Time catches up with Falstaff in the end. 2 Henry IV resonates with the ticking of clocks – ‘we are time’s subjects’, says one of the elderly rebels as the insurrection gets under way (1.3.110) – and clocks are Falstaff’s enemy, bringing him always closer to humiliation and death. It is full, too, of fragile and broken friendships, of which Falstaff has his share. Justice Shallow masquerades as his lifelong bosom buddy despite the fact that they both know Shallow’s account of their wild youth together to be fraudulent, a crude and hasty fabrication designed to screen their mercenary desire to profit by one another. ‘I do remember him at Clement’s Inn’, says Falstaff, ‘like a man made after supper of a cheese-paring. When a was naked, he was for all the world like a forked radish, with a head fantastically carved upon it with a knife’ (3.2.303-7); and he later adds that he could make a dozen Shallows from the superabundant material of his own body (5.1.62-4). Shallow clearly hopes that Falstaff will ‘make’ him in another sense by making his fortune, and this is the shallow foundation of their friendship. The casting off of Falstaff is the moment when his accumulated debts catch up with him, as the newly-crowned Hal reminds him of what he said in Part One – that ‘thou owest God a death’ (1 Henry IV, 5.1.126) – and forestalls any ‘fool-born jest’ he might invent to inveigle his way out of due payment (2 Henry IV, 5.5.55). Shallow at once calls in his loans (‘let me have five hundred of my thousand’ (5.5.84-5)) and Falstaff is clapped into prison to atone for his misdeeds, financial and moral. The fat knight’s promised reappearance in Henry V, which is flagged in the epilogue, never materializes except in the account given by the hostess of his death (Henry V, 2.3.9-25) – as if he has managed one last time to escape shot-free from his creditors, in this case the theatre audience which is responsible for his success, and which clamoured for a sight of his curtain call. Falstaff’s reign ends with Hal’s betrayal, and the ancient moral and social hierarchies of England are both reinstated at once, their restoration ushered in with tired old moral commonplaces such as ‘How ill white hairs become a fool and jester’ (5.5.48).
But this is not the whole story; because Hal’s crowning coincides with the figurative crowning of Falstaff, and it is on the body of Falstaff, as it were, that Hal erects his kingdom. Falstaff is the presiding spirit of the unhistorical ‘merry’ or comic England over which Hal plans to reign; the England where lions recognize the true prince ‘by instinct’ and where Shallow’s glowing account of his youth is true. ‘Merry England’ is created in 2 Henry IV by the sheer force of Falstaff’s laughter. ‘The brain of this foolish-compounded clay, man,’ he tells us, ‘is not able to invent anything that intends to laughter more than I invent, or is invented on me; I am not only witty in myself, but the cause that wit is in other men’ (1.2.7-10). And he triumphantly bears out this claim in the rest of the action. His arraignment by the Lord Chief Justice is transformed at his hands into a jest; Shallow’s falsifying of the past furnishes him with comic material to ‘keep Prince Harry in continual laughter the wearing out of six fashions’ (5.1.77-81); and even the grim Prince John, despite the fact that ‘a man cannot make him laugh’ (4.3.87-8), prompts one of his most brilliant flights of fantasy, the disquisition on sack. The fat knight’s disease-ridden body, then, grown cold with age and huge with self-indulgence, generates wholesome hilarity, the healthiest of moods, which spreads from him like a benign virus until near the end of the play it erupts in the cheeriest party in theatrical history. The party takes place in an orchard on the eve of Hal’s coronation, and in it a man called Silence bursts into song, a male servant is commended for being a good ‘husband’ to his master (5.3.10-11) – meaning both a good steward and a good marriage partner; Falstaff’s red-nosed retainer Bardolph is told he speaks like a king (5.3.68), a young page finds himself welcomed with the same enthusiasm as his old employer (‘Welcome, my little tiny thief and welcome indeed, too!’ (5.3.56-7)), and the company in general is urged to ‘Lack nothing’ (5.3.68), to discard the years of penury they have suffered and to feast instead on the fruits with which Shallow’s orchard, and England in general, is stocked. The contrast with the orchard scene where the starving Jack Cade was killed in the midst of plenty could not be more pronounced. And the party ends with a promise that this genial atmosphere will soon extend itself throughout the nation, as Falstaff hears the news of Henry’s death and declares that ‘the laws of England are at my commandment’ (5.3.136-7), while his comrade Pistol salutes a happy future: ‘welcome these pleasant days’ (5.3.141).
Of course the casting-off of Falstaff puts a dampener on these celebrations. The authority of a monarch could not tolerate a rival of Falstaff’s size and energy, and although we are assured that Hal’s former friends ‘Shall all be very well provided for’ (5.5.100), the fact that it is the odious Prince John who tells us so – and that such sensible provisions seem so much less glorious than the comic vision we glimpsed in Shallow’s orchard – detracts from the pleasure we might otherwise derive from these reassurances. If Prince John delights in Hal’s transformation, we as an audience have good reason to distrust it. And sure enough, there are plenty of Prince John moments in the career of Shakespeare’s Henry V. Henry’s humour is as calculated as Hal’s, and recalls at times the cruelty of Prince John’s coldly jocular betrayal of the rebels. We have already mentioned his witty exposure of the treachery of his friends Cambridge and Scroop, whom he mocks for having ‘lightly conspired’ against his throne (Henry V, 2.2.89); but far more disturbing is the gigantic jest that is the invasion of France. It is one of a series of dazzling diversions designed to draw attention away from the problematic aspects of Henry’s inheritance. If his claim to the throne of England is poor, he must stress his claim to the throne of France, obedient to his father’s advice to busy the ‘giddy minds’ of his subjects with foreign quarrels (2 Henry IV, 4.5.213-4). If he is the aggressor in a war let him transfer the blame to his enemies, telling the besieged citizens of Harfleur that ‘you yourselves are cause, / If your pure maidens fall into the hand / Of hot and forcing violation’ (Henry V, 3.3.19-21) (he sounds here as if he is recalling a lesson from the laughing conquest of Asia by Marlowe’s Tamburlaine). If military action is in his interest he must make sure it is represented as God’s war, divine punishment on any English criminals who die in battle. It is the very lightness of touch, the comic sleight of hand involved in all these post-Falstavian evasions that makes them chilling. Hal’s lies are not gross as a mountain, as Falstaff’s were, but breezy and scarcely visible. And their breeziness kills people, like the jovial folksiness of a modern warmonger.
The link between laughter and slaughter in Henry’s reign is at its strongest in Act One, when the Archbishop of Canterbury – eager to divert Henry’s attention from his plans to tax the church by sending him to France – describes England’s former French campaigns as a grotesque spectator sport, in which the Black Prince’s father ‘Stood smiling to behold his lion’s whelp / Forage in blood of French nobility’ (1.2.109-10), while half the English army stood ‘laughing’ next to him, ‘All out of work and cold for action’ (1.2.113-4). Henry at once catches the Archbishop’s tone, and seizes the pretext of the Dauphin’s mocking gift of tennis balls to represent his own French campaign as a still bloodier joke than the wars waged by his ancestors:
…tell the pleasant Prince this mock of his
Hath turned his balls to gun-stones, and his soul
Shall stand sore charged for the wasteful vengeance
That shall fly with them; for many a thousand widows
Shall this his mock mock out of their dear husbands,
Mock mothers from their sons, mock castles down…
His jest shall savour but of shallow wit
When thousands weep more than did laugh at it. (1.2.282-97)
Henry’s campaign is designed to show that the English King is wittier than the French Prince, that all debts to him will be repaid with interest, and that all insults aimed at him will produce an instant and devastating retaliation. Henry, in fact, must be the undisputed master of ceremonies in the play that bears his name.
