Shakespeare and the Order of Books
National Centre for Scientific Research (CNRS)
University of Montpellier
- John Keats once wrote about Shakespeare that “A Poet
is the most unpoetical of any thing in existence; because he has no identity—he
is continually [informing]—and
filling some other body” (1: 390). While Romantic poets are traditionally
accused of having conveyed an author-centred vision of the creative process,
Keats is also pointing here indirectly to the embodied text of Shakespeare, to
its configuration, or form, to use concepts which this collection aims to
- The material production of the Shakespearean
text—especially in its early configurations or forms—will be the focus of this
essay. I am particularly interested in exploring the way that Shakespeare the
historical actor and writer was embodied in his editions, but also how his
plays were materialized for the sake of his readers. I will concentrate on
early editions of Shakespeare and more specifically on their paratextual
material, which I will try to set in the larger context of the paratextual
material that appeared in playbooks from the beginning of the Elizabethan era. According
to the research that I carried out using Alan B. Farmer and Zachary Lesser’s
Database of Early English Playbooks (DEEP), it appears that nearly 20% of
playbooks published between 1550 and 1659 contained prefaces addressed to their
readers. This is
not a negligible figure, and I shall argue that these prefaces created what Roger
Chartier has helpfully called an “order”: “The book always aims at installing
an order, whether it is the order in which it is deciphered, the order in which
it is to be understood, or the order intended by the authority who commanded or
permitted the work” (vii). Moreover, as a material object a book has a form
which partly determines its uses and the way it can be appropriated. The order created
both by the material forms of the book and by the intentions invested in it relies
on a set of codes and conventions. As we shall see, these were far from
homogenous and tried to shape readers’ material, symbolic and intellectual
relationship to the book. In the case of Shakespeare, as we know, these
prefaces are few and far between in the single-play editions of his works, the
most abundant paratextual material being in the folios. Yet it will be fruitful
to study the Shakespearean paratextual material in the light of both earlier
and later prefaces addressed to playbook readers, to see how the early modern
reading experience of Shakespeare and more generally of plays was beginning to
- If books install an order, they are also spaces where
meaning is created through mediation and exchange. Meaning is of course never
simply “configured” by authors for the sake of their readers. As Jerome J.
McGann explained in his influential book, The Textual Condition (1991),
“Authorship is a special form of human communicative exchange, and it cannot be
carried on without interactions, cooperative and otherwise, with various
persons and audiences. In these events editors and publishers function as the
means by which a text's interaction with its audience(s) is first objectively
hypothesized and tested” (64). It is precisely this material and symbolic
testing ground that I now wish to explore.
- Paratextual material and prefaces addressed to
playbook readers, attempting to establish a dialogue with their buyers, often
tell fantastical stories of how a given book came to be materialized. In fact,
their stories are as much about the metaphoric coming into existence of a child
or individual as they are about print production. Such stories tend to
romanticize the journey of the text from playhouse to printing house. Thus,
John Day, the printer of Norton and Sackville’s Gorboduc (1565) recounts
how he first came across the text of the play. He tells the story of a “faire
maide” who had been “brayed and disfigured” and had strayed before her authors
“new apparelled, trimmed, and attired her in such forme as she was before.” Day
adds that he would have willingly kept her at home with him, as she was not
much of a burden, and all he did finally to prepare her for the public was to
dress her up in “this one poore blacke gowne lined with white that I haue now
geuen her to goe abroad among you withall” (sig. A2r). The “poore blacke gowne lined with white” refers to
Day’s choice to print the book in black letter, whose dark, dense font overpowered
the whiteness of the page, while the metaphor of clothing, which is both
symbolic and material, reminded its readers that the volume belonged to the
physical world as well as to the fictive. Furthermore,
by using a metaphor of embodiment, Day’s paratext, like the paratexts of many
other plays, lends value to his work of conserving a theatrical text.
- The book is described by Day as an object with a life
of its own, one whose materiality lends it powerful symbolic meaning, but also betrays
its incredible frailty. As Day’s story suggests, books are texts in specific materialized
“states,” and they already have complex and often very different histories
before they reach print. Day indirectly emphasizes that, given their reliance
on a form that can be physically damaged, or that can disappear altogether, the
text and the book are both unstable. Indeed, these printed configurations of
the dramatic text are themselves as delicate as the manuscripts they relied on,
despite the sometimes wild claims of their printers or publishers.
