). In time to see that the “lady stirs,” the counselor determines
he can “no longer stay” (5.3.147, 59). If we step back from this action, I think
196 Daryl W. Palmer
we can describe this early tragedy anew: Shakespeare has created a work that
teases us with the possibility of making motion answerable. Who can watch
such motions and not demand an inquiry? Yet with Mercutio dead, who will
expound the questions?
For centuries, audiences have been mesmerized by the character that
inspired Coleridge to write the following encomium:
O! how shall I describe that exquisite ebullience and overflow of

youthful life, wafted on over the laughing waves of pleasure and
prosperity, as a wanton beauty that distorts the face on which she
knows her lover is gazing enraptured, and wrinkles her forehead in
the triumph of its smoothness! Wit ever wakeful, fancy busy and
procreative as an insect, courage, an easy mind that, without cares
of its own, is at once disposed to laugh away those of others, and
yet to be interested in them. . . . 32
Generations of readers have agreed with this appraisal, but what we have
failed to appreciate is the pedagogical (and therefore interrogative) motive
behind all this “exquisite ebullience.” When Plato bequeathed his brilliant
dialogs to posterity, he left behind more than questioning: the philosopher
left us with the idea of the brilliant teacher whose radiance would always
authenticate the asking. This is precisely the role Socrates gives to himself
in the Theaetetus: “And the highest point of my art is the power to prove
by every test whether the offspring of a young man’s thought is a false
phantom or instinct with life and truth” (Thea, 150c). For a dramatist like
Shakespeare, the old conversation about motion must have held all sorts of
attractions, but the implications for character must have been tantalizing.
Aspiring to both embody motion and test it, Mercutio longs to be the young
man’s guide: he is the obvious product of Shakespeare’s musing over motion,
on the page, on the stage. Although his lessons never approach the rigor of
Socrates, his “wit ever wakeful” energizes audiences with ambitions worthy
of the ancient Greeks. Were we able to make motion answerable, we would
be very close to the origins of life itself. Mercutio aspires in this direction.
Perhaps Romeo and Juliet feels so profound because we experience this aspi-
ration and mourn its failure.
No t e s
1. George Silver, Paradoxes of Defence (London, 1599), A3r, v.

2. The author would like to thank Jose Ramón Díaz-Fernández and Peter S.
Donaldson for organizing A Boundless Sea: Shakespeare’s Mediterranean on Film at the
Seventh World Shakespeare Congress in Valencia, Spain, where the initial version
of this essay was presented. And special thanks to my colleague in philosophy Alan
Hart for his wise reading of the work in progress.
3. Madeleine Doran, Endeavors of Art (Madison: University of Wisconsin
Press, 1954), p. 312.
4. Joel B. Altman, The Tudor Play of Mind (Berkeley: University of California
Press, 1978), p. 6.
5. Altman, The Tudor Play of Mind, p. 21.
6. William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, The Riverside Shakespeare, 2nd ed.,
ed. G. Blakemore Evans (New York: Houghton Mifflin, 1997), 2.2.43.
7. Stanley Cavell, Disowning Knowledge, updated ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2003), p. 2.
8. Plato, Theaetetus, The Collected Dialogues of Plato, ed. Edith Hamilton and
Huntington Cairns (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1961), 156a; hereafter
abbreviated Thea.
9. Heraclitus, The Presocratics, ed. Philip Wheelwright (New York: Odyssey
Press, 1966), p. 71.
10. Heraclitus, The Presocratics, p. 70.
11. Protagoras, The Presocratics, p. 239.
12. See, for instance, Jacques Derrida, Disseminations, trans. Barbara Johnson
(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1981), pp. 65–84.
13. On this fundamental distinction between perception and knowledge, see
Gail J. Fine, “Knowledge and LOGOS in the Theaetetus,” Philosophical Review 88
(1979): 366–397.
14. Paul Oskar Kristeller, “Humanism,” The Cambridge History of Renaissance
Philosophy, ed. Charles B. Schmitt, et al. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1988), p. 129.
15. Paul F. Grendler, “Printing and Censorship,” The Cambridge History of
Renaissance Philosophy, p. 42.
16. Sears Jayne, Plato in Renaissance England (Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic
Publishers, 1995), p. xiii.
17. Melissa Lane, Plato’s Progeny (London: Duckworth, 2001), p. 9.
18. J. D. Aylward, The English Master of Arms (London: Routledge & Kegan
Paul, 1956), pp. 17–31.
19. Andrew Gurr, The Shakespearean Stage 1574–1642, 3rd ed. (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1992), p. 4.
20. Vincentio Saviolo, Vincentio Saviolo His Practice (London, 1595), I4r.
21. Giacomo Grassi, DiGrassi His True Arte of Defence, trans. Thomas
Churchyard (London, 1594), A2r.
22. Silver, Paradoxes of Defence, A3v.
23. Aylward, The English Master of Arms, p. 58.
24. Saviolo, Vincentio Saviolo His Practice, B4v.
25. Joan Ozark Holmer, “‘Draw, if you be Men’: Saviolo’s Significance for
Romeo and Juliet,” Shakespeare Quarterly 45 (1994): 163; hereafter abbreviated
Holmer.
26. Plato, Cratylus, 426 d, e.
27. On Mercutio’s “debt” to Saviolo, see Holmer, p. 173.
28. Plato, Statesman, 284e.
29. Adolph L. Soens, “Tybalt’s Spanish Fencing in Romeo and Juliet,”
Shakespeare Quarterly 20 (1969): 121, 123–125; hereafter abbreviated Soens.
198 Daryl W. Palmer
30. Silver, Paradoxes of Defence, A4v.