But Falstaff leaves Hal with another legacy besides the ability to forge brilliant ripostes and improbable evasions. The fat knight acted as a bridge between the Prince and the common people, whose language Hal learned in Falstaff’s company. As Hal puts it in Part One, ‘I can drink with any tinker in his own language during my life’, and ‘when I am King of England I shall command all the good lads in Eastcheap’ (2.4.13-19); and the heir apparent even goes so far as to disguise himself as a tapster in Part Two. This familiarity with the people and their language provides Henry with his most brilliant evasive stratagem: that of avoiding the issue of his shaky claim to the throne by rhetorically ennobling the entire population of his nation. In Henry’s language, though not in his policies, the hopes of Falstaff and his gang to be elevated to the aristocracy are abundantly borne out. As he storms the breach at Harfleur Henry urges all his men, not just the aristocracy, to remember their ancestry with pride: ‘On, on, you noblest English’, he cries, and describes their fathers as ‘so many Alexanders’ (3.1.17-19). Later the Welsh captain Fluellen attests to the success of this stratagem when he compares Henry to Alexander partly on the strength of the resemblance between Monmouth in Wales and Alexander’s Macedonia (4.7.11-52). Henry has clearly succeeded in giving his subjects – even his non-English subjects – a sense of ownership, of full participation in his triumphs. ‘There is none of you so mean and base,’ he tells them, ‘That hath not noble lustre in your eyes’ (3.1.29-30), and in saying so he draws their attention away from the less than royal lustre of his own coat of arms. The Prince John aspect of Henry’s humour prompts him to trick one of his common soldiers, Michael Williams, into being falsely accused of high treason (4.8.9ff.) – though he pardons his victim at the last minute and compensates him for his terror. The Sir John aspect of his personality, by contrast, permits him to demystify the role of King (‘his ceremonies laid by, in his nakedness he appears but a man’ (4.1.104-5)), and to address his followers as ‘brothers, friends, and countrymen’ (4.0.34). When he imparts to both his ‘mean and gentle’ soldiers ‘A little touch of Harry in the night’ (4.0.45-7), he transforms them into aspects or clones of himself, thus strengthening his power to the extent that it can never be undermined. The skill with which he achieves this he owes to the ‘tutor and… feeder of his riots’, Falstaff (2 Henry IV, 5.5.62).
Henry is no egalitarian. All his rhetoric is designed to strengthen his position as undisputed monarch of England and France, not to establish a new English commonwealth based on fairer principles than the old. But his reign involves due recognition of the central role played by the common people in the changing fortunes of England; and from this time forth their status as major players in history is confirmed. Henry dies young, and his predictions of the future, like Falstaff’s, prove over-optimistic from his own point of view. He never fathers a son who is capable of leading a crusade to Constantinople or of forging a lasting peace between the French and English peoples – or even between rival factions in the English aristocracy. But the common people he figuratively ennobled, and whose power he understood, live on, and comprise the audience of Shakespeare’s Henry V, a play that reminds them repeatedly of their capacity to make a difference in affairs of state. It is the common people, the play seems to say, who make or break monarchs, just as the collective power of the people’s imagination can recreate a Henry on the Elizabethan stage. Without the precedent of Falstaff’s outrageous imaginings this Shakespearean revelation could never have acquired the force it has.
And Falstaff’s imaginative construction of ‘merry England’ has another outlet besides the career of Henry V. The merry-making in Shallow’s orchard is recalled in the title of The Merry Wives of Windsor, the only Shakespearean comedy set in England; and the play provides a kind of escape from the nightmare of history. There is just one mention in it of the grand narrative of the Second Tetralogy, when we are told that the impoverished aristocrat Fenton was once a companion of ‘the wild Prince and Poins’ (3.2.65-6); but this merely disqualifies him, in the minds of the middle-class married couples who dominate the play, as a suitable match for their daughter (3.4.4-10). In the same way, the middle classes are carefully excluded from the Tetralogy, paying their way out of military service and thus avoiding the slaughters, betrayals and machinations that are the province of their nominal rulers. The events of chronicle histories are irrelevant to these people’s lives; and this play narrates the histories of ordinary men and women, history as it is purveyed in the jest-books, whose pranks and japes are faithfully reproduced in the farcical situations with which it is filled.
The titular merry wives occupy an egalitarian rural space where nearly everyone can participate with equal enthusiasm in plots to make, break, prevent or preserve each other’s marriages. It is a space where women rule the roost, hatching stratagems designed to show, as Mistress Page insists, that ‘Wives may be merry and yet honest too’ (4.2.100), in contrast to the dishonest merriment of aristocrats and hereditary knights like Sir John. And it is a space where jests do no harm, as all the characters repeatedly assure us. The host’s deception of the doctor, Caius, and Hugh Evans the parson, is devised not to hurt them but to prevent them from doing each other damage in a duel; the wives’ deception of Falstaff aims to prevent him hurting their husbands by committing adultery; Fenton’s tricking of Anne Page’s parents proves that he has laid aside his aristocratic wildness and committed himself to the stability of middle-class matrimony. As Parson Evans puts it, the play is driven by ‘admirable pleasures and ferry honest knaveries’ (4.4.79-80), and Master Page piously confirms his view: ‘God prosper our sport. No man means evil but the devil, and we shall know him by his horns’ (5.2.12-13). The authoritarian anti-theatrical lobby, then, is as irrelevant here as the iron hand of the law, or civil war, or bloody revenge; and so rigorously are these oppressive considerations excluded from the action that it would be fair to describe this as Shakespeare’s only pure comedy, the only play in his oeuvre that is unshadowed by the threat of death or the intimidating presence of rulers.29
The egalitarianism of the play asserts itself in the fact that nearly everyone in it has at least one prank played on them. Falstaff is tricked more often than anyone else, and subjected to more painful physical abuse: half-drowned in a deep ditch, beaten in women’s clothes, pinched black and blue by children disguised as fairies. But he is never isolated in his comic sufferings, as he so often seemed to be in Henry IV; his humiliation is shared by the bulk of the Windsor community. Master Ford, Mr and Mrs Page, Slender, Shallow, Doctor Caius, the Host of the Garter and Parson Evans, are all conned as comprehensively as he is, and he himself notes the multiplicity of quarries there are for the play’s pranksters: ‘When night-dogs run, all sorts of deer are chased’ (5.5.232). So if Falstaff is toppled from his position of supreme comic pre-eminence in this play, as many commentators have remarked, his former absolutist monarchy is supplanted by a commonwealth of merriment, the model for a new anti-authoritarian England. In place of the crown of power and influence he hoped for in the Henriad, the fat knight is given a crown composed of the antlers of a Windsor stag, ‘the fattest, I think, i’the forest’ (5.5.12-13). And while the stag is the most lordly of wild beasts, it is also the principal ingredient of the ‘hot venison pasty’ Master Page serves to his guests in the first scene of the play, in token of the amity between them (1.1.181). In the play’s last scene, then, Falstaff has become a wholly wholesome dish, his predatory sexual desires transmuted into a harmless fairy-tale, his bulk made the centre of an inclusive social circle. He has been defused, in other words, but not deflated, and the genial metamorphosis is completed at the end of the scene when Mistress Page invites him to ‘laugh this sport o’er by a country fire’ and enjoy, with his friends, ‘many, many merry days’ (5.5.234-7). In The Merry Wives of Windsor merriness is vindicated, laughter liberated from slaughter, and the shadow of civil war dispersed from a land where everyone enjoys warmth and enough to eat. It is not the land where the Elizabethans lived, but thanks to Falstaff and his friends they could go home from the performance nurturing the hope that one day it might be.
 He again makes his followers his brothers – thus ennobling them – in the famous St Crispin’s Day speech (Henry V, 4.3.56-67).
 Leah S. Marcus argues that the version of the play printed in the First Quarto of 1602 is more egalitarian in its drift than the version in the Folio: ‘Levelling Shakespeare: Local Customs and Local Texts’, Shakespeare Quarterly 42 (1991), pp. 168-78. For the relationship between the two texts see The Norton Shakespeare, pp. 1231-3.
 Apart, of course, from the ruler who may have been watching the play’s first performance. For the theory that the play was written at the command of Elizabeth I for performance in her presence at the Garter Feast of 1597, see Peter Erickson, ‘The Order of the Garter, the Cult of Elizabeth, and Class-Gender Tension in The Merry Wives of Windsor’, Shakespeare Reproduced: The Text in History and Ideology, ed. Jean E. Howard and Marion F. O’Connor (New York, 1987), pp. 116-45. It should be noted, though, that the one direct reference to Elizabeth in the play – as a future owner of Windsor Castle who is blessed by Mistress Quickly in her capacity as Fairy Queen – stresses her absence from the play’s world; the castle is blessed while it is seemingly empty (5.5.55-74).