- In the preface to William Cartwright’s Comedies,
Tragicomedies, With other Poems (1651), Thomas Cole wrote a comic warning
to the bookworms which might feel tempted to feed on Cartwright’s book:
But O take heed ye worms of Cartvvright 's Wit,
material book provides a metaphorical framework by which editors, publishers
and authors create an order of books for their readers. It also foregrounds the
tentative dialogue that the creators of the book initiate with their readers.
It is no surprise, then, to encounter the figure of the author in paratexts
which seek to interact with their readers. To some extent, Michel Foucault’s
“author function” is at work here, in which “the author's name serves to
characterize a certain mode of being of discourse” (107). Foucault’s now famous
“author function” is useful in that it reminds us that the author who is
mentioned or who signs his name in prefaces of playbooks is partly a construct,
a fabricated mask, and—in other words—a means of
interaction with the reader. Nonetheless, Foucault’s author function is also
misleading in the sense that it obliterates the empirical author, whose intentions
book historians have recently somewhat redeemed.
His Lines are
strong, you may a surfeit get;
forbear who can tast nought but Ink,
deeper than the Paper sink;
senslesse Teeth must never look
To rellish so
profound and wise a Book
As Cartvvright 's is […] (sig. πa3r)
- The author figure is a fundamental
means of configuring books, and the prefaces to Shakespeare’s early editions
are a case in point, as we shall see. However, reducing the configuration of
dramatic texts to linguistic games—what Foucault calls “a certain functional
principle” (118-19)—does not quite account for the limited but genuine role
played by authors. In fact, Chartier believes that it is time for the author to
return, even if his position is necessarily both “dependent and constrained”
(28). The prologue in Shakespeare’s Troilus and Cressida (1601) is thus “armed,” “but not in confidence / Of
author’s pen or actor’s voice” (23-24), because the success of the play depends
not just on the author, or the actors, but on the interactions between the
writing, the performance and an audience’s reception of the play. Likewise, Henry V’s final chorus speaks of “our bending author” who “with
rough and all-unable pen […] hath pursued the story” (5.3.1-3). The author imagined in these plays is not
just the centrepiece of a metaphor of embodiments, or the figure whose
fashioning guides the reader’s interpretation: he is, rather, actively engaged
in the writing (or production) of a play, helping to guide (but not to
determine) its performance. Similarly, authors of books operate within
frameworks which allow them limited interaction with their readers, and thus
limited influence on the order of the book. As Chartier explains, the author’s
intentions “are not necessarily imposed either on those who turn his text into
a book (bookseller-publishers or print workers) or on those who appropriate it
by reading it. He is constrained in that he undergoes the multiple
determinations that organize the social space of literary production” (28-29).
- The interaction between the peculiar role played by
the empirical author and the uses to which the author figure is put by early
modern publishers and editors (what Foucault calls the “author function”)
explains the often paradoxical statements made by playwrights, or by those
putatively writing on their behalf, in their books. In a preface addressed “To
the reader in ordinarie,” Ben Jonson anticipates the reception of the printed
edition of Catiline his Conspiracy (1611) and imagines the reader
manipulating and appropriating the material book: “The Muses forbid, that I
should restrayne your medling, whom I see alreadie busie with the Title, and
tricking ouer the leaues: It is your owne. I departed with my right, when I let
it first abroad.” While Jonson seems to have handed over all rights to his
book, he still tries to retain a measure of influence by stating his
preferences. Indeed, this first preface is followed by another addressed this
time “To the Reader extraordinary,” for whom he would wish his book to be
tailored or configured: “You I would vnderstand to be the better Man” (sig. A3r ).
- It would seem that the configuring of books partly
consists in testing out ways of interacting with readers through imaginary
dialogue. Authors sometimes betray their uneasiness about this, as the imagined
overlap between the world of the book and the world of the reader can never be
more than tentative. As Nathan Field writes (part humorously but also no doubt
with some anxiety) in the preface to his readers of A Woman is a Weathercock
(1612), the hoped-for exchange with the reader may well turn out to be
one-sided: “Introth you are a stranger to me; why should I Write to you? you
neuer writ to mee, nor I thinke will not answere my Epistle” (sig. A3v).