31. Saviolo, Vincentio Saviolo His Practice, E2r, v. On Saviolo’s recommendation
not to part combatants, see Holmer, p. 183.
32. Samuel Taylor Coleridge, The Romantics on Shakespeare, ed. Jonathan Bate
(London: Penguin, 1992), p. 515.
Chronology
1564 William Shakespeare christened at Stratford-on-Avon on

April 26.
1582 Marries Anne Hathaway in November.
1583 Daughter Susanna born, baptized on May 26.
1585 Twins Hamnet and Judith born, baptized on February 2.
1587 Shakespeare goes to London, without family.
1589–1590 Henry VI, Part One.
1590–1591 Henry VI, Part Two; Henry VI, Part Three.
1592–1593 Richard III; The Two Gentlemen of Verona.
1592–1593 Publication of Venus and Adonis, dedicated to the Earl of
Southampton; The Sonnets probably begun.
1593 The Comedy of Errors.
1593–1594 Publication of The Rape of Lucrece, also dedicated to the Earl
of Southampton; Titus Andronicus; The Taming of the Shrew.
1594–1595 Love’s Labour’s Lost; King John; Richard II.
1595–1596 Romeo and Juliet; A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
1596 Son Hamnet dies; a coat of arms granted to Shakespeare’s
father, John.
199
200 Chronology
1596–1597 The Merchant of Venice; Henry IV, Part One; purchases New
Place in Stratford.
1597–1598 The Merry Wives of Windsor; Henry IV Part Two.
1598–1599 Much Ado About Nothing.
1599 Henry V; Julius Cesar; As You Like It.
1600–1601 Hamlet.
1601 The Phoenix and the Turtle; Shakespeare’s father dies.
1601–1602 Twelfth Night; Troilus and Cressida.
1602–1603 All’s Well That Ends Well.
1603 Death of Queen Elizabeth; James VI of Scotland becomes
James I of England; Shakespeare’s Company becomes the
King’s Men.
1604 Measure for Measure; Othello.
1605 King Lear.
1606 Macbeth; Antony and Cleopatra.
1607 Marriage of daughter Susanna on June 5.
1607–1608 Coriolanus; Timon of Athens; Pericles.
1608 Death of Shakespeare’s mother.
1609 Publication, probably unauthorized, of the quarto edition of
the Sonnets.
1609–1610 Cymbeline.
1610–1611 The Winter’s Tale.
1611 The Tempest; Shakespeare returns to Stratford, where he
will live until his death.
1612 A Funeral Elegy.
1612–1613 Henry VIII; The Globe Theatre destroyed by fire.
1613 The Two Noble Kinsmen (with John Fletcher).
1616 Marriage of daughter Judith on February 10; Shakespeare
dies on April 23.
1623 Publication of the First Folio edition of Shakespeare’s
plays.
Contributors
HAROLD BLOOM is Sterling Professor of the Humanities at Yale Uni-