Besides being rooted in his nation’s present, Jack Cade’s campaign is also embroiled in its past: his insurrection could never have got under way if he had not claimed descent from the ‘legitimate’ successor to the deposed King Richard II. The emaciated Cade, then, owes his rise and fall to the same conditions that permit the rise and fall of that ‘gross fat man’ Jack Falstaff: the disorder that followed Richard’s deposition from the throne of England. But Falstaff’s body is far more intimately involved with the physical condition of his country than Cade’s is. From the beginning of Richard II, when England succumbs to the social sickness that will plague it throughout the civil wars of the fifteenth century, the body forms the focus of Shakespeare’s Second Tetralogy – the epic series of plays comprising Richard II, Henry IV Parts 1 and 2, and Henry V. And the mountain of flesh Falstaff, who dominates the two central plays of the series, is living, breathing proof both of England’s diseased condition and of its irrepressible vitality, its lively hope, like that of a pregnant mother, of better times to come.
Falstaff is no commoner: he is a hereditary knight who has fallen on hard times but lives in expectation of rejoining the ranks of the nobility once Hal comes into his inheritance. But Falstaff’s body has been swollen by the attentions of commoners, especially brewers and barmen; it holds sway in the streets and taverns of the city where commoners throng; and it consumes the cheap luxury commodities that enrich the commoners’ leisure hours. He links the material preoccupations of the commoners to the airy obsessions of the ruling classes as no-one else does in Shakespeare; and he does so through the miracle of his corporal vastness, which is as much a product of his exuberant language as it is of his physical presence on the stage of English history.
In Richard II, a king’s self-indulgent playfulness, his arrogant assumption that his royal powers are absolute and that he may therefore ignore the contracts that bind him to his subjects, unleash a sequence of consequences that are described in metaphors of physical debility. Richard’s arbitrariness first manifests itself when he banishes two of his nobles in the opening act, with devastating effects on their bodies. The pair, who are initially in perfect health (Bolingbroke describes himself as ‘lusty, young, and cheerly drawing breath’ (1.3.66)), abruptly find their limbs out of control, bereft of their former agility. As the other exile, Mowbray, tells the King, by sending him to a foreign land ‘Within my mouth you have engaol’d my tongue, / Doubly portcullis’d with my teeth and lips’ (1.3.166-7), while Bolingbroke compares the severing of their flesh from English soil to the parting of soul from body (1.3.194-7). Meanwhile Bolingbroke’s father, the dying John of Gaunt whose spirit is literally about to leave his body, accuses the King of damaging his own constitution as well as those of his nobles and his kingdom. The fashionable monarch ‘limps after’ the trendy customs of Italy (2.1.23), ‘tires’, ‘chokes’ and ‘consumes’ himself with a ‘rash, fierce blaze of riot’ (2.1.33-9), and binds up that ‘teeming womb of royal kings’ England in crushing legal restraints to pay for his own excesses (2.1.51ff.). John of Gaunt’s body, as emaciated as his name suggests, is for him the emblem of England’s decay, bled dry by the King’s frivolous rapacity (2.1.73-83). But it also illustrates the accelerated decrepitude that Richard is bringing on himself as he commits his ‘anointed body’ to the care of ‘those physicians that first wounded thee,’ his reckless favourites (2.1.98-9). And once old Gaunt is dead, Richard’s diseases multiply apace. His Queen quickly detects ‘Some unborn sorrow ripe in Fortune’s womb’ about to fall on his head instead of the son he has failed to father (2.2.10); and when Bolingbroke reappears on the scene, proclaiming his intention to reclaim the ancestral property Richard stole from him during his exile, the Queen recognizes the ambitious young man as her ‘sorrow’s dismal heir’ (2.2.63) – metaphorically designating him both as a substitute prince of the royal blood and as an embodiment of his kingdom’s future misery. In the same scene, the Duke of York compares Bolingbroke to an illness invading the nation’s bloodstream in response to the King’s lifestyle: ‘Now comes the sick hour that [Richard’s] surfeit made’ (2.2.84). From this time forth, Richard with his ‘ruin’d ears’ (3.3.34) and eyes blinded with tears is marked as subject to a more powerful monarch, Death, who occupies the ‘court’ of the King’s living corpse, ‘grinning at his pomp’ with fleshless jaws (3.2.155-70). Richard begets his own death, in other words, like a parodic heir apparent, a grotesque alternative dynasty to replace the dynasty that he never succeeds in founding. At the end of his life he is still fathering imaginary, abortive heirs: ‘A generation of still-breeding thoughts’ that plague him in prison after his abdication (5.5.8), content with nothing till they are finally made nothing by Richard’s death.
But for Bolingbroke, too, as Richard’s heir, the prognosis is none too good. If he is Richard’s and England’s sickness, the time will inevitably come when the disease will grow to a crisis, when ‘foul sin gathering head / Shall break into corruption’, as Richard puts it (5.1.58-9). Richard predicts that this crisis will be brought about by Bolingbroke’s friend and ally, the Earl of Northumberland: and his prediction is remembered eight years later by the ailing Bolingbroke – now Henry IV of England – in the third act of 2 Henry IV (3.1.76-7). The two parts of Henry IV chart the progress of England’s infection, and Falstaff is at once its most visible symptom, its most eloquent diagnostician and (perhaps) its comic cure.
Every detail of the environment he inhabits was predicted in Richard II. Richard’s addiction to laughter forms the model for Hal’s tavern-haunting, as Henry IV points out (‘For all the world / As thou art to this hour was Richard then’ (1 Henry IV 3.2.93-4)), and Hal’s drinking-bouts with Jack recall Richard’s rowdy exploits with his boon companions Bushy, Bagot and Green. Bolingbroke’s rise to power in Richard II, sustained by the commoners who love him, is described by Richard’s Queen as a process whereby ‘triumph is become an alehouse guest’ (5.1.15), and spurs Hal to nurture a still greater intimacy with the residents of alehouses. Falstaff’s commentary on affairs of state, too, has a precedent in Richard II, in the commentary of an egalitarian gardener on the state of England in Act Three (3.4.24ff.). More unsettlingly, the brittle and temporary nature of the friendship between Falstaff and Hal – a brittleness that is repeatedly emphasized by the Prince – resembles the superficial friendships cultivated by Bolingbroke in his rise to power. ‘I count myself in nothing else so happy,’ Bolingbroke tells Northumberland as he returns from exile, ‘As in a soul rememb’ring my good friends’ (Richard II, 2.3.46-7); but it is the breakdown of friendship between Bolingbroke and Northumberland that precipitates rebellion when Bolingbroke is King. In his relationship with Falstaff Hal comically recreates the history of the monarchs who preceded him, scrutinizing the conditions that led first Richard and then Henry to lose control over the course of events, as they presented their subjects with every opportunity to reinvent them at will, to trespass on the royal prerogative of self-definition. Through Falstaff Hal acquires the art both of reinventing himself and of evading definition by others: a comic skill, but the art of the wit rather than the fool, of the acknowledged master of delightful improvization rather than the helpless butt of collective laughter. With Falstaff, too, Hal learns the art of controlling others – even the most uncontrollable people of all, the clever clowns. Or at least, so Hal presumes; how far he succeeds has always been a matter of debate.
The splitting of the reign of Henry IV into two plays corresponds to the splitting of his kingdom into factions – another symptom of the disease of state contracted first by Richard and then by Henry. It structurally reinforces, too, the astonishing multiplication of would-be kings and heirs that emerge as a direct result of Henry’s illegal seizure of power from the legitimate monarch. Both plays are full, not so much of pretenders to the throne as of competing versions of the King himself and the Prince his son. The First Part opens with Henry wishing it could be proved that his son Hal had been substituted at birth for the young war-hero Hotspur, who seems so much more princely in his conduct than the prince (1.1.77-90). Later, Henry tells Hal how his younger brother Prince John has acted as Hal’s substitute in the Privy Council (3.2.32-3); and this is what stings Hal to predict the moment when he will substitute himself for his rival Hotspur, making him ‘exchange / His glorious deeds for my indignities’ in a deadly encounter on the battlefield (3.2.145-6). Hal, then, is regularly ‘performed’ both by his subjects and in his father’s imagination; and Henry IV finds himself performed yet more often by those beneath him. The rebel lords see him as their creation (he enjoys ‘that same greatness… which our own hands / Have holp to make so portly’ (1.3.12-13)), and take it on themselves to read his thoughts, assuming that he ‘studies day and night’ to pay his debt to them with their deaths (1.3.182) – an assumption that is directly responsible for their insurrection. In Act Two, Hal and Falstaff take it in turns to play the King in an impromptu comedy performed in an Eastcheap tavern (2.4.368ff.). In Act Four it is Hotspur’s turn to be christened by Douglas ‘the king of honour’ (4.1.10) (Hal has earlier dubbed himself ‘the king of courtesy’ (2.4.10)). And in the battle of Shrewsbury there are dozens of men playing the King, ‘marching in his coats’ as decoys for the rebels’ blades (5.3.25). As a result, the battlefield seems to be comically thronged with Henries, a host of visored monarchs whose outsides give no clue to their inward identity, so that the frustrated Douglas finds he must ‘murder’ all the royal wardrobe ‘piece by piece’ before he can reach the King (5.3.27). This giddying multiplication of Henries slows down in 2 Henry IV, but even here Falstaff and the Lord Chief Justice contend with Henry for the position of father to the Prince of Wales. Henry IV, then, is not two parts but many, as if his expert performance of the previously restricted role of king has inspired all ambitious men to think they can emulate his acting skills with impunity. As with Macbeth, the leap of imagination he took in usurping the monarchy unleashes the power of his subjects’ imaginations, so that nothing is unthinkable – no act of treason, courage or ambition – for as long as he retains the throne of England.
