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The masque of food: staging and banqueting in Shakespeare's England.

In another Charger have the proportion of a Stag made of course paste, with a broad Arrow in the side of him, and his body filled up with claret-wine; ... The Stag being placed betwixt them with egg shells full of sweet water (as before) placed in salt ... order it so that some of the Ladies may be perswaded to pluck the Arrow out of the Stag, then will the Claret-wine follow, as blood that runneth out of a wound ... These were formerly the delight of the Nobility, before good House-keeping had left England, and the Sword really acted that which was only counterfeited in such honest and laudable Exercises as these.


Thus writes Robert may in his longing-filled book The Accomplisht Cook of 1660. (1) To understand May's dream, we need to go back to an earlier text, one that allows us to define the fantasy of the banquet that both Shakespeare and May seek to evoke. The Hypnerotomachia Poliphili of 1499, probably written by Francesco Colonna and printed in Venice by Aldus Manutius, is a book dense with Neoplatonism, Italian humanism, Italian court life, and pastoral allegory. Its protagonist partakes of many feasts, which like all Renaissance feasts are moral experiences illustrating the precept that what we eat must become us. One course includes
   a Cordiall confection ... made of the scraping of Vnicornes home
   ... Musk and Lyquid, Golde, in a precious composition by weight,
   and made Losenges with fine Sugar and Amylum. (2)

This defines the aesthetic genre of the feast, its features. It is right to speak of the feast as a genre: it is governed by laws on which its meanings depend. Generically, the feast requires the following: artifice, rarity (unicorn's horn), colour, anagnoresis and recognition, deception/revelation, and surprise. Artifice and rarity are the particular governances. Such extreme excess could be reconciled to a contemptus mundi stoicism, but this sorts poorly with the general association between feasting on dainties and the erotic consumption of the female body; in the Hypnerotomachia, the body of the woman is explicitly turned into a banquet: "hir hand ... as white as pure milke" and "delitious bosome, from whence grew two round apples," as is customary in blazons. The body of a beautiful woman is the ultimate in luxurious consumption, yet cannibalism--actually eating the body of another--is also the ultimate symbol of the vice of excess, which for many early modern writers is a vice precisely because it is a form of feeding on one's fellow human beings. As well, the idea that a feast is feminine in its excess helps to connect the feast with consumption rather than production, and with uncontrolled desire, too. (3)

As these fantasies implied, the feast came to mean a blowout for the rich rather than the inclusion of the poor. It was one of James I's principal courtiers who exemplified the excess: James Hay, Earl of Carlisle, made use of lavish feasts to represent both his own status and that of the monarch. A scandalized John Chamberlain described one such feast in a letter: "Lord Hay at his last being in Fraunce among many other great bankets made him had three whereof the least cost 1000 sterling." (4) It was James Hay who invented the so-called antefeast, to Francis Osborne's dismay:
   The manner of which was to have the board covered, at the first
   entrance of the guests, with dishes, as high as a tall man could
   well reach, and dearest viands sea or land could afford: and all
   this once seen, and having feasted the eyes of the invited, was in
   a manner thrown away, and fresh set on the same height, having only
   this advantage of the other, that it was hot.

Osborne contrasts the repulsive elements of such consumption with courtesy, generosity, and sharing:
   I cannot forget one of the attendants of the king, that, at a feast
   made by this monster of excess, eat to his single share a whole
   pye, reckoned to my lord at ten pounds, being composed of
   ambergrease, magisterial of pearl, musk, &c.; yet was so far (as he
   told me) from being sweet in the morning, that he almost poisoned
   his whole family, flying himself, like the satyr, from his own
   stink.... I am cloyed with the repetition of this excess. (5)

