The Insatiate Countess sounds an alarm against the allure of the lusty widow exploited by early modern English comedy. On the stage, the nubile widow provided the audience’s younger sons and poor unmarried men with the opportunity to fantasize about the windfall of socioeconomic privilege normally reserved for those blessed with primogeniture. Marston’s tragedy strips bare this fantasy of securing a legacy that will leave an impression on social memory. It does so by dramatizing the detrimental effects the widow’s extraordinary concupiscence has on two primary memory arts for perpetuating male identity: commemoration (the remembrance of the dead husband) and nosce te ipsum (the remembrance of the male self). For all its dire warnings, the plot’s finale, however, cannot resolve the troubling contradiction of the countess’s lustful body: the “insatiate” widow induces men to forget themselves and simultaneously and inescapably constitutes the vehicle through which patriarchal memorialization depends for its continuity.

This chapter traces the precise urban realities that encouraged the Inns of Court satirists to turn to Thomas Nashe’s urban metaphysical style as they constructed the satires and epigrams that poured from the Inns. In doing so, I aim to clarify both Nashe’s and the city’s central place in the development of this poetic mode, a centrality that has been underrecognized in our literary genealogies. In this confluence of authors writing and reading amidst the city’s various spaces in the last decade of the century, we can see more clearly an urban metaphysical aesthetic, at once plenist, obscure, digressive, and visceral, being put into practice. The first part of this chapter explores the vogue for verse satire in the last years of the century, linking it both to the precise urban conditions out of which its authors wrote and to Nashe’s own skeptical impulses. The latter half examines the satires’ and epigrams’ formal features to show how these poems, just as Nashe’s prose before them, self-consciously reorganized and reprocessed the urban experience in ways that we now associate with the metaphysical style.

This chapter considers how the moving, working bodies of boy actors were depicted on stage throughout the early modern period, drawing together a number of metatheatrical instances which explicitly stage the acquisition and performance of theatrical skill. Focusing particularly on moments in plays by Ben Jonson, John Marston, and William Shakespeare, it argues for a theatre directly influenced by and representative of early modern culture's fascination with boys' physical capacities. Having established the early modern stage as a site of heightened physical display, the chapter moves to consider what bearing this culture of physical training and skill demonstration had on the careers and reputations of individual boy actors. It traces the careers of leading boy actors Nathan Field and Richard Robinson, attending to the highly physical nature of the roles these boys played, as well as how playwrights and audiences celebrated and commemorated the corporeal nature of their performances. Boy actors' physical performances, it ultimately argues, had a demonstrable impact on individual careers and reputations as well as company repertories.

This chapter discusses how the overlapping practices of sport and theatre contributed to early modern boy actors' performances, arguing that sport and exercise formed a crucial part of boy actors' training for the professional stage. The first half of the chapter takes as its focus the educational writings and theatrical activity of the educational theorist and practitioner Richard Mulcaster, tracing the influence of his physically minded pedagogical ideals on the robustly physical Elizabethan and Jacobean boy company repertories. The second half of the chapter provides an in-depth discussion of the staging of sport in John Marston's What You Will and John Day's The Isle of Gulls, drawing on practical experiments with staging these scenes in the present-day Sam Wanamaker Playhouse to consider the processes by which a boy actor may have come to perform precise and physically challenging aspects of dramaturgy. It demonstrates that a practical approach to critically neglected plays offers new perspectives on the dramatic possibilities afforded to the first and youngest interpreters of early modern drama which keep the skilled performing body as the rightful centre of attention.

Irregular in its rhythms, inventive in diction, and rebarbatively directed against some hapless target, tough talk flourishes in verse satires of the period before making its way onto the stage, enjoying special prominence in Ben Jonson’s Every Man Out of His Humour and John Marston’s Malcontent. In these plays no less than in the poems that precede them, tough talk remedies the alienation of public life in a crucial respect: Through its insistently corporeal language, tough talk gives a virtual body to a public that, as an imaginary entity, necessarily has none of its own. Because it compels vicarious identification by attacking people for their absurdities of comportment, tough talk is a style, but it is also the denuded expression of that judgment we recognize as taste. The vicarious relationship that tough talk, as judgment and style, coordinates between absent witness and present speaker finds its surprising culmination in the figure of the celebrity, a figure of taste whose insistent embodiment likewise invites vicarious identification from a bodiless public, often through pointedly antagonistic means. Early modernity’s great emblem of celebrity is Mary “Moll” Frith, the outspoken, cross-dressing pickpocket who found herself depicted as the outspoken protagonist of The Roaring Girl.