- Other authors use the metaphor of the embodied book to
try to explore the ways in which the book might literally and figuratively
speak to the reader. Jasper Heywood imagined how his translation of Seneca’s Thyestes
(1560) could relate to its public. Heywood saw his book as a transactional
object, one that
might serve as an intermediary between human beings and, in this instance, as a
messenger of the translator’s intentions: “Thou lytle booke my messenger must
be,” wrote Heywood in an epistle entitled “The translatour to the booke”
(sig. *3r). The book is also configured in such a way that its
ultimate function is to generate an intimacy between itself and the reader.
This is when the author exits the scene of the imagined dialogue, as Lewis Machin
concludes in his preface “To the vnderstanding Reader” in the preliminaries of
a play entitled The Dumb Knight (1608): “Thus leauing you and the booke
together, I euer rest yours” (sig. A3r). The ultimate fantasy—that
of an unmediated meeting between the book and its reader—is constructed in
another playbook, John Day’s Law Tricks (1608). The preface, titled “The
Booke to the Reader,” again tries to configure the book in such a way as to
impose an order onto the reader’s reaction:
Reader, by thy patience, this is the
first time of our meeting, & it may be the last, that's as we shal agree at
parting, woot buy me, the stationer thankes thee; woot reade mee, doe: but
picke no more out of me, then he that writ put into me: nor knowe me not better
then he that made me (sig. A2r).
Indeed, the book’s own
fictional voice figures the meeting between the book and the readers to be a
direct dialogue in which the book gives the reader a clear set of limits.
- It should be clear by now that what Gérard Genette
called paratext is more than just “a threshold,” a “vestibule,” or “an airlock”
between the world of the book and the world of the reader. For one thing, Genette’s metaphor
depends on an often overlooked opposition between a “flexible,” “versatile”
paratext serving as “an instrument of adaptation” and a text that is deemed
“immutable” and “incapable of adapting to changes in its public in space and
over time” (408): this opposition clearly cannot be applied to either the
paratexts of Elizabethan playbooks or published editions of Shakespeare. For as
we know, the text too is flexible: it is regularly reshaped for its readers,
and evolves as much as the paratext and often in parallel to it. Besides, as I
have tried to suggest, the order of books relies on sets of devices through
which the producers of a book seek to imagine and configure how it will
interact with its readers. The order of books fosters experimental text-reader
interactions which rely on imaginary elements and constructs.
- Critics wonder sometimes what it was like to read
Shakespeare without the critical material and other reading aids to which we
have become accustomed. It is true that before the first folio, the vast
majority of early Shakespeare editions were printed with hardly any paratext.
Had the publishers of these works wanted (or perhaps had they had the means)
they could have produced so-called critical editions of these plays. There had
been precedents in this domain. Ben Jonson’s scholarly marginal notes in the
printed edition of Sejanus (1605) are perhaps the most famous example.
Well before, in 1588, Maurice Kyffin’s translation of Terence’s play Andria
was published in an edition which contained some explanatory notes. Yet, the
notes of Kyffin’s edition, which was partly destined to “young Students of the
Latin tong,” had an educational purpose, and were also probably meant to
compensate for the fact that the play’s recent theatrical history was very
limited. As for Jonson, the scholarly notes in Sejanus were no doubt
intended to give a second lease of life to a play which had not been successful
in the theatre and which was now marketed as a neo-classical work of
- One reason which might explain why so little paratextual
and/or critical material appeared in early editions of Shakespeare was because
they were intended as supplements to the stage, for spectators who wished to
prolong the experience of the play, or who had missed it. However, while it
would have been foolish on the part of Shakespeare’s publishers to deny the
works’ close links with the stage, his plays could sometimes be marketed as
literature and geared towards a readership interested in classical authors. This
seems to have been partly the intentions of the publishers of the 1609 quarto
of Troilus and Cressida. The edition exists in two states, as if the
publishers Richard Bonian and Henry Walley had second thoughts about how to
commercialize the quarto. In its first setting, the title page states that the
play was printed “As it was acted by the Kings Maiesties seruants at the
Globe.” This statement is omitted in the second setting and a preface to the
reader (“A neuer writer, to an euer reader. Newes.”) even claims that “you have
here a new play, never staled with the stage, never clapper-clawed with the palms
of the vulgar” (sig. ¶2r). In addition, the “The Historie of Troylus and
Cresseida” becomes “The Famous Historie of Troylus and Cresseid.