The indulgent new feasts stand in complete contrast to the idea of the feast as a setting for hospitality, the whole social network knitted together by feasting and banqueting. In the Middle Ages, calendrical festivals were often theatrically and festively celebrated; the Essex town of Maldon fed all the spectators at its Corpus Christi play in 1540 with meat, drink, and bread. Under Protestantism, however, the drama and feasting were modified. (6) The secularized St. George days in Norwich involved three days of processions, culminating in a feast, but only for the guild brethren; Norwich citizens had to make do with a drink if they came into the hall. Such new feasts came to symbolize the exclusion of outsiders from insider status. (7)

When the banquet course became common, sugar was an aid to extravagant and fanciful display. In his book The good huswifes Jewell, Thomas Dawson writes of sugar, spices, and confits, but it is the coming of the "soteltie," or subtlety, which gives them power to transform. (8) Sotelties depended on the addition of gum tragacanth, and could include replicas of coats of arms and houses, linking the very gentleness of a family with their capacity to entertain. And yet the very word "subtle" implies the risk of deceptiveness. It was not long before the true effects of a diet high in sugar were being noted--and condemned--by writers such as Thomas Tryon:
   No sooner have they by Gluttony, or eating of too great quantities
   of Flesh, fish, or other Rich-foods or over-strong liquors brought
   themselves out of order, but away they run or send Jillian the
   Chambermaid (who already spoil'd her teeth with sweet-meats and
   kisses) to the Closet for some Conserves, Preserves, or other
   confectionary-ware; and if that will not do (as alas! How should
   such sower abortive things, only embalm'd with nauseous Sugar, do
   any good?) (9)

Such tastes had a human cost that Tryon understood well. Part of his condemnation of sugar was the result of his sojourn in Barbados, where he was horrified by the cruelty meted out to the slaves he saw.

Some still tried for hospitality. Elizabeth Grey, Countess of Kent, was May's employer, and the author of a receipt book of preserving and medicines, A choice manuall, or, rare secrets in physick and chirurgery, first printed in 1653. (10) Elizabeth Grey was also a worrying figure. John Suckling wrote that "in my Lady Kents well-being, much of ours consists," but also noted, outrageously, that Elizabeth "doth soe much lament the death of her husband that Mr. Selden cannot comfort her." (11) John Selden lived with Elizabeth at her house in London and was to be the principal beneficiary other will; it is probable that this is the basis of Aubrey's claim that they were secretly married. (12) Abraham de la Pryme, reading her recipe book, discovered the story:
   Being reading this day a book entitled "the countess of Kent's
   receipts" I asked my aunt Prym, who ... says shee has seen the poor
   at her tables several times. Sometimes there would have been sixty,
   sometimes eighty ... Yet for all this, as I have since heard, [she]
   lived in common whoredom with the famous Selden, who she
   entertained as her gallant. (13)

Thomas Carew's answer was eatable art:
   Now that the winter's gone, the earth hath lost
   Her snow-white robes, and now no more the frost
   Candies the grasse, or castes an ycie creame
   Vpon the silver Lake, or Chrystall streame.

   ("The Spring," 1-4) (14)

Here, the Kents' country house estate is conflated with the elegant food it can provide, a conflation also enacted in foods that made use of family coats of arms or maps. The arts of hospitality are set in opposition to an empty world of mere representation; better to show people the use of Bacchus than the empty image: "Nor, croun'd with wheaten wreathes, doth Ceres stand/in stone, with a crook'd sickle in her hand." Instead, "[we] grind the yellow goddesse into food." The arts of hospitality are appreciated "at large tables, fil'd with wholesome meates/ The servant, tenant, and kind neighbour eates" until the table's "oaken back/ Under the load of pil'd up dishes crack," a theatrical, comedic, even carnival climax of the feast. By contrast, the poet's brother is away at the Scottish wars, and for Carew, these are likened to hunting: "whilst, toyl'd in the pursuit/ Of bucks and stags, th'embleme of warre, you strive/ To keep the memory of our armes alive" (emphasis mine). This tangle of emblems and signifiers, in which nothing is real or knowable, is compared and contrasted with the true art of the table; still art, but for something. (15) Carew tries to show that the masque of food contains and also surpasses the masque of drama, but unease cannot be entirely covered over: rumors about Elizabeth Grey's sexual excess, outrage about the human cost of the very sugar that apparently cured disease, and concern about the deception of sugar coating and what might lie beneath it, came together to mark even the most well-meant feasting as potentially a smile that hides a knife.