But the two parts of Henry IV also indicate a split within Henry himself, a deadly separation of his vital components that is one physical consequence of his failure to commit himself, in Richard II, on the subject of whether he was or was not a legitimate contender for the crown. According to early modern medical theory, derived from the teachings of the Roman physician Galen, the human body is composed of four elements or humours, the microcosmic equivalents of the four elements that make up the world: earth, air, fire and water. A healthy body has its four humours in perfect harmony, holding each other in a precarious equilibrium, whereas in an ailing person one or more of these humours dominate, reducing the others to a secondary role and enfeebling the whole constitution as a result. The two parts of Henry IV suggest through metaphor that the humours in the body of the English nation have been radically destabilized. In the first part, the elements of fire and air hold sway; the emphasis is on the self-destructive energies of youth, on the dangerous love of sheer speed that is one of youth’s characteristics, and on the violent rivalries between young men that had such damaging effects in Romeo’s Verona. In the second part, earth and water prevail over fire and air, old age supplants youth as the presiding genius of the time, a chill settles on the language of the contesting English factions, and everyone seems to stir themselves reluctantly into sluggish action, forcing their bodies to move – whether in rebellion or counter-rebellion – with pain and difficulty, and desisting from motion with obvious relief. In Part One, the heat of the times engenders warm friendships between men and loving exchanges between husbands and wives. Hal’s affectionate farewell to Falstaff when he thinks him dead is the high point of their relationship (5.4.101-9), and the exchanges between Harry Hotspur and Kate his wife evoke an atmosphere of marital closeness, strong desires and cheerful bickering that endears them to the play’s spectators. In the second part, relationships are at best cooler, at worst shattered by rejection and betrayal. Family members are distant from one another: Hotspur’s wife Kate, who has survived her husband’s death at the end of Part One, urges her father-in-law Northumberland to break his word to his fellow rebels for no better reason than that he has already broken his word to Hotspur his son, the man she loved (2.3.9ff.); while the mood of the play is incapsulated in Henry IV’s despairing cry to his own sons – from whose number at this moment Hal is conspicuously absent – ‘O me! Come near me, now I am much ill’ (4.3.111). The contrast between the two parts may best be summarized by the climactic encounters between the rebels and the forces of the crown in each play. The first culminates in a duel between two young men, fuelled by hot words and ending with the gushing of youthful blood. The second culminates in an act of treachery, where a rebel force headed by old men are tricked into disbanding with a promise of mercy, then massacred by the army of the cold-blooded Prince John. Heat and cold, youth and old age, and the elements associated with these conditions, seem to have undergone an agonizing divorce in Henry’s reign, and the instability of a state has never been more brilliantly realized in artistic form than it is in this astonishing diptych.
Falstaff provides a satirical running commentary on the divorce between the humours and their associated elements that afflicts the plays. In Part One he absurdly masquerades as a man of Hal’s and Hotspur’s generation, bellowing ‘young men must live’ as he robs the travellers at Gadshill (2.2.90) and melting his fat in streams of perspiration as he flees from the scene of the crime (2.2.107-8), in grotesque imitation of the ‘beads of sweat’ shed by the sleeping Hotspur as he dreams of battles to come (2.3.56-9). The tavern scenes over which Falstaff presides are lit by fires – the ‘everlasting bonfire-light’ of his retainer Bardolph’s inflamed nose (3.3.41), and the infernal conflagrations conjured up by repeated references to devils and hell (Jack himself is ‘a devil… in the likeness of an old fat man’ (2.4.441-2)). In the second part the fat knight’s pretensions to youth are exploded early on by the Lord Chief Justice, and for the rest of the action Falstaff is acutely conscious of his age, reminded of it repeatedly by the nostalgic ramblings of Justice Shallow and the tendency of the whore Doll and others to ‘speak like a death’s head’ by bidding him ‘remember mine end’ (2.4.34-5). If Falstaff’s constitution is never quite cold in the Second Part – unlike that of other old men, such as Northumberland, the Archbishop of York, and the King – it is because his blood has been artificially heated by alcohol, as he explains in his famous speech on the inflammatory qualities of a ‘good sherris-sack’ (4.4.85-124). Nevertheless, this speech ties in with the many allusions to water and other chilling liquids that fill the play; and a look at these ties will help to show how the Falstavian comic ‘subplot’ operates with relation to the political ‘main plots’ in the two Parts.
In Part Two, water metaphors dominate the language of the rebels, who associate their insurrection with one of the sudden deluges that brought periodic devastation to the English countryside. In the first scene, Northumberland declares that the death of his son Hotspur has unleashed a flood of grief in him that will overwhelm the nation. ‘Now let not Nature’s hand / Keep the wild flood confin’d’, he cries (1.1.153-4), and later the Archbishop of York takes up the theme, telling the King’s representative that he and his colleagues were ‘enforc’d from our most quiet… / By the rough torrent of occasion’ (4.1.71-2), and promising that if their demands are met ‘We come within our aweful banks again’ (4.1.176). Henry IV’s followers, too, associate water with insurrection and impending anarchy. As the king lies dying his younger sons speak of the omens that announce his imminent death, and the chaos that will follow once his wild son Hal assumes the crown: ‘The river hath thrice flow’d, no ebb between’, says Clarence, ‘And the old folk… Say it did so a little time before / That our great-grandsire Edward sick’d and died’ (4.4.125-8). Hal responds, when he inherits the throne, by proclaiming the return of moderation to the ‘tide’ of his blood:
The tide of blood in me
Hath proudly flow’d in vanity till now.
Now doth it turn, and ebb back to the sea,
Where it shall mingle with the state of floods,
And flow henceforth in formal majesty. (5.2.129-33)
Falstaff’s speech on sack, then – the fortified Spanish wine that stirs up the forces of ‘this little kingdom, man’ (4.3.108), and has made Hal ‘very hot and valiant’ (4.3.121) – contributes to the many references to liquid that distinguish this play from its fire-filled predecessor. And although the liquid Falstaff mentions is a fiery one, counteracting with its warming properties the ‘cold blood’ he says the Prince inherited from his father (4.3.117), its effects are only temporary, and its after-effects as cooling as those of any other inundation. We have good reason to be aware of this when Falstaff delivers his eulogy, because in the previous scene we have seen Hal’s brother Prince John drinking with the rebels in token of the settlement reached between them and the King; and this loving cup turns out to be a poisoned one. ‘Let’s drink together friendly and embrace,’ Prince John proposes to the gullible insurgents, ‘That all… eyes may bear those tokens home / Of our restored love and amity’ (4.2.63-5); but as soon as the drink has been taken and the rebel army disbanded he has his new ‘friends’ arrested and carted off to ‘Treason’s true bed’ (4.2.123) – the executioner’s block – like drunks carried home after a night of over-indulgence. Drink makes men sick, as Falstaff himself informs us at the beginning of the play when he complains of the gout it has given him (1.3.244-5). And Falstaff’s celebration of Hal’s drink-induced warmth, too, turns cold when Hal freezes him out in the final act, rejecting him as irrelevant to his new kingly role. The old man’s sickness and death, so touchingly reported in Henry V, follow on naturally from the fact that Hal no longer needs either him or sack – or indeed ‘small beer’, the poor man’s tipple that Hal recalls with fondness early in Part Two (2.2.5-11) – to counteract the natural coldness of his dead father.