Excellently expressing the beginning of their loues, with the conceited wooing
of Pandarus Prince of Licia.” The title’s
careful choice of words—“Famous,” “Excellently expressing” and “conceited
wooing”—emphasizes the literary qualities of the story. Indeed, the epistle prevails
upon its readers to dedicate the time and energy to reading it that they would
to revered classics: “It deserues such a labour, as well as the best Commedy
in Terence or Plautus” (sig. ¶2v).
- Even if they allege that the play was never performed,
Bonian and Walley do not cut the work off from its Shakespearean dramatic
context. The preface to the reader claims that Troilus and Cressida was
written in the same vein as other Shakespearean comedies and that many of these
have didactic purposes: “this authors Commedies, that are so fram'd
to the life, that they serue for the most common Commentaries, of all the
actions of our liues” (sig. ¶2r).
Those “common Commentaries” might have reminded readers of the
classical commonplaces (or loci communes). The epistle to the reader
argues also that Shakespeare’s comedies are written in the classical tradition:
“they seeme (for their height of
pleasure) to be borne in that sea that brought forth Venus” (sig. ¶2r). The reference to Venus
may well have been an allusion to Shakespeare’s best-selling narrative poem
about the classical story of Venus and Adonis (1593). The epistle closes
on “Vale,” the Latin farewell. Thus, through this paratext, Bonian and Walley
configure the text as Shakespearean and as classical, and point to a potential
reading method, of gleaning commonplaces from classical works. Their farewell
also signals that they are attempting to speak in the erudite language of their
targeted, learned readers.
- Bonian and Walley also targeted another potential
market, that of book collectors. The epistle points out humorously that
investing in the work of an aged artist is a sound venture: “And beleeue this,
that when hee is gone, and his Commedies out of sale, you will scramble for
them, and set vp a new English Inquisition” (sig. ¶2v). The 1622 quarto edition of Othello
appears to confirm their claim. Six years after Shakespeare’s death and just a
year before the publication of the first folio, the deceased dramatist’s name
is deemed sufficient by the publisher Thomas Walkley to add prestige to the
playbook and to guarantee its literary worthiness to any potential reader: “I
am the bolder, because the Authors name is sufficient to vent his worke” (sig. A2r).
- Nonetheless, it is with the first and second folios of
Shakespeare’s plays that the “author function” begins to operate fully and that
what was previously a body of separate works begins to be ordered so as to form
an œuvre. This does not mean of course that the composition of the first
folio was not in some regards a matter of chance or circumstances (the late
addition of Troilus and Cressida between the Histories and the Tragedies
sections due to copyright issues being a case in point).
This sense of an œuvre is conveyed by the fact that playbook readers are
given prominent attention. As they open the first folio, readers are greeted by
Ben Jonson’s epistle “To the Reader” with the Droeshout engraved portrait of
Shakespeare on the facing page. Yet Jonson’s poem also directs the reader’s
gaze away from the portrait: “[…] Reader, looke / Not on his Picture, but his
Booke” (sig. A1v).
- The portrait is there to reassure readers that the
book is authentic, as the image purports to be a representation of the
historical author. However imperfect the portrait, what Chartier calls “the
assignation of the text to a single 'I' immediately visible” is there to
“reinforce the notion that the writing is the expression of an individuality
that gives authenticity to the work” (52). The metaphor of embodiment (the
writer embodied in his works, or rather the works embodying the writer) relies
on realistic images of an individual author, even though the first folio is in
truth a product of a collective enterprise which is dependent upon communities
of readers. Moreover, the press and the materialized book produced by it acquire
a central role in the process—a role that Shakespeare’s readers cannot ignore.
- Thus, Shakespeare’s first folio is ordered so that
access to the historical individual who partly produced the text is only
possible through the mediation of the material book. John Heminges's and Henry
Condell’s ensuing dedication to the Earls of Pembroke and Montgomery reminds
readers that Shakespeare’s company was part of powerful social and political
networks. But these lines also have an incantatory
and performative value: “we most humbly consecrate to your H.H. these remaines
of your seruant Shakespeare” (sig. A2v). The material
book establishes a link between the past and the present, between the world of
the dead and that of the living. The first folio is thus given a dual role: the
author’s death is consecrated in the book in order to allow the author figure
to be reborn in and through the book (“to keepe the memory of so worthy
a Friend, & Fellow aliue,” sig. A2v). Some seven years after the author’s physical death, the 1623 folio
completes the mourning process: the physical void left by the departed person
is filled by a symbolic figure materialized by the book.