As a consequence, the majority of dramatic representations of feasts and banquets are interested in exploring the duplicity of hospitality, its ability to trick, lure, and expose the luckless guest to diabolical temptation. In this, drama shows rather than hides the cracks forming around feasts in the class edifice. An examination of dramatic references to feasts shows three patterns: feasts as occasions for poison, cannibalism, and other transgressive eating; feasts where the devil plays host, linked to feasts as occasions for sexual indulgence, and finally, feasts as metaphors for drama itself. True, a few dramas do represent feasting in easy and relaxed terms, but even celebrations of it could rebound on those who by implication neglect true hospitality. In Dekker's The shomakers holiday (1600), the Lord Mayor's Feast is portrayed transgressively, including the prentices; Eyre has promised to return their hospitality earlier:
   and the slaues had an hundred tables fiue times couered, they are
   gone home and vanisht: yet adde more honour to the Gentle Trade,
   taste of Eyres banquet, Simon's happie made. (16)

More usual is the anonymous Elizabethan play A warning for fair women (1599), which sums up the ominous aspects of feasting onstage; in the prologue, spoken by Tragedie:
   This deadly banquet is preparde at hand,
   Where Ebon tapers are brought vp from hel,
   To leade blacke murther to this damned deed,
   The vgly Screechowle, and the night Rauen,
   With flaggy wings and hideous croking noise.


The banquet here is the play; it is also an allegorical masque--as Tragedie terms it--or dumbshow of the murder:
   the Furies fill wine, Lust drinckes to Browne, he to Mistris
   Sanders, shee pledgeth him: Lust imbraceth her, she thrusteth
   Chastity from her, Chastity wrings her hands, and departs: Drury
   and Roger imbrace one an other: the Furies leape and imbrace one
   another (801-17). (17)

This noticeably metaphorical representation is often part of the action, as in William Davenant's The cruell brother:
   Duke. O Lucio! thou art my Earewig now,
   Creep'st in my eare, to feast vpon my Braines.
   When in my priuate graue I lye inclos'd,
   More silent then my ruin'd Fame.

   (1.1.102-5) (18)

Such terrible, almost horror-movie eating derives ultimately from the plays of Seneca, as Thomas Goffe's deployment of the motif of carnival feasting in his Orestes shows:
   Now great Thyestes Genius, which didst prompt
   Mee to this act, come, be spectator now,
   And see reuenge for Athens bloody feast.

   (1.4.27-29) (19)

When Shakespeare's Titus Andronicus turns at bay, it is no wonder that he too dons the very chef's clothing that Robert May wishes to make the instrument of reconciliation: the stage direction says he is dressed "like a cook":
   Let me go grind their bones to powder small
   And with this hateful liquor temper it,
   And in that paste let their vile heads be baked.
      for I'll play the cook
   And see them ready against their mother comes.

   (5.2.197--204) (20)

Distinctively, Titus does play the chef; he discloses something that is very close to a recipe, tainting the process of food preparation as well as eating with the corruption, violence, and violation implicit in banquets. He also confects the trickery of the pie itself, and then--as May does with his stag pasty--reveals its secret:
   Why, there they are both, baked in this pie,
   Whereof their mother daintily hath fed,
   Eating the flesh that she herself hath bred.


The theme of forced cannibalism as a mode of revenge may be best known to us from Shakespeare's Titus Andronicus, but Shakespeare was by no means unique in deploying it, and its recurrence may even show his influence, as well as that of Seneca. (21) The men ace of cannibalism makes explicit the hidden cost of the lavish spread in the sweated labor of slaves, something Tryon understood well. All feasts are in this sense cannibal.