versity. He is the author of 30 books, including Shelley’s Mythmaking (1959),
The Visionary Company (1961), Blake’s Apocalypse (1963), Yeats (1970), A Map
of Misreading (1975), Kabbalah and Criticism (1975), Agon: Toward a Theory of
Revisionism (1982), The American Religion (1992), The Western Canon (1994),
and Omens of Millennium: The Gnosis of Angels, Dreams, and Resurrection
(1996). The Anxiety of Influence (1973) sets forth Professor Bloom’s provoca-
tive theory of the literary relationships between the great writers and their
predecessors. His most recent books include Shakespeare: The Invention of the
Human (1998), a 1998 National Book Award finalist; How to Read and Why
(2000); Genius: A Mosaic of One Hundred Exemplary Creative Minds (2002);
Hamlet: Poem Unlimited (2003); Where Shall Wisdom Be Found? (2004);
and Jesus and Yahweh: The Names Divine (2005). In 1999, Professor Bloom
received the prestigious American Academy of Arts and Letters Gold Medal
for Criticism. He has also received the International Prize of Catalonia, the
Alfonso Reyes Prize of Mexico, and the Hans Christian Andersen Bicenten-
nial Prize of Denmark.
Norman F. Blake is a research professor in the English depart-

ment and Centre for Technology and the Arts at De Montfort University,
Leicester, U.K. He has published widely, focusing on Chaucer, especially the
Canterbury Tales Project, William Caxton and the relation of printing to
the development of standard English, and the language of Shakespeare. His
recent books include A History of the English Language (1996) and A Grammar
of Shakespeare’s Language (2002).
201
202 Contributors
Tanya Pollard is associate professor of English at Brooklyn College.

She wrote Drugs and Theater in Early Modern England (2005) and edited
Shakespeare’s Theater: A Sourcebook (2003).
David Salter is lecturer in English literature at the University of

Edinburgh. He wrote Holy and Noble Beasts: Encounters with Animals in
Medieval Literature (2001).
William m. McKim is a retired professor of English at Northern

Kentucky University. He has written articles on Shakespeare; Spenser; Base-
ball, Religion, and American Culture; and the poetics of aging.
Robert N. Watson is former chair of the department of English and

chair of the faculty of the University of California at Los Angeles College of
Letters and Science, and is now associate vice-provost for Educational Inno-
vation. His books include Shakespeare and the Hazards of Ambition (1984),
Ben Jonson’s Parodic Strategy: Literary Imperialism in the Comedies (1987), Back
to Nature, The Rest Is Silence: Death as Annihilation in the English Renaissance
(1995), and The Green and the Real in the Late Renaissance (2006).
Stephen Dickey is senior lecturer in English at UCLA. He has writ-

ten articles on Elizabethan drama.
Jennifer A. Low is associate professor of English at Florida Atlantic

University. She wrote Manhood and the Duel: Masculinity in Early Modern
Drama and Culture (2003).
Lina Perkins Wilder is assistant professor of English at Con-

necticut College, where she teaches courses on Shakespeare, Milton, and the
“early modern” period of English literature.
Thomas Honegger is professor of English philology with special

consideration of medieval studies at Freidrich-Schiller-Universität-Jena,
Germany. He has written From Phoenix To Chauntecleer: Medieval English
Animal Poetry (1996) and has edited books both on medieval language and
literature and on Tolkein.
Daryl W. Palmer is associate professor of English at Regis Univer-

sity. He is the author of Hospitable Performances: Dramatic Genre and Cultural
Practices in Early Modern England (1992) and Writing Russia in the Age of
Shakespeare (2004).
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Index
Actaeon, 92 Athlone Press, 5