- This process cannot be fully realized without the
assistance of readers. Heminges’s and Condell’s lines addressed “To the great
Variety of Readers,” referring to the book’s succession of prefaces and
commendatory epistles, seek to expand the network of readers (and interpreters)
of this text: “And so we leaue you to other of his Friends, whom if you need,
can bee your guides: if you neede them not, you can leade your selues, and
others. And such Readers we wish him” (sig. A3r). First folio
readers will encounter other readers in the book’s paratext and they will in
turn encourage new people to join this prestigious and yet open community. Given
that reading and writing were still taught as separate skills at the time, Heminges’s
and Condell’s evocation of a prospective readership that included “From the
most able, to him that can but spell” might not have reflected entirely wishful
thinking on their part (sig. A3r).
- The ensuing commendatory poems continue to construct
Shakespeare as a literary author, but they can be seen also as potent
celebrations of the book and of reading. In his second poem of praise, titled “To
the memory of my beloued, The avthor
mr. vvilliam shakespeare: and what
he hath left vs,” Ben Jonson suggests that Shakespeare the author is now both
kept alive and monumentalized by the book: “Thou art a Moniment, without a
tombe, / And art aliue still, while thy Booke doth liue, / And we haue wits to
read, and praise to giue” (sig. A3r). In other words, readers
will now ensure the lasting value of the author’s writings. Furthermore,
according to Jonson, the book will bring light and new hope to the bereaved
stage: “the drooping Stage; / Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourn'd
like night, / And despaires day, but for thy Volumes light” (sig. A3v).
- The second folio of Shakespeare’s works (1632)
reprints the paratextual material of the first edition, but also adds three new
poems that further expand the circle of those acting as guides to the volume’s
readers. “Upon the Effigies of my worthy Friend, the Author Master William
Shakespeare, and his Workes” is an anonymous poem which encourages spectators
to turn away from the stage and look to books for a more genuine experience: “Spectator, this Lifes Shaddow is; To see / The truer image and
a livelier he / Turne Reader” (sig. A5r). The third poem, “On Worthy Master
Shakespeare and his Poems,” contains a striking description of Shakespeare’s
rebirth through (and into) the book. The man and his works merge on the page,
as, having shed his mortal coil, Shakespeare has slipped into paper clothes:
The success of the first editions
of Shakespeare’s collected plays resides partly in the fact that they are a
celebration of the book. But it also resides in the fact that even if the order
installed by those who produced the first folio of Shakespeare’s works is
everywhere apparent, the fate of the volume relied on its readers, whose
freedom was perhaps greater because no authorial voice was seeking to establish
its authority over the text. That is, readers’ freedom of interpretation would
have been more limited had Shakespeare been alive or had he been, as some
authors were, possessive about his own writings and nervous about their reception
as printed literature.
[…] death may destroy
They say his body, but his verse shall live
And more than nature takes, our hands shall give.
In a lesse volumne, but more strongly bound
Shakespeare shall breathe and speake, with Laurell crown'd
Which never fades. Fed with Ambrosian meate
In a well-lyned vesture rich and neate.
So with this robe they cloath him, bid him weare it
For time shall never staine, nor envy teare it. (sig. *1v) 
- One can still sense a measure of ambivalence in the
paratextual material of Shakespeare’s first folio. In the lines they address
“To the great Variety of Readers,” Heminges and Condell claim that the
appraisal of the work is a task best left to its readers: “But it is not our
prouince, who onely gather his works, and giue them you, to praise him. It is
yours that reade him” (sig. A3r). Nevertheless, they also
gently seek to sway their readers’ opinions: “know, these Playes haue had their
triall alreadie, and stood out all Appeales.” While they do not impose a
meaning on the text, they consider that it deserves to be understood
adequately: “And if then you doe not like him, surely you are in some manifest
danger, not to vnderstand him.” (sig. A3r).
- Yet the slightly humorous phrasing here appears to
indicate that reception was not their real concern. Heminges and Condell seem
more worried about the commercial success of the publishing venture—which was
certainly not guaranteed—than about its critical reception. Indeed, in their
opening lines, they are ready to give readers their freedom of interpretation
as long as the book is actually bought: “Well! It is now publique, & you
wil stand for your priuiledges wee know: to read, and censure. Do so, but buy
it first” (sig. A3r).