If Falstaff’s encomium of sack meshes with the metaphorical fabric of Part Two, his equally celebrated speech or ‘catechism’ on honour occupies a similar place in the figurative design of Part One (5.1.127-41). Honour is the preferred currency of the hot-blooded aristocrats who lead the rebellion in this part, and as Falstaff suggests, it is entirely constructed from air. At the beginning of the play Hotspur declares his intention of lifting his favoured claimant to the throne, Lord Mortimer, ‘As high in the air as this unthankful King’ (1.3.134); and the phrase makes insurrection sound like a kind of trapeze artistry, a dangerous and futile exercise in acrobatics. When he later boasts of the ease with which he might ‘pluck bright honour from the pale-fac’d moon’ (1.3.200) his uncle Worcester notes the emptiness of his rhetoric: ‘He apprehends a world of figures here, / But not the form of what he should attend’ (1.3.207-8). His speeches are glowing castles in the air, constructed and dismantled at a moment’s notice. The anonymous letter he receives warning him of the ‘lightness’ of his plot (2.3.12) triggers a lengthy speech from Hotspur dismissing the writer’s objections, which ends by blowing away the young man’s own anxieties in a trice and rendering itself superfluous: ‘Hang him, let him tell the King, we are prepared’ (2.3.33-4). Similarly, his lengthy speech detailing the rebels’ grievances in Act Four is retracted as soon as uttered: when Blunt asks, ‘Shall I return this answer to the King?’ the young man replies, ‘Not so, Sir Walter. We’ll withdraw awhile’ (4.3.106-7). Hotspur’s nightmares, which so worry his wife, are insubstantial visions, and made more so by Hotspur’s airy dismissal of Lady Percy’s worries. And the rebel is equally quick to dismiss his co-conspirator Glendower’s claims to supernatural powers as so much wind. The portents that occurred at the Welshman’s birth were for Hotspur merely a ‘kind of colic’ suffered by the earth (3.1.26), while Glendower himself is no more than a windbag: ‘I had rather live / With cheese and garlic, in a windmill, far, / Than feed on cates and have him talk to me / In any summer house in Christendom’ (3.1.155-8). The insubstantial airiness of Hotspur and his confederates has been well established, then, by the time Falstaff composes his catechism on honour, and the speech is the pin that finally bursts the rebels’ balloon. The word honour, he says – the groundwork of their action – is nothing but a sign without a referent, an empty cipher: ‘What is honour? A word. What is in that word honour? What is that honour? Air. A trim reckoning!’ (5.1.133-5). The last phrase sums up the fat knight’s attitude: honour will not pay any bills (reckonings), and its thinness makes it Falstaff’s meagre opposite, reduced to non-existence by comparison with his massive girth. Its lightness betrays the lightness of the insurgents, who aspire or mount upwards to power like the fire and wind that dominate the play’s imagery, and who crack jokes – something Hotspur does in the midst of his most serious business as enthusiastically as Hal or Jack – while leading their followers to a futile and unnecessary death. If Falstaff is disgraceful in his willingness to lie, bluster, con and steal his way through life, he is of infinitely greater substance or weight – as Cade was, despite his thinness – than the aristocratic men of honour he mocks, who (as Henry IV points out) justify their rebellion with washed out ‘water-colours’ (5.1.80) instead of sound political argument.
But the importance of Falstaff’s role as commentator stems not so much from his sensitivity to the governing metaphors of his time – after all, every character shares this sensitivity to some degree – as from his mastery of the arts of comedy. He is the greatest improviser in Shakespeare’s work, the greatest springer of outrageous verbal surprises and inventor of fire-new phrases; and these abilities come into their own in the age of Henry IV, when uneasy laughter reigns supreme in England. This is Shakespeare’s astounding contribution to the legend of Henry V as purveyed in the Famous Victories. Where the earlier play gives young Prince Harry a virtual monopoly on laughter – a monopoly that is reinforced, not undermined by the admiring mimicry of the clown Derrick – in the Second Tetralogy nearly every major political player has his own peculiar brand of humour, and Falstaff has unrivalled access to them all. It is this all-embracing comic vision to which Hal gains access by seeking Falstaff’s company; and in acquiring it he gains directorial control over the spectacular theatrical performance that is kingship, outmanoeuvring all his rivals with his carefully cultivated wit.
For Hal’s father Henry IV, the dominance of the comic in England began in the reign of Richard, the ‘skipping King’ who ‘ambled up and down, / With shallow jesters, and rash bavin wits’ until his subjects got sick of his constant playing and got rid of him (1 Henry IV, 3.2.60-1). But his death did not rid the land of his jesting spirit: Hotspur is one of its inheritors, and the most noteworthy thing about his rebellion, like that of Jack Cade, is how funny it is – and how relentlessly its humour directs itself against the King. On his first appearance, Hotspur transforms the King’s messenger into a contemptible fop, a ‘popinjay’ whose misplaced arrogance clearly reflects on the master he serves: ‘he made me mad / To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet, / And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman / Of guns, and drums, and wounds, God save the mark!’ (1.3.49-55). By implication, the King who sent him is equally alien to military action, equally willing to belittle the military achievements of his victorious generals – and equally funny. The morose Henry IV seems an unlikely candidate for comic status, but Hotspur assures his fellow conspirators that he is a ‘king of smiles’ (1.3.243) whose ‘jeering and disdain’d contempt’ has ‘fool’d, discarded’ and shaken them off (1.3.176-81). And in saying so Hotspur lays the grounds for treachery and rebellion. Reducing the King to the stature of a clown makes his overthrow seem easy, a matter of training a starling to shriek ‘Mortimer’ constantly in the monarch’s ear (1.3.221-3), of finding a ‘noble plot’ (1.3.273) – it hardly seems to matter which one – and of hurling yourself bodily into the bloody ‘sport’ of the battlefield (1.3.296). The Hotspur rebellion is an elaborate joke – a joke that turns sour at the end of the play – and this is what Falstaff’s commentary on it graphically demonstrates.
At each stage of the play the scenes dominated by Falstaff parody the actions of the rebels. Falstaff’s absurd self-inflation – his claims to heroism at Gadshill and the battle of Shrewsbury, his accusation of Mistress Quickly for stealing valuables he never possessed, even his baseless insults of the Prince in Part Two – exposes the self-inflation of the rebels, whose claims to honour and condemnation of Henry rest on an equally insubstantial basis. Falstaff is the master of the ‘incomprehensible lie’ or preposterous fib (1.2.181-2), which is, like his body, ‘gross as a mountain, open, palpable’ (2.5.222), but which he can defend or disown with the agility of a master fencer; and the palpable grossness of his lies alerts us to the equal grossness of the rebels’ fabrication of their case against their monarch. Besides these general resemblances, there are specific echoes of the rebels’ plot in Falstaff’s, some of which we have already noted. In the second scene, Falstaff asks Hal to change the designation of highway robbers when he is king; instead of thieves, he says, they should be rechristened ‘Diana’s foresters, gentlemen of the shade, minions of the moon’ (1.2.25-6); and his efforts to mythologize their lawlessness are no more absurd than the rebels’ efforts to dignify their cause with resonant titles. Later in the same scene, Falstaff looks forward to seeing the ‘true prince… prove a false thief’ when Hal takes part in the robbery at Gadshill (1.2.151-2); and in doing so he anticipates the following scene, where the rebels effectively accuse Henry of stealing the crown like a common criminal (1.3.138-57). Later still, Hal and Poins betray Falstaff after the robbery at Gadshill, robbing him of his ill-gotten booty in the interest of producing ‘laughter for a month, and a good jest for ever’ (2.2.94-5). Immediately afterwards Hotspur enters reading a letter from an unnamed friend, which tells him that ‘The purpose you undertake is dangerous, the friends you have named uncertain, the time itself unsorted, and your whole plot too light, for the counterpoise of so great an opposition’ (2.4.9-12). Hal’s plot against Falstaff, designed to deflate his monstrous pretensions, is no lighter than Hotspur’s light plot against his monarch, which aims to immortalize the names of its perpetrators through blood. And Hal’s betrayal of Falstaff – in Part One, at least – is a harmless one, a source of perpetual merriment to be commemorated in successive generations of jest-books and farces; where Hotspur’s betrayal of his former friend the King, and his later betrayal by his own allies (Glendower, Mortimer and his own father Northumberland fail to join him at the decisive battle of Shrewsbury) have dreadful consequences for his followers as well as for himself. Hotspur’s lightness, then, is exposed by Falstaff and Hal as a deplorable lapse in comic taste. And the nastiness of this lapse becomes more obvious as the play goes on: when Hal describes Hotspur telling his wife that killing ‘six or seven dozen of Scots at breakfast’ is ‘a trifle’ (2.4.101-7), for instance, or when Falstaff leads his company of ‘ragamuffins’ to be slaughtered on Shrewsbury field (5.3.35-8). By Part Two, insurrection is no longer comic – or if it is, the humour it produces is of the grimmest kind, like the horrible joke played on the insurgents by Prince John, who tells them as he sends them to the block, ‘Most shallowly did you these arms commence, / Fondly brought here, and foolishly sent hence’ (4.2.118-9). At this stage in the Tetralogy, nobody is inclined to laugh at the disastrous shallowness and folly of the ruling classes.