Actium, 44 Austria
Adam (character), 14, 84 Vienna, 71
Adonis (character), 6 Aylward, J. D., 187
Aeneas (character), 95–96, 109
Agamemnon (character), 104 Bain, A. D., 127
Agrippa (character), 43 Bal, Mieke, 111
Aguecheek, Sir Andrew (character), Bale, John, 62
20 Balthasar (character), 106
“Air and Angels,” 110 Bandello, Matteo, 64, 68
Alberto, Frate (character), 63 Barabas (character), 37
Alchemist, The, 107 Barnes, Barnabe, 93
All’s Well That Ends Well, 24 Barrough, Philip, 38
Altman, Joel B., 185 Bartholomew Fair, 92, 107
A Midsummer Night’s Dream, 39, Bassianus (character), 103
100, 104, 112 Beatrice (character), 93
Angelo (character), 26, 70–71 Belsey, Catherine, 125–126, 140
Anglican Church, 59 Bembo, Peter (character), 171
Annabella (character), 128–129, Benvolio (character), 30, 82, 172,
131–133 190, 192–193
Antony, Marc (character), 16, 41, Bergetto (character), 130
43–48, 129, 162 Berowne (character), 84
Antony and Cleopatra, 29, 41, 49, 129 Bevington, David, 39
Appelbaum, Robert, 108 Bibliopola, 154
Appenine Mountains, 63 Blackfriars, 122
Aristotle, 30 Bloom, Molly (character), 113
Armado (character), 20, 25 Boccaccio, 63
Ars Amatoria, 94 Bolzoni, Lina, 149, 151
Artaudian Theatre of Cruelty, 133 Book of the Courtier, The, 169, 179
As You Like It, 14, 24, 87 Böschenbröker, Rita, 180
Atheist’s Tragedie, The, 104 Bottom (character), 21, 100
209
210 Index
Bourdieu, Pierre, 128 Chapman, George, 122

Bovicida, 154 Chappuis, Gabriel, 162
Bright, Timothy, 38 Charmian (character), 48
Brockbank, Philip, 136 Chaucer, Geoffrey, 55–56, 112
Brooke, Arthur, 64, 66, 92, 95, 98, Chettle, Henry, 103
101, 104–105, 169, 171, 173, 178 Chettle, Thomas, 7
Brooke, Nicholas, 179 Chorus, 37, 152
Bullein’s Bulwarke of Defence, 38 Christ, Jesus, 22, 60
Bullough, Geoffrey, 66, 69 Cibber, Theophilus, 104
Bussy D’Ambois, 121, 124 Clarence (character), 20
Claudio (character), 26, 68–69, 71
Caesar (character), 43, 45, 48 Cleopatra (character), 16, 41–48,
Caliban (character), 40, 112, 148, 148, 153, 162, 193
153, 162 Clifford (character), 16
Callaghan, Dympna C., 173 Cloten (character), 11
Callisto (character), 93 Clown (character), 20
Cambridge University, 56 Coke, Edward, 93
Camillo, Giulio, 149, 151, 162 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 83
Campaspe, 100 Combat of Love and Friendship, The,
Campbell, Joseph, 68 103
Canterbury Tales, The, 21 Continuum Books, 5
Capelletti family, 64 Corin (character), 24
Capuchin Order, 62 Corinth, 10
Capulet family (characters), 64, 79, Coriolanus, 24, 136, 139
92, 99, 124, 169 Costard (character), 17
Capulet, Lady (character), 82, 154 Cratylus, 189
Capulet, Lord (character), 102–104 Cressida (character), 109
Capulet, Old (character), 26 Cydnus, 43–44, 48, 148, 153
ball, 83, 101, 192 Cymbeline (character), 11
tomb, 106, 191 Cymbeline, 38, 100
Carew, Thomas, 102
Carlyle, Thomas, 59 D’Ambois, Bussy (character), 121–
Carpenter, C. R., 127 122
Carruthers, Mary J., 149, 154, 159 Danae (character), 93
Casey, Edward S., 139 Day, John, 38
Castiglione, Baldassare, 169, 179 Decameron, 63
Castle of Perseverance, The, 125 De Flores (character), 93
Catholic Church, 22, 55, 58, 66–67, Deianeira (character), 46
72 Dekker (character), 22
Catholicism, 55–72 Dekker, Thomas, 38
Cavell, Stanley, 186 Demeter, 102
Celestial Worlds, The, 162 Derrida, Jacques, 30
Changeling, The, 93, 107 Descartes, Rene, 126
Index 211
Diana, 92 Eve (character), 84