- Here was a collected volume of plays that made few
apologies for its contents and that openly celebrated the printing and reading
of plays. While those who produced the first folio were constructing
Shakespeare the playwright as a literary author, they also had enough
confidence, it seems, to entrust their prospective readers with the task of
making the book not only critically and culturally, but also financially
successful. More than two decades later, in a volume inspired by the success of
Shakespeare’s first and second folios—the Comedies and Tragedies (1647)
of Beaumont and Fletcher—James Shirley thought it prudent to write in an
epistle to the reader: “Reade, and feare not thine owne understanding” (sig. A3v). By the time
Shirley was writing, and partly thanks to the publication of the first and
second folios of Shakespeare’s works, it appears that a space of interpretative
freedom had been negotiated for play readers within the order of books.
 Editor’s insert to clarify Keats’s truncated wording.
 These figures take into account all successive
editions of single playbooks and of collected works, as successive editions can
vary in their paratext. Prefaces “To the reader” began to appear in playbooks
during the 1550s. The DEEP database does not give figures for plays published
 Thomas Heywood also complained that his play The
Golden Age was “thrust naked into the world” (sig. A2). This
work of conservation is particularly apparent in “The Aucthors conclusion to
the Reader,” a paratext in Henry Goldwell’s The Entertainment of the French
Ambassadors which claims that the book is there as a compensation for those
who were unable to see the show: “Thvs haue I (good Reader) according to my
simple skill set forth this singuler pastime that thou maiest, beeing farre
off, peraduenture knowe more, then they that were present and eye beholders of
the same” (sig. C2v).
 For a critique of Foucault’s author function, see
 On transactional objects,
see: Appadurai (passim) and Knappett 45. Gérard Genette also writes that the
paratext is “a zone not only of transition but also of transaction: a
privileged place of a pragmatics and a strategy, of an influence on the public”
 The poem is
signed “I.M.S.,” which is possibly an abbreviation for “In Memoriam
Scriptoris,” an expression recalling Ben Jonson’s “To the
Memory of My Beloved, the Author… .” A commendatory poem in William
Cartwright’s Comedies, Tragicomedies, With other Poems describes a
similar transformation: “Live on ; / Being return'd in a more happy Dress, /
Cloath'd with Ubiquity by this one Press” (sig. *2v).
Arjun. The Social Life of Things: Commodities in Cultural Perspective.
Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1986. Print.
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and Tragedies. London, Printed for Humphrey Robinson… for Humphrey Moseley,
1647. Wing: B1581. Print.
- Cartwright, William. Comedies,
Tragi-Comedies, with Other Poems. London: Printed for [T.R. &] Humphrey
Moseley, 1651. Wing: C709. Print.
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Readers, Authors, and Libraries in Europe between the Fourteenth and Eighteenth
centuries. Stanford Calif.: Stanford UP, 1994. Print.
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démon de la théorie, Littérature et sens commun. Paris: Seuil, 1998.
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Have Thovght It. London: Printed for Richard More, 1608. STC: 6416. Print.
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Database of Early English Playbooks. http://deep.sas.upenn.edu.
Web. 19 March 2010.
- Field, Nathan. A Woman is a
Weathercock. Printed at London, for John Budge, 1612. STC: 10854. Print.
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Ed. Paul Rabinow. 1st ed. New York: Pantheon Books, 1984. Print.
Gérard. Paratexts: Thresholds of Interpretation. Trans. Jane E. Lewin. Cambridge:
Cambridge UP, 1997. Print.
- Goldwell, Henry. The Entertainment of
the French Ambassadors. London, by Robert Waldegraue, 1581. STC: 11990.
- Heywood, Thomas. The Golden Age or The
Liues of Jupiter and Saturne. London, Printed for William Barrenger, 1611.
STC: 13325. Print.
- Jonson, Ben. Catiline His Conspiracy.
London, Printed for Walter Burre, 1611. STC: 14759. Print.
- ---. Sejanus his Fall. London:
Printed by G. Elld, for Thomas Thorpe, 1605. STC: 14782. Print.
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and Text. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2007. Print.
- Keats, John. The Letters of John Keats
1814-1821. Ed. H. E. Rollins. 2 vols. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard UP, 1958.
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