Like Hotspur’s humour, Hal’s is closely connected to betrayal. Shakespeare’s contemporary John Donne saw all humour as a form of betrayal: a betrayal of the expectations of its audience, who are surprised or shocked into laughter by its spontaneous reversals of their settled assumptions about what is to come. Of all humorists in the Second Tetralogy it is Hal who is most concerned to overthrow the expectations of his audience. His carefully-planned career constitutes an elaborate prank whose punch-line he sets up at the beginning of Part One: in the end, he says, he will ‘falsify men’s hopes’ with his abrupt reformation (1.2.206) and display himself as he is, like the sun breaking through ‘base contagious clouds’ in order to intensify the glory of his half-forgotten form (1.2.193). That Hal sees this as a joke is confirmed by his description of this future moment as a ‘playing holiday’ (1.2.199) – a break from, rather than a continuation of, the apparent holiday he has enjoyed in Falstaff’s company. As many commentators have noted, there is something cruel about this well-laid comic plot; and indeed Hal’s laughter at Falstaff’s expense often smacks of cruelty, even in the genial Part One. He is always insulting, needling or threatening him – most famously when Falstaff tells him that to banish ‘plump Jack’ would be to banish all the world, and Hal replies, ‘I do, I will’ (2.4.473-4). In response Falstaff is always threatening half-seriously to break off relations between them, like a lover conscious that his relationship is hurtful to his own health and may eventually end his life. Hal’s father fears that his relationship with Falstaff will do him moral harm, and this conventional view – that the young are always corrupted by the old, never vice versa – is reiterated by Falstaff himself when he plays the role of the King in an impromptu play: ‘pitch (as ancient writers do report) doth defile[.] So doth the company thou keepest’ (2.4.408-10). But the Prince proves wholly impervious to Falstaff’s gracelessness, and it is Falstaff who is always the loser by their connection. ‘Thou hast done much harm upon me, Hal,’ he says in their very first scene together, ‘God forgive thee for it’ (1.2.90-1); and the element of pain in their relationship is later summed up in a phrase of Hal’s: ‘Were’t not for laughing, I should pity him’ (2.2.109). The power is always on Hal’s side, and it is in teaching him how to take advantage of this power that Falstaff proves most useful to the heir apparent.
Hal’s humour, then, is a calculated matter, and as such it is the obverse of Falstaff’s. The Prince lays down careful comic plots: the robbery of Falstaff at Gadshill, the plan to expose the fat knight’s hypocrisy by eavesdropping on him disguised as a tapster in Part Two (2.2.163-70) – whereas Falstaff specializes in fashioning spontaneous responses to other people’s machinations. Jack’s only long-term plan is to get power and influence when Hal inherits the crown, and from the beginning it seems inevitable that Hal will overthrow this plan with a counter-plot of his own, prepared and executed with almost bureaucratic precision. The Prince displays the same cold, bureaucratic sense of humour when he exposes a conspiracy against him in Henry V by presenting the traitors – his former friends – with scrolls detailing their treason at the point when they least expect it (2.2.13ff.). In a treacherous world, Hal is the master traitor; though oddly enough, his treason consists in keeping his word rather than breaking it, since honesty is the last thing anyone expects from a ruling class riddled with oath-breakers.
The contrast between Hal’s and Falstaff’s comic styles is at its sharpest in their differing attitudes to time and money. The rebellion in Part One is sparked off by the rebels’ awareness that the King is irrecoverably indebted to them for supporting him in his rise to power: ‘The King,’ says Worcester, ‘will always think him in our debt, / And think we think ourselves unsatisfy’d, / Till he hath found a time to pay us home’ (1.3.280-2), and the insurgents therefore think themselves obliged to deny him this valuable time, to forestall his attack on them with a speedy attack of their own. Hal’s aim, then, is to avoid debts as far as he can, to put others in his debt as much as possible, and to pay off any debts he owes instantly, before they can accumulate interest. At Shrewsbury he tells the rebel Douglas that ‘It is the Prince of Wales that threatens thee, / Who never promiseth but he means to pay’ (5.4.41-2); and sure enough, Hal is always dispensing funds to defray expenses, from the bills Falstaff owes at the Boar’s Head to the money stolen at Gadshill. This is one source of his power over Falstaff; and it is also a source of his power over Hotspur, who is in Hal’s debt for the advantages he gains by occupying Hal’s rightful position as apparent heir to the kingdom. The Prince describes Hotspur as his ‘factor’ or financial manager, employed to ‘engross up glorious deeds on my behalf’ until such time as Hal ‘will call him to… account’, when Hotspur will ‘render every glory up, / Yea, even the slightest worship of his time, / Or I will tear the reckoning from his heart’ (3.2.147-52). For Hal, then, time is money, and even his seeming period of idleness with Falstaff is productive, since his investment in Hotspur accumulates interest in the Prince’s absence. He has an instinctive grasp of the principles of emergent capitalism that marks him out as a member of a new generation, as Hotspur, with his adherence to a redundant code of chivalry, or Henry, with his abiding conviction of the inherent sanctity of kingship, are not.
Falstaff, meanwhile, is an inveterate evader of taxes, an accumulator of debts he never means to repay, a shameless sponger. Time for him is to be stretched and distorted at will, beguiled with amateur dramatics, lost in an alcoholic haze, falsified as he falsifies his age. ‘What a devil hast thou to do with the time of the day?’ Hal asks him on his first appearance (1.2.6), and in doing so introduces us to a world that is governed by different priorities than those of Henry IV, who in the previous scene was urgently seeking ‘a time for frighted peace to pant’ (1.1.2), but whose efforts to free himself from the tyranny of time are repeatedly frustrated in the course of the two central plays of the Tetralogy. Falstaff and his tavern, then, are a place of retreat for Hal, an escape from the pressures of the official calendar and a breathing-space in which to draw up a calendar of his own; and both these functions vindicate comedy from the common Elizabethan charge of being a waste of time – the charge Richard II memorably invoked when he said, in the scene of his death, ‘I wasted time, and now doth time waste me’ (5.5.49). The tavern is also a location in which the nature of capital can be contemplated at leisure. For Falstaff, money like time is subject to the imagination: insubstantial, governed by no fixed rules, and therefore incapable of getting any kind of hold on him – just as he is unable to get any hold on it. The credit with which he pays for his drink – credit he derives from his friendship with Hal, whose financial prospects are theoretically boundless – is wholly imaginary, like the money he claims was stolen from him as he slept. He obtains money by imaginative improvisation: taking advantage of his command of a company in the civil wars to garner cash from prosperous men who are too scared to fulfil their feudal duty of fighting for the crown (4.2.11-47); or collecting from Hotspur the debt he owes to Hal (it is for his non-existent part in killing Hotspur in Part One that he climbs to social pre-eminence in Part Two). Falstaff matches Hal’s ability to collect debts from other people with a seemingly boundless capacity for escaping ‘shot-free’ (1 Henry IV, 5.3.30) – a skill that helps him to avoid injury from gun-shots in battle as easily as he avoids paying bills in peacetime. This capacity for transferring one’s obligations, debts and guilt to other people is another thing Hal will find invaluable when he inherits the kingdom, at which point Hal begins to exert all his imaginative faculties, in Falstavian fashion, to offload the obligations, debts and guilt he inherited with it. But the price Hal pays for acquiring Falstaff’s skills of comic evasion is his casting-off of Falstaff; a deed for which audiences have found it hard to forgive him, despite the seeming success of his efforts to obtain forgiveness for his deeds from heaven.
 Valerie Traub compares Falstaff’s body to that of a pregnant woman in Desire and Anxiety: Circulations of Sexuality in Shakespearean Drama (London, 1992), pp. 56-61.