Like Titus Andronicus, Timon of Athens interrogates what kinds of cooking and eating are legitimate, what constitutes legitimate excess and what goes too far. (22) When Apemantus rejects what Timon's feast offers, it seems at first that he and not the feast is the problem. The stage direction makes it clear that the feast was fully staged. This in itself calls into question the apparently legitimate event: it is not a true feast, but a stage trick, and moreover, the audience is excluded from it. Finally, Apemantus exposes the feast as the very unnatural act it specifically purports to exclude; for him it is cannibalism:
   Hautboys playing loud music. A great banquet served in [flavius and
   Servants attending]; and then enter timon, [alcibiades,] the
   [senators], the Athenian lords, [and] ventidius which timon
   redeemed from prison. Then comes, dropping after all, apemantus,
   discontentedly, like himself

   apemantus I scorn thy meat. 'Twould choke me, for I should ne'er
   flatter thee. O you gods, what a number of men eats Timon, and he
   sees 'em not! It grieves me to see so many dip their meat in one
   man's blood; and all the madness is, he cheers them up, too. I
   wonder men dare trust themselves with men. Methinks they should
   invite them without knives.

   (1.2.s.d.; 37-43)

An audience who had seen Titus Andronicus might take seriously the menace of cannibalism, and an audience who had seen other plays might take seriously the risk of murder, too. The "dinner of friends" is revealed as a breakfast of enemies, or, worse, a dinner in which men eat one another ("I never tasted Timon in my life," says a guest identified only as First Stranger, 3. 3.71). The "magic of bounty" is not really magic at all; Timon makes nothing, and gives away all he has by using his only solid property as collateral on loans [no wonder the National Theatre production of 2012 seemed to people so apt for the times ...). (23) Apemantus also understands that what Timon sees as generosity is in reality a craving for the esteem of others. Shakespeare is rewriting the role of Antonio in The Merchant of Venice in a new and terrible fashion. Antonio too is very nearly treated like a side of meat, to be devoured, and while Shylock threatens the physical reality, it is Bassanio's extravagance that turns bodies into prey. Timon's ruminations on feasts and their moral failings are a direct response to the advent of men like James Hay. The bling culture these new men introduced accelerated the rate at which the traditional aristocracy--including the king-- borrowed to fund lifestyles they could not really afford. The result was the erosion of social order, demonstrated parable-like in the play.

Left with nothing, Timon entertains his false friends to a banquet of nothingness (3.7). Timon as a misanthrope is an atomized individual. To evade terrible eating and being eaten Timon abandons meat altogether in his exile:
      Therefore, be abhorred
   All feasts, societies, and throngs of men.
   His semblable, yea, himself, Timon disdains.
   Destruction fang mankind! Earth, yield me roots.


The forager, living off the land, emblematizes the risk that such an idyllic existence might upturn the whole social order and unseat the land ownership on which civilization depends, the same risk, in fact, that the debt-ridden banqueter and feaster incurs. And yet that risk is also appealingly apocalyptic, a promissory note of a new heaven and a new earth in a countryside dominated by sweated power relations. The earth's gift of roots is also understood as both utopian and presocial in The Tempest, when the presocial monster offers the isle's pignuts. Caliban knows about wild food:
   I prithee, let me bring thee where crabs grow,
   And I with my long nails will dig thee pig-nuts.


Folklorists link the knowledge of how and where to dig pignuts with children.24 So in The Tempest foraging for roots is childlike; foraging offers relief from the hierarchy of land ownership and power, labor and tithing. This could be seen as a rewriting of Timon's love of roots, one which brings out the Timon-like naive generosity of the monster, who shares his meagre wealth in expectation of utopian exchanges, and is mistreated as a result. For Timon, by contrast, the whole value of roots lies in their unsaleability:
        O, a root! Dear thanks.
   Dry up thy marrows, vines, and plough-torn leas,
   Whereof ingrateful man with liquorish draughts
   And morsels unctuous greases his pure mind,
   That from it all consideration slips!