Dido (character), 96, 104, 109 “Eve of St. Agnes, The,” 100
Diehl, Huston, 140
Diomedes (character), 46 Fabian (character), 25
Dis (character), 84, 106 Falstaff (character), 18–19, 148, 162
Doctor Faustus, 62, 93 Faustus (character), 62
Dogberry (character), 8, 20 female genitalia, 124
Dolabella (character), 46 fencing, 95, 188
Donne, John, 110, 129, 132 Ferdinand (character), 101
Doran, Madeleine, 185 Fernando, 107
Dream of Innocent III, The (fresco), Feste (character), 20
60 Fleet Street, 57
Duchess of Malfi, The, 140 Fleire, The, 38
Duke of Austria (character), 18 Florizel (character), 101
Du Laurens, André, 38 Fludd, Robert, 149, 151
Duncan (character), 40 Ford, John, 107, 128–129, 132
Dunk, Eleazer, 38 Ford, Mr. (character), 18
Dunsinane, 23 Fortune Theater, 134
Foxe, John, 57
earthquake, 154, 159 France, 17
Ecclesiastical History, 57 Francesco, Duke of Florence
Edgar (character), 25 (character), 62
Egypt, 41, 43–44, 46 Francis, Friar (character), 68, 70–72
Franciscan Order, 55, 57, 59–62, 66,
“Elinda’s Glove,” 94
71–72
Elizabethan period, 5, 23
Francis of Assisi, 63
Emilia (character), 18
Freud, Sigmund, 95, 124
Empedocles, 186
Frye, Northrop, 68, 70, 80
England, 55 Fulgens and Lucres, 185
Lancashire, 59 Fulwood, William, 154
London, 58, 150, 177, 187 Fumerton, Patricia, 130
pharmacy in, 30
England’s Mourning Garment, 103
Gabriel, Angel (character), 63
English Master of Arms, The, 187 Gadshill (character), 25
English Reformation, 57 Garber, Marjorie, 36
Enobarbus (character), 16, 43–44, Gaskell, Philip, 7
148 Giotto, 60
Epicoene, 92 Giovanni (character), 129, 130–133
Erasmus of Rotterdam, 151, 162 Giulietta (character), 64
Euripides (character), 104 Globe Theater, 134, 152
Europa (character), 93 Gloucester (character), 17
Eurydice (character), 84 Gospels, 60
Evan (character), 26 Gosson, Stephen, 41, 133, 135
212 Index
Gower, John, 56 Horatio, Count (character), 38, 82

Grace, Dominick, 157 Hostess (character), 24
Grassi, Giacomo, 188 Hotspur (character), 9
Gravedigger (character), 25 Hotspur, Lady (character), 25
Gray’s Inn, 57 Houghton family, 59
Greenblatt, Stephen, 84, 159 Hugh of St. Victor (character), 155
Gregory (character), 81, 189–191 Hunter, G. K., 79
Grendler, Paul F., 187 Huston, Hollis, 127
Grimaldi (character), 130
Grumio (character), 16, 20
Imogen (character), 100
Guise (character), 121
informal English, 5–26
Gurr, Andrew, 136
Inner Temple, 57
Innocent III (pope), 60, 62
Hades, 91, 101–103, 105, 109, 111 Inns of Court, 57
Hal, Prince (character), 9–11, 20 Instruction of a Christen Woman, The,
Hall, Edward T., 127–128, 134 160
Hall, John, 39 Iphigenia at Aulis, 104
Hamlet (character), 16, 18, 25, 40, Isabella (character), 26, 71, 112
82, 109, 148, 153, 162 Italy, 103
Hamlet, 7, 17, 25, 153, 185 Corioles, 136
Hattaway, Michael, 15 Mantua, 156
hedonism, 41 Umbria, 63
Helen of Troy (character), 24, 104, Venice, 63
Verona, 64, 82, 123, 170, 177, 189
109
Helena (character), 39
Heminge and Cordell, 6 Jachimo (character), 100
Henry IV (character), 26 Jack Upland, 57
Henry IV, 148 Jacobean period, 5
Jagendorf, Zvi, 137
Henry V, 112, 148
James I (English king), 23
Henry VI (character), 17
Jessica (character), 109
Heraclitus, 186, 191
Jew of Malta, 38
Hercules, 46
John, Don (character), 38
Hermes, 103 John, Friar (character), 64
“Her Muff,” 94 Jonson, Ben, 92, 107
Hero (character), 68–69 Jove (character), 93
“Hero as Poet, The,” 59 Joyce, James, 113
Heroinæ, The, 104 Juliet (character), 31–32, 34–37, 40,
Heroycall Epistles of . . . Publius 42–43, 46, 48, 69, 71, 79, 82–
Ovidius Naso, The, 105 85, 87, 91–92, 94, 96, 98–101,
History of King Lear, The, 7, 17, 163 103–106, 108–110, 112, 121, 123,
Holmer, Joan Ozark, 189 147, 153, 160–161, 169–180, 185,
Holofernes (Character), 25 191, 195
Index 213
Katharine (character), 112 Mab, Queen (character), 36, 190