 For Falstaff’s class see Paul N. Siegel, The Gathering Storm: Shakespeare’s English and Roman History Plays: a Marxist Analysis (London, 1992), ch. 6.
 For the health-giving properties of laughter, attested to by Hippocrates, as well as its ill effects on the body, see Laurent Joubert, Treatise on Laughter, especially Book 3, chs. 14, 15 and 16, pp. 126-33. The English physician Andrew Borde, who studied like Joubert at the University of Montpellier, thought that mirth could be both therapeutic and dangerous: ‘there be many… myrthes and consolacions, some being good and laudable, and some vytuperable… myrth is when a man lyveth out of det, and may have meate and drinke and cloth, although he have never a peny in his purse; but nowe a dayes, he is merye that hath golde and sylver,, and ryches with lechery; and all is not worth a blewe poynte.’ Elsewhere Boorde opines: ‘A mery herte and mynde, the whiche is in reste and quyetnes,, without adversyte and to moche worldly busyness, causeth a man to lyve longe, and to loke yongly, although he be agyd. Care and sorowe bryngeth in age and deth, wherefore let every man be mery; and yf he can not, let hym resorte to mery company to breke of his perplexatyves.’ Andrew Boorde’s Introduction and Dyetary, ed. F. J. Furnivall, Early English Text Society (London, 1870), pp. 88 and 300.
 For an account of the humours see F. David Hoeniger, Medicine and Shakespeare in the English Renaissance (Newark, London and Toronto, 1992), ch.5, esp. pp. 102-7. The chapter culminates in an analysis of Falstaff’s defence of sherris-sack. The centrality of the humours to the Second Tetralogy is hinted at in the title of the 1600 quarto of 2 Henry IV: The Second Part of Henry the Fourth, Continuing to his Death, and Coronation of Henry the Fifth. With the Humours of Sir John Falstaff, and Swaggering Pistol. For metaphors of the body in early modern England see Leonard Barkan, Nature’s Work of Art: The Human Body as Image of the World (New Haven, 1975).
 Northumberland uses the same metaphor when he decides to betray his fellow rebels: ‘’Tis with my mind / As with the tide swell’d up unto his height, / That makes a still-stand, running neither way’ (2 Henry IV, 2.3.62-4).
 Before the battle of Shrewsbury, too, Hal notes that ‘The southern wind / Doth play the trumpet to his purposes, / And by his hollow whistling in the leaves / Foretells a tempest’ (1 Henry IV, 5.1.3-6) – a bad omen for the rebels who have been associated with air and wind.
 Leonard Tennenhouse gives an account of what Hal learns from Falstaff in ‘Strategies of State and Political Plays: A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Henry IV, Henry V, Henry VIII’, Political Shakespeare: Essays in Cultural Materialism, ed. Jonathan Dollimore and Alan Sinfield, second edition (Manchester, 1994), pp. 109-28. For another perspective see Graham Holderness, Shakespeare Recycled: The Making of Historical Drama (New York etc., 1992), ch. 6.
 In this speech, too, air dominates the elements: Hotspur is ‘breathless’ from his exertions during the battle, and the ‘perfumed’ courtier is offended by the smell of a corpse that comes ‘Betwixt the wind and his nobility’ (I Henry IV, 1.3.31-44).
[Here is the first part of a chapter cut out of my book Shakespeare and Comedy; a lost chapter, then, rather than a lost book. If you like it, print it out and put it between the last chapter of the book and the conclusion!]
For the Elizabethans, the past was populated with laughter-mongers. Jest-books disinterred the buried careers of the great clowns of English history: Scoggin and Will Summers, John Skelton and Long Meg of Westminster, Dobson, Hobson and the magician Roger Bacon. These were clever, tough commoners whose brushes with authority made them all too familiar with the insides of prisons and the danger of death, but the political impact of whose escapades was softened by the cushion of intervening generations. The jest-book gave birth to the historical novel of the 1590s, in which the cheerful Clothier Jack of Newbury has run-ins with Cardinal Wolsey, or the page Jack Wilton finds himself whirling through early sixteenth-century Europe, getting caught up in the wars of the Reformation and fleeing from outbreaks of the Plague. On the stage, too, non-Shakespearean English history plays were often dominated by wayward comedians, who were either commoners or fraternizers with the commonalty: the Robin Hood figure George a Green, who beats up treacherous lords but remains fiercely loyal to the English throne; Robin Hood himself, who teamed up with George a Green in the 1580s and starred in two tragicomedies of his own in the late 1590s, skirmishing with the despicable Prince John; the parson-highwayman Sir John of Wrotham, who gave Henry V a taste of his own medicine by robbing him on the king’s own highway in Sir John Oldcastle Part 1; and young Prince Harry of England himself, who with his drinking companions bears a striking resemblance to Robin Hood and his merry men in the anonymous Famous Victories of Henry V. If chronicle histories narrated England’s past as a series of solemn encounters between kings, nobles, and powerful churchmen, the prose and drama of the late sixteenth century put certain lords on intimate terms with their humblest subjects, and thrust clowns ‘by head and shoulders’, as Sidney put it, into the affairs of state that formed the English nation.
Shakespeare’s Falstaff is the prodigal heir to this rich tradition of historical clowning. As a boy he fought with Scoggin at the Inns of Court (so Justice Shallow tells us) and broke his head; and his fake death at the battle of Shrewsbury is a feat he borrows from Scoggin’s Jests. He mimics the exploits of Robin Hood on the king’s highway at Gadshill, and clashes with authority, as represented by the Lord Chief Justice, in parodic imitation of the clashes between Skelton or Jack of Newbury and the upstart Lord Chancellor of England, Cardinal Wolsey. He takes on himself the wilder aspects of Prince Harry’s conduct in the Famous Victories, and shares with Jack Wilton both a skill in impersonating aristocracy and a perception of history as a sustained assault on the human body, bloating, starving, infecting or dealing wounds on its victims in an unholy alliance with succeeding generations of powerful men.
Above all, like these jest-book heroes and theatrical wise-crackers he demonstrates the extent to which laughter permeates history, and the centrality of those things to which laughter is addicted (improvisations, quixotic quests for material gain, hunger, alcohol, sexual voracity, the cutting down to size of misplaced arrogance) to the past and present of Elizabethan England. Falstaff’s bulky presence – its sheer size a testimony to the awe-inspiring effects of excessive laughter on the human frame  – threatens to reshape our perceptions of the ruling classes who dominate the chronicles, confirming for us the absurdity of their priorities, the appalling destructiveness of their swollen ambitions. If actors are, as Hamlet says, ‘the abstract and brief chronicles of the time’ (2.2.525), Falstaff makes these chronicles look both more substantial and more true to life than other forms of history, written as these are at the behest of monarchs. At the same time, the comic lessons Falstaff imparts to his protégé Prince Hal help to shape him into a powerful and popular monarch, Henry V. His comic performance instructs the young prince in the art of wittily rewriting the past, an accomplishment that permits him to consolidate his position as king by a deft deployment of the power of comedy. For Shakespeare as for Marlowe, the humour that transcends class boundaries is a potent political tool, capable of making and destroying kings; and it is in the series of plays known as the Second Tetralogy [Richard II, 1 Henry IV, 2 Henry IV, Henry V], with Falstaff in the middle of them, that he explores this notion most intensively.
Falstaff carries with him strong echoes of Shakespeare’s most disturbing earlier representation of the clown in English history: the rebel Jack Cade from the First Tetralogy (1 Henry VI,2 Henry VI, 3 Henry VI, Richard III), a ferociously anarchic revision of George a Green, who refuses to offer any consistent rationale for the massacres he perpetrates among the ruling classes. The popular hero George a Green kills nobles who betray their king; Jack Cade betrays his king by killing nobles. More disturbingly, Jack is a king, in his own imagination and that of his followers, and so confirms the fear of Stephen Gosson that comedy could simulate and perhaps even stimulate insurrection. He is the clown as king, just as in the Famous Victories young Prince Harry is the king as clown. Cade’s proximity to this early version of Henry V, written by an anonymous playwright before 1588, is one of the many disturbing elements in his spectacular career, and helps to link him with the Shakespearean Hal’s ambiguous companion Falstaff.