Yet the purity of roots inspires a raging and cannibalistic longing to eat everyone before he can be eaten: "That the whole life of Athens were in this!/ Thus would I eat it./ [He bites the root]" (4.3.283-84). "You must eat men," he orders the two thieves who think they are above foraging (4.3.418). When Timon discovers gold, it becomes a way of destroying Athens; gold is the "root" of evil. Like Caliban, whose curse invokes "red plague," Timon sees sexual license as a means of destruction, an aspect of banqueting that contains the seeds of death. He gives some of the gold to Alcibiades' whore Timandra, telling her: "Give them diseases, leaving with thee their lust" (4.3.84). Aptly, Timon dies offstage, without being reconciled to Athens or to the audience; he dies excluded from life's last feast, the funeral feast. This is natural; he is no longer there to form the main course.

As well as excess, stage feasts often invoked Satan as the perfect host. Macbeth's witches go about the cauldron; what they do sounds like a parody of cooking. The same could be said of Hecate in Middleton's The witch. (25) Both plays reflect a way of depicting feasts that brings together concerns about declining hospitality with anxiety about feasts corrupting and masking other corruptions. In Brome and Heywood's 1634 play The late Lancashire witches, the witches' Sabbath is explicitly termed a feast: "this night/ Thou must along with me to a brave feast" (2.5.40-41). The feast is shown in act 4; when the witches appear, they ask if the magically stolen food has arrived: "Is all the cheare that was prepared to grace/ The wedding feast yet come?" (4.1.28-29). (26) Just as the transgressive cannibal feasts are inversions of the uses of feasts for social inclusion, so feasting for the witches' unnatural rite poaches from and subverts the wedding feast. Marriage is also about transgressing and perhaps even preying on the bodies of the other, an idea implicit in Juliet's wish that Romeo be cut out in little stars so she can relish him. The witches' cannibalistic preying on the dead is the reality underlying the pretty pomp of the wedding.

The wisdome of Doctor Dodypoll (1600) also features the hell-feast: "What hellish spright ordain'd this hateful feast,/ That ends with horror thus and discontent?" (27) The hellishness of feasting is casually noted in The Tragedy of Alphonsus Emperour of Germany (1654):
   I hope to Marshal them to th' Devils Feast.
   ... Dutch bowrs as towsandt schelms and gold to tempt them ...
   Yet hope to send most actors in this Pageant,
   To Revel it with Rhadamant in Hell.

   (2.2.320-23) (28)

Here, the devil is like a great lord, more hospitable and generous than a living one, as is implied in Dekker's play If it be not good, the Diuel is in it (1612). Pluto chides his devils
   Were you good Hell-hounds, euery day should bee
   A Symon-and-Iude, to crowne our bord with Feasts
   A blacke-eyde-soules each minute: were you honest diuels
   Each officer in hell should haue at least,
   A brace of whores to his break-fast.

   (sig. B2r)

One devil, Rufman, promises delights:
   Swift as mans thought,
   Various delights shall bee each minute borne,
   And dye as fast that fresh may rise; wee scorne
   To serue vp one dish twice; bee't nere so rare.

   (sig. E2v) (29)

In Jonson's A Masque of the Metamorphos'd Gypsies (1621), a song tells of a gypsy called Cocklorrell, who invited the devil to a feast. Dining on a Puritan, lightly poached as his stomach was queasy from his travel in a coach, he then eats "Promooter in plum-broth" and "Bawd, and bacon" with "Sixe pickl'd Taylors sliced and cut" and "Feathermen, and perfumes put,/ Some twelve in a Charger to make a grand sallet" with "a rich fat Vsurer stu'd in his marrow,/ And by him a Lawyers head and green-sawce"; "Two roasted Sheriffes came whole to the board," "the Mayor of a Towne,/ With a pudding of maintenance thrust in his belly"; this is followed by "a London Cuckold, hot from the spit" and "chine of a Lecher" with "a plumpe Harlots haunch and garlick" and "A large fat pastie of a Mid-wife hot" (979-1034). (30) It goes on and on, exhaustingly, nauseatingly, excessively, and of course cannibalistically.