Keats, John, 100 Macbeth (character), 23
Kemble, Charles, 104 Macbeth, Lady (character), 40
King’s Men, 137 Macbeth, 133, 162
“Knight’s Tale, The,” 112 Madeline (character), 100
Mad Tom (character), 25
Lammas Eve, 154 Maecenas (character), 43
Lane, Melissa, 187 Mahood, M. M., 37, 79
Lartius, Titus (character), 138–139 mandragora, 42, 46
La sfortunata morte di dui infelicissimi mandrake, 35, 42
amanti, 64 Marcus (character), 100
Laura (character), 193 Margaret, Queen (character), 17
Lavatch (character), 24 Mariana (character), 71
Lavinia (character), 100, 103, 110, Marlowe, Christopher, 37, 62, 64, 93
112 Marshall, Cynthia, 127, 162
Lawrence, Friar (character), 31, Marston, John, 107
34–36, 39, 41, 64, 66–72, 84, 95, Martius, Caius (character), 106,
101, 106, 108–109, 121, 124, 131, 136–139
152, 157–158, 190–191, 195 Master of the Revels, 7
Laws (Plato), 187 Match Me in London, 38
Law Tricks, 38 Maus, Katharine, 131
Lear, King (character), 17 Mead, Robert, 103
Lefebvre, Henri, 126 Measure for Measure, 9, 56, 58, 60,
Leontes (character), 109
70–72, 112
Lepidus (character), 43
Medwall, Henry, 185
Lethe, 43, 45
Melesippus (character), 103
Levenson, Jill L., 152
Memory, 147
Life of Chaucer, 55, 59
theater, 147–162
Life of Marc Antonie, 45
Menas (character), 16
Lincoln’s Inn, 57
Lodowick, Friar (character), 71–72 Menenius (character), 24, 137
Lord Chamberlain’s Men, 122 Menocrates (character), 44
Lorenzo, Frate (character), 64, 96, Merchant of Venice, The, 96, 106, 109
109 Mercutio (character), 10–13, 20, 30,
love, 169 35, 79, 82–83, 92, 95, 158, 172,
Lovelace, Richard, 94 189–190, 192–196
Love’s Labours Lost, 19 Merry Wives of Windsor, The, 8, 18
Love’s sacrifice, 107 Messenger (character), 23
Lucio (character), 9 Metamorphoses, 100
Lucrece (character), 93, 101, 104, Middle Temple, 57
107, 109–112 Middleton, Thomas, 8, 107
Lurdo, Count (character), 38 “Miller’s Tale, The,” 21
Lyly, John, 100 Milton, John, 59, 62, 84, 110
Lysander (character), 39 Miranda (character), 112, 148, 162
214 Index
Moll (character), 94 Paradise Lost, 110

Monsieur (character), 121 Paré, Ambroise, 39
Montague family (characters), 64, Paris, 36, 69, 91, 103–107, 109–110,
79, 172 191
Montague-Capulet feud, 81 Paris (character), 122
Montecchi family, 64 Parmenides, 186
Montsurry (character), 122 Parthenophil (character), 93
More, Thomas, 7 Paster, Gail Kern, 126
Moth (character), 20 Penny-Dub (character), 94
Mousetrap, 153 Pericles (character), 9
Much Ado About Nothing, 56, 58, 60, Pericles, 8–9
68, 71 Persephone, 101, 103–104, 106, 109
Munday, Anthony, 7 Peter of Ravenna, 150
Petrarch, 82, 110
narcotics, 41 Petrarchism, 170
Nerissa (character), 16 Petruccio (character), 16, 20, 22
Newman, John Henry, 59 Philomel (character), 100–101, 109
North, Thomas, 45 Phlegethon, 102
Novy, Marianne, 79 Phoebe (character), 112
Nurse (character), 12, 20, 22, 94–95, Phoebus, 102
101, 112, 152–153, 159–161 Pistol (character), 21, 24–25
Nym (character), 8, 21 plague, 38
Plato, 30, 159, 186, 191, 193, 196
Oceanus, 186 Platonism, 82
Ophelia (character), 18, 22, 25 Playes Confuted in Five Actions, 133
opium, 38 Plowman’s Tale, The, 57
orchard scene, 169–180 Plutarch, 45, 47
Order of St Francis, see also poetry, 30
Franciscan Order, 62 Poins (character), 20
Orlando (character), 14 Poisons, 29–49
Orpheus (character), 84 Polonius (character), 16, 24
Othello, 29, 95, 162 Pompey (character), 43–45
Ovid, 94, 100, 106 poppy, 38
Oxford collected edition, 7 Porphyro (character), 100
Oxford English Dictionary, 5, 14, 18, Portia (character), 16
21, 23 Porto, Luigi da, 64
Oxford University, 56 Practice (Saviolo), 188
Priam (character), 104
Page, Mr. (character), 18 Princess of France (character), 19
Page, Mrs. (character), 10 Procne (character), 100
Pandarus (character), 24 Production de l’espace, 126
Papacy, 61 Proserpine (character), 84
Paracelsus, 32, 38 Prospero (character), 40, 148
Index 215
Protagoras, 186 Ruffel (character), 38