In the Famous Victories, young Prince Harry leads a troupe of riotous knights round the taverns of London and shares with them a radical vision for his future kingdom that anticipates Cade’s plans for it in more ways than one. Harry and his friends intend to share power equally (‘we would be all kings’ (1.79-80)); to abolish ‘prisoning’, hanging and whipping – at least, for courageous highwaymen, who will instead get royal pensions for their courage (5.10-12); and to turn the prisons into fencing-schools, where Harry will fight a decisive ‘bout’ with the Lord Chief Justice (5.20-2). Later Harry undergoes a conversion to orthodoxy like his Shakespearean counterpart Hal; but the Henry V of the 1580s never forgets his experience as a tavern-haunting prankster. When the Dauphin of France sends him tennis balls, ‘meaning that you are more fitter for a tennis-court than a field, and more fitter for a carpet than the camp’ (9.112-3), this Harry responds with the jocular bravado made famous by Hal (‘tell him that instead of balls of leather we will toss him balls of brass and iron’ (9.114-6)); but unlike Shakespeare’s hero he repeats the joke throughout his French campaign. On hearing that the Dauphin will not fight at Agincourt Harry says he is disappointed to have lost the chance to thrash him at tennis (12.24-33); and when a French herald asks him to set the terms of his ransom Harry replies that he will give ‘not so much as one poor tennis-ball’ to free himself in the event of his capture (14.41). His humorous courtship of the French king’s daughter forms part of an unbroken continuum of aggressive wit that stretches from his tavern days in London to the successful completion of his continental campaign. Continuity is emphasized by the fact that his actions are periodically echoed by a bevy of insubordinate commoners led by Derick – originally played by the great Dick Tarlton – who starts out as a carrier robbed by one of Harry’s wild companions and ends as the most timorous soldier at the battle of Agincourt.
The Harry of the Famous Victories, then, represents a wish-fulfilment fantasy for regulars at the London taverns. If he does not fulfil his promise to turn prisons into fencing-schools, he retains his keen appetite for sports, and never loses the sense of humour so essential for a good night on the town. But he is also a wish-fulfilment fantasy for his father, effortlessly reconciling this role with his reputation as a fun-loving criminal. Before his death Henry IV foretells the prince’s smooth transition from bold, bad youth to world-class conqueror, predicting that ‘he will prove as valiant and victorious a king as ever reigned in England’ (8.4-5), as if Harry’s adolescent exploits are a form of training for his role as a military leader. In this early play, laughter is the secret weapon of the English monarchy, binding subjects to the king’s service with ties stronger than those of feudal duty, and forming a powerful element in the rhetorical arsenal with which England differentiates itself from, and seeks to assert its superiority to, its continental neighbours.
In Shakespeare’s 2 Henry VI, by contrast, royalty has signally failed to differentiate itself from the ambitious subjects who seek to acquire it, just as England’s foreign battles have failed either to unite its warring factions at home or to establish its supremacy in Europe. Jack Cade is the product of a domestic tiff among the English aristocracy that culminates in civil war, and his antics, much more than Derick’s, amount to a devastating critique of the ruling class. In this, perhaps the first of Shakespeare’s history plays – scholars have argued that 1 Henry VI was written later  – the health of the nation can be gauged by the state of relations between the classes, and by the time Cade’s insurrection takes place these relations have effectively collapsed. Warring nobles articulate their hatred for one another by contemptuous references to poverty or low birth. York describes the supporters of the King as ‘Pirates’ (1.1.220), the Queen thinks her arch-rival the Duchess of Gloucester a ‘Contemptuous base-born callet’ (1.3.84), and at the point when Cade’s rebellion breaks out Suffolk and Warwick are trading insults concerning one another’s connection to the peasantry (Warwick’s mother, says Suffolk, ‘took into her blameful bed / Some stern untutored churl’, while Warwick childishly retorts that ‘it was thy mother that thou meant’st’ (3.2.211-23)). The one noble who is loved by the common people – the good Duke Humphrey of Gloucester – is held in contempt for his ‘base and humble mind’ by his own ambitious wife (1.2.62), and eventually murdered by his aristocratic colleagues. Meanwhile ordinary subjects have their petitions to the King torn up by his unfaithful Queen (‘Away, base cullions!’ (1.3.41)), are reduced to conning one another ‘for pure need’ (2.1.149), and find themselves reluctantly embroiled in the squabbles among the nobles, taking justice into their own hands for want of adequate legal representation in the courts. An apprentice accuses his master of high treason for saying that the Duke of York has a better claim to the throne than King Henry, and afterwards kills him in a parodic trial-by-combat (2.3.47ff.); and later Suffolk finds himself put on trial at sea by a crew of real pirates, who sentence him to death for crimes against the ‘good Duke Humphrey’, Henry VI, the house of York, and the state (4.1.70-103). Suffolk is amazed and horrified that such lowly subjects should have power to kill him. He calls the pirate captain an ‘Obscure and lousy swain’ (4.1.50), leader of a gang of ‘paltry, servile, abject drudges’ (4.1.105), and insists ‘it is impossible that I should die / By such a lowly vassal as thyself’ (4.1.110-1). But die he does, and his death marks the temporary transference of power in the play from the aristocracy to the commoners: the kind of hierarchic inversion that would have horrified theatre-haters such as Stephen Gosson, John Rankins and Philip Stubbes. The arrival of the commoners at the heart of history is signaled by the arrival of full-blooded comedy – the theatrical mode associated with commoners – in Act 4 scene 2. And the mock-king who presides over the play’s comic climax is the cloth-worker Jack Cade.
Cade’s ferocious directness comes as a welcome relief after the stifling spectacle to which we have been subjected before his appearance, in which aristocrats barely conceal their loathing for one another beneath a brittle veneer of courtesy. Cade never pretends, as they do, to be honourable or consistent. He readily admits, for instance, what the audience already knows, that it was the Duke of York who encouraged him to assert his claim to the throne, and that he invented the details of his royal pedigree for himself. As he explains this pedigree to his followers, his friends Dick the Butcher and Smith the Weaver undermine it with a running commentary: his father was ‘an honest man and a good bricklayer’ (4.2.37-8), his mother a midwife, his valour is attested by his open practice of illegal beggary, his endurance by his experience of being frequently whipped (presumably as a vagrant; we are later told that he has no home to go to). But there is something exhilarating about the repeated deflation of Cade’s pretensions. The arrogant nobles who have dominated the play are equally inconsistent in their claims and counter-claims, and much less amusing in their inconsistency. Cade’s birth and background, matters by which the nobility set so much store and over which they have wrangled since the opening scene of the play, clearly do not matter very much to Cade or his men, and his real claim to deserve a stake in England’s government derives from a much sounder principle: that ‘Adam was a gardener’ (4.2.126), so that all pedigrees in the end are equally ancient, and anyone has an equal right to join the competition to seize the crown. Besides, Cade’s programme for reforming the kingdom – or refurbishing its garments, as his followers put it, in honour of his trade (4.2.4-6) – is full of disarming details. Seven halfpenny loaves are to be sold for a penny, there will be a ban on weak beer, all land will be held in common and the monetary system abandoned, everyone will eat and drink at the king’s expense and wear the same clothes so that ‘they may agree like brothers’ (4.2.70-1), the aristocracy and gentry will be wiped out, and in the first year of his reign one of the London fountains shall ‘run nothing but claret wine’ (4.6.3-4). No noble in the play has a vision to match these. Indeed, not one of them seems to have imagined instituting any kind of programme for social reform – a failure that Cade’s programme helps to expose, despite its absurdity. For much of Shakespeare’s audience one suspects the laughter that accompanied Cade’s campaign would have been more delighted than derisory.
At the same time, there is a frightening aspect to Jack Cade. He is prone to outbreaks of Tamburlainian violence, either sudden – as in the hanging of the Clerk of Chatham and the impromptu killing of a soldier who calls him by the wrong name – or calculated, as in his proposal that ‘there shall not a maid be married, but she shall pay to me her maidenhead ere they have it’ (4.7.114-6). And his sense of humour is as aggressive as that of the aristocracy he aims to supplant. After decapitating Lord Say and his son-in-law he has their heads put on poles and gives the order that they be made to ‘kiss’ at every street corner, in token of their supposed conspiracy to surrender England’s possessions in France (4.7.123-9). Most disturbing of all, perhaps, is the reasoning that underpins his most extreme acts of violence: his rooted antagonism to learning in all its manifestations. The Clerk of Chatham is executed because he can write his name, while Lord Say condemns himself to death by the very skill with which he begs for mercy: ‘He shall die,’ Cade decides, ‘an it be