Referring both to Friar Bacon and to Dr. Faustus, James I's Daemonologie talks of "faire banquets and daintie dishes" brought from the farthest parts of the world:
   they can suddenly cause be brought vnto them, all kindes of daintie
   dishes, by their familiar spirit: Since as a thiefe he delightes to
   steale, and as a spi|rite, he can subtillie & suddenlie inough
   transport the same. (31)

What keeps the feasting model of the witches' Sabbath in circulation in drama is its ability to reproduce and show concerns about the distribution of food and hunger in an era of increasing abundance for the rich and scarcity for the poorest.

When The Tempest's rooting monster is tentatively reincorporated into the social structure which he has tried to pull down, Prospero does not use a feast, and his earlier feast is less about generosity than about illusion and frustration. The Tempest's banquet resembles Timon's ironic water feast in that it turns out to be shadow, not substance, and like that feast, invitations are limited to those who deserve punishment. The stage directions show the preparations for a banquet as troublingly magical:
   Enter [spirits, in] several strange shapes, bringing in [a table
   and] a banquet, and dance about it with gentle actions of
   salutations, and, inviting the King and [his companions] to eat,
   they depart.


The strange shapes are unidentified, but are demonlike if judged by their actions; here Prospero is doing exactly the kind of thing credited to Friar Bacon and Faustus. Alonso is, understandably, alarmed, and asks heaven for angelic protection: "Give us kind keepers, heavens! What were these?" (3.3.20). Prospero justifies his magic by telling the audience that "some of you there present/ Are worse than devils" (3.3.35-36). Francisco frets that "They vanish'd strangely," but Sebastian is more than happy to accept them as providers:
      No matter, since
   They have left their viands behind, for we have
   stomachs. Will't please you taste of what is here?


Alonso hesitates, but decides "I will stand to and feed." He is prevented from doing so by a piece of stage trickery:
   Thunder and lightning. Enter ARIEL [descending] like a harpy, claps
   his wings upon the table; and, with a quaint device, the banquet

   (3.3.52 s.d.)

The "quaint device" is the turning table. (32) Emphasising the "magic" of food provision by showing its appearance and then disappearance, the feast recalls both the magical foods of the witches and the disposable antefeasts proffered by James Hay. Matters are complicated by Ariel's impersonation of a harpy, a violent ingestion of stolen food. The Hay-like play of the removal of the feast now carries connotations of judgement and punishment rather than privilege.

Meditation on the inclusion and exclusion involved is spoken by Ariel:
      the never-surfeited sea
   Hath caused to belch up you, and on this island
   Where man doth not inhabit, you 'mongst men
   Being most unfit to live.


The guests are themselves rejected viands, vomited up by the deep that has ingested so many horrible things. In his essay "On Negation," Freud suggested that judgment is "I should like to eat this," or "I should like to spit it out"; and, put more generally: "I should like to take this into myself and to keep that out." (33) Prospero's captives are willing to ingest, but Ariel suggests that they are not similarly digestible; they are so far beyond what can be stomached that they are utterly cast out and cast away. It is the diners and not the feast that are disposable.

Representations of excess versus hospitality gained sharper political edges in an era when it became obvious social and hierarchical systems were threatened by the way that a culture of excess and growing debt undermined their very basis. In his plays from Titus Andronicus to The Tempest, Shakespeare's preoccupation with feasts can be seen as his interrogation of England's tottering class structure, and the pain and difficulty its subsidence was beginning to create. The duplicity of the feast of reconciliation became nothing but a dark cloak for murder, trickery, witchcraft, and unnatural food. As the seams of what sutured the social fabric frayed, the excesses of the rich became even more absurd and horrible than those stigmatized in Timon of Athens. It is not insignificant that Charles I decided not to bother with the ceremonial of his own coronation feast, a decision only too obviously symbolic of his downfall. (34)


(1.) Robert May, The Accomplisht Cook (1660), sig. A7v.