Protestantism, 59 Rutland (character), 16
Prynne, William, 40
psychomachia, 124 Sabine women
Puritan, The, 94 rape of, 101
Putana (character), 130 Salutati, Coluccio, 111
Puttenham, George, 125 Sampson (character), 80, 99
Pyramus (character), 40, 109 Samson, 190–191
Saviolo, Vincentio, 188, 190, 192, 195
Queen Mab speech, 83, 192 Scarus (character), 44
Quickly, Mrs. (character), 8, 19, 21 Sebastian (character), 103
Second Murderer (character), 20
racism, 112 Seneca, 162
rape, 91–113 sexuality, 104
Rape of Lucrece, The, 98, 101, 104, Shallow, Justice (character), 148,
112, 132 153, 162
“Rapture, The,” 102 Sharpham, Edward, 38
Reformation, 62 Shylock (character), 16
Regan (character), 17 Sidney, Philip, 83, 129, 132
Renaissance, 35, 40, 92, 95, 111, Silver, George, 188
126, 187 Silvius (character), 112
greetings, 171 Sir Thomas More, 7
Republic, The (Plato), 30, 187 sisterhood of St Clare, 71
Richard II (English king), 56 Slender (character), 18
Richard the Third, 20 Sly, Christopher (character), 25, 40
Rivers, George, 104 Smith, Bruce, 134
Riverside Shakespeare, 7 Snow, Edward, 85, 108
Robin (character), 10 Socrates, 186, 188–190, 196
Romans, 138 Soens, Adolph L., 194
Romberch, Johannes, 150, 154 Sonnet 63 (Barnes), 93
Rome, 41, 44, 46–47, 60–62, 101 Sonnets, 6
Romeo (character), 30, 32–33, 35– Sophonisba, 107
37, 40, 43, 46, 48, 64, 69, 91–96, Soranzo (character), 129
98–101, 103, 106–107, 109–111, Spanish Tragedy, The, 103
121, 123, 147, 149, 152–155, 157– Sparke (character), 38
158, 160, 162, 169–180, 189–193, Speght, Thomas, 55, 57–59
195 Spencer, T. J. B., 158
death of, 79–87 Spenser, Edmund, 59
Romeus (character), 105 Spevacks, 7
Rosalind, 82–83, 87 Spit, Nan (character), 93
Rosaline (character), 30, 92, 95, 170, St. Paul’s, 122
175 Stern, Tiffany, 148, 152
216 Index
Stubbes, Phillip, 134–135 Ubersfeld, Anne, 123