(2.) Francesco Colonna, Hypnerotomachia Poliphili (Venice, 1499); partially translated into English by R. D. as Strife of Loue in a Dreame (1592), 57.

(3.) R. D., Strife of Loue, 99.

(4.) The Letters of John Chamberlain, ed. Norman McLure (Philadelphia, PA: The American Philosophical Society, 1939), vol. 2, February 22, 1617.

(5.) Francis Osborne, Historical Memoires on the Reigns of Queen Elizabeth and King fames (1658), reprinted in John Heneage Jesse, Memoirs of the Court of England During the Reign of the Stuarts (London: Richard Bentley, 1840), vol. I, 347-48. See also Sir William Sanderson, Aulicus coquinariae (1651).

(6.) Peter Borsay, "All the town's a Stage," in The Transformation of English Provincial Towns, ed. Peter Clark (London: Hutchinson, 1984), 228; Felicity Heal, Hospitality in Early Modern England (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1990), 333.

(7.) Heal, Hospitality, 26-27, 31-32, 191-93, 301-6, 310-13, 330-43, 355-56, 363-67.

(8.) Thomas Dawson, The good huswifes Jewell (1596).

(9.) Thomas Tryon, The good house-wife made a doctor (1692), 107, cited in C. Anne Wilson, "Banquetting Stuffe": The Fare and Social Background of the Tudor and Stuart Banquet (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1991), 56.

(10.) Elizabeth Grey, A choice manuall, or, rare secrets in physick and chirurgery (1653). It was subscribed "published by W. I. Gent."; W. I., who also produced a book of remedies for the plague in 1665 writes in his prefatory matter that "this small Manuall ... was once esteemed as a rich Cabinet of knowledge, by a person truely Honorable." While some have seen this statement as conclusive proof of W. I.'s authorship, it might also describe a collaborative relation between him and Grey. See Jayne Archer, "The Queens' Arcanum: Authority and Authorship in The Queens Closet Opened (1655)," Renaissance Journal 1 (2002): 14-26.

(11.) The Works of Sir John Suckling (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1971), vol. 1, The Non-dramatic Works, ed. Thomas Clayton, 150, 328.

(12.) John Aubrey, Brief Lives, ed. A. Clark (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1898), vol. 2, 220-21, and see G. J. Toomer, John Selden: A Life in Scholarship (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 313-14 (my thanks to Will Poole for this reference).

(13.) The Diary of Abraham de la Pryme, the Yorkshire Antiquary, ed. Charles Jackson (Durham: Surtees Society, 1870), 8. See also Jonathan Scott, Algernon Sidney and the English Republic 1623-1677 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 80 n. 15; and Toomer, John Selden, 313-14: "She was a woman of culture, to judge by the books in 'the Countess her librarie'(or 'Studdie') in the Whitefriars catalogue. These include Dante's Divina Commedia and many other classics of Italian literature and also herbals." Selden wrote of her as "a most incomparable person" (Franciscus Junius, For my worth friend Mr Franciscus Junius, ed. Sophie Van Romburgh (Leiden: Brill, 2004), 824 (no. 178), and praises their hospitality in the introduction to Marmora Arundelliana (1628).

(14.) The Poems of Thomas Carew with His Masque Coelum Britannicum, ed. Rhodes Dunlap (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1949), 3.

(15.) John Kerrigan, "Thomas Carew," The Chatterton Lecture on Poetry, Proceedings of the British Academy 74 (1988): 311-50; C. E. McGee, "'The Visit of the Nine Goddesses': A Masque at Sir John Crofts's House," English Literary Renaissance 21 (1991): 371-84; Michael P. Parker, " 'All are not born (sir) to the Bay': 'Jack' Suckling, 'Tom' Carew, and the Making of a Poet," English Literary Renaissance 12 (1982): 341-68; Michael P. Parker, " 'To my Friend G. N. from Wrest': Carew's Secular Masque," in Classic and Cavalier: Essays on Jonson and the Sons of Ben, ed. by Claude J. Summers and Ted-Larry Pebworth (Pittsburgh, PA: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1982), 171-91.