Subject of Tragedy, The, 140 Upper Church of San Francesco
suicide, 48, 121 (Assisi), 60
Sutton, John, 149, 152
Swift, Jonathan, 19 Valasco, Don (character), 38
syphilis, 38 Valeria (character), 137
Vasques (character), 130
Taming of the Shrew, The, 22, 40 Venus, 106
Tamyra (character), 122, 124 Venus and Adonis, 6
Tarquin (character), 91, 93, 100, Vespasian, 121
108–109, 111 Vincentio, Duke (character), 70
Tempest, The, 9, 101, 148 Virgilia (character), 137
Tereus (character), 91, 100, 108, 110 Vives, Juan Luis, 160
Tethys, 186 Volpone, 107
Theaetetus (character), 187, 192–193 Volsces, 138
Theaetetus, 186, 196 Volumnia (character), 138
Theseus, 95, 104 voyeurism, 92
Thidias (character), 43
Thisbe (character), 39, 109 Wall, Wendy, 160
’Tis Pity She’s a Whore, 107, 128, 133, Webster, John, 62, 64, 103
137 Weimann, Robert, 135
Titania (character), 100 Wells, Robin, 172
Titus Andronicus, 100, 103, 106, 112
Whetstone, George, 63–64
Toby, Sir (character), 25
White Devil, The, 62
Touchstone (character), 24
Whittier, Gayle, 177
Tourneur, Cyril, 103
Willis, John, 149–150
Tragicall Historye of Romeus and
Winter’s Tale, The, 20, 101
Juliet, The, 64, 67, 92, 105, 169
Women Beware Women, 107
Trinculo (character), 9
Worcester (character), 26
Troilus (character), 109
Works (Chaucer), 55
Troilus and Cressida, 24, 104
Tuan, Yi-Fu, 127
Turberville, George, 105 Yates, Frances, 149, 151
Two Noble Kinsmen, The, 8, 112 Yorick (character), 148, 153
Tybalt (character), 26, 33, 81–82, 95,
100, 110, 190–192, 194–195 Ziegler, Georgiana, 132

(2009) Bloom's Modern Critical Interpretations - William Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet

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Bloom’s Modern Critical Interpretations

The Adventures of The Grapes of Wrath Portnoy’s Complaint

Edited and with an introduction by

Copyright ©2009 by Infobase Publishing

Introduction ©2009 by Harold Bloom

Bloom’s Literary Criticism

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Cover design by Alicia Post

Printed in the United States of America

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Editor’s Note vii

On Shakespeare’s Informal Language 5

“A Thing Like Death”: Sleeping Potions and Poisons

Shakespeare and Catholicism:

Romeo’s “Death-markt” Imagination

Wherefore Art Thou Tereu?

“Bodied Forth”: Spectator, Stage,

Toward a Shakespearean “Memory Theater”:

“Wouldst thou withdraw love’s faithful vow?”:

Motion and Mercutio in Romeo and Juliet 185

My introduction briefly analyzes the drama’s four crucial personages: Juliet,

Wil l i a m Sh a k e spe a r e’s R o m e o and Ju l i e t

Harold C. Goddard, in his The Meaning of Shakespeare (1951), remarked

And yet I wish but for the thing I have.

Contrast that with Mercutio at his usual bawdry:

If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark.

On Shakespeare’s Informal Language*

W hen asked to compile a dictionary of Shakespeare’s informal English

although all dictionaries have fuzzy boundaries, topic-based dictionaries

2. The data for a dictionary of Shakespeare’s informal English

(1) What recketh he his riders angrie sturre,

3. Different varieties of Early Modern English

(2) They take it already vpon their confidence that though I be

(3) Not yours, in good sooth?

We might, in reference to quotation (3), have assumed that all oaths or

Modern affectations are contrasted with old-fashioned values, which are

jocularly or scornfully and are to that extent common in an informal context,

4. The different types of Shakespeare’s informal English

(6) but if thou diest

Although Adam says nothing in response to Orlando’s care of him, Orlando

(7) As I remember Adam, it was vpon this fashion bequeathed

In the foregoing discussion some differences between Q1 and F in quo-

borrowed as part of the informal vocabulary, but some do end up as part of

Green, Jonathon. 1998. Cassell’s Dictionary of Slang. London: Cassell.

“A Thing Like Death”:

R omeo and Juliet and Antony and Cleopatra abound in references to

Renaissance Drama, Volume 32 (2003): pp. 95–121. Copyright © 2003 Northwestern

The juxtaposition of narcotic potions and generic oscillation in the two

Tut, man, one fire burns out another’s burning;

One desperate grief cures with another’s languish;

Within the infant rind of this weak flower

foreshadows the play’s ending, his moralistic condemnation of passion runs

Hath Romeo slain himself? Say thou but “Ay”

As long as Romeo’s death remains in the realm of language—and uncertain

Then is it likely thou wilt undertake

Alack, alack! Is it not like that I