(16.) Thomas Dekker, The shomakers holiday (1600), lines 2225-27.

(17.) A warning for fair women (1599). The play is variously attributed; see Joseph Quincy Adams, Jr., "The Authorship of A Warning for Fair Women," PMLA 28 (1913): 594-620 and Michael Hattaway's review of A Warning for Fair Women. A Critical Edition by Charles Dale Cannon in The Review of English Studies, n.s. 28 (1977): 461-62.

(18.) William Davenant, The cruell brother (1630).

(19.) Thomas Goffe, Orestes (1633).

(20.) All Shakespeare quotations are from The Norton Shakespeare, edited by Stephen Greenblatt (New York: Norton, 2008) and will be cited parenthetically in the text. On the stage directions, see Macdonald P. Jackson, "Stage Directions and Speech Headings in Act 1 of Titus Andronicus Q (1594): Shakespeare or Peele?", Studies in Bibliography 49 (1996): 134-48, and John Cranford Adams, "Shakespeare's Revisions in Titus Andronicus," Shakespeare Quarterly 15 (1964): 177-90.

(21.) Other occurrences include: William Hemings, The Jewes tragedy (1662), act 5; George Chapman Bussy D'Ambois (1607), act 4, scene 1: and Robert Davenport, King John and Matilda (1655), act 5.

(22.) Brian Vickers and many others have shown that Thomas Middleton had a large hand in the shaping of the play, just as he may or may not have had a hand in the witchfeasts of Macbeth: Brian Vickers, Shakespeare, Co-author: A Historical Study of Five Collaborative Plays (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002). In the second banquet scene, where Timon feasts his guests on stones and warm water, scholars today attribute to Shakespeare not only the verse diatribe (3.7. 85-105) but the bitterly ironic prose prayer which precedes it (65-84).

(23.) Paul Mason, "Timon of Athens: the Power of Money," The Guardian (20 July 2012), paulmason, accessed 25 July 2013.

(24.) Roy Vickery, A Dictionary of Plant-lore (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995), 283.

(25.) On the authorship of these plays, see Thomas Middleton, The Collected Works, ed. Gary Taylor and John Lavagnino (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2007), 1124-27, 1165-68, and also Vickers, Shakespeare, Co-author.

(26.) Thomas Heywood and Richard Brome, The Witches of Lancashire (1634).

(27.) The wisdome of Doctor Dodypoll (1600), sig. C1v. In the most recent edition of Dodypoll, it is strongly suggested that the play is impossible to attribute securely: The Wisdom of Doctor Dodypoll, ed. N. M. Matson (Oxford: Malone Society, 1965).

(28.) George Chapman, The Tragedy of Alphonsus Emperour of Germany (1654), 346- 47.

(29.) Thomas Dekker, If it be not good, the Diuel is in it (1612).

(30.) Ben Jonson, A Masque of the Metamorphos'd Gypsies, in The workes of Benjamin Jonson (1640), vol. 1, 71.

(31.) James I, Daemonologie (Edinburgh, 1597), 23.

(32.) Philip Butterworth, Magic on the Early English stage (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 83.

(33.) Sigmund Freud, "On Negation," The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, ed. James Strachey (London: Hogarth, 1953-74), 19: 236.

(34.) Jacqueline E. M. Latham, "The Magic Banquet in The Tempest," Shakespeare Studies 12 (1979): 215.
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Title Annotation:FORUM: Diet and Identity in Shakespeare's England
Author:Purkiss, Diane
Publication:Shakespeare Studies
Article Type:Essay
Geographic Code:4EUUE
Date:Jan 1, 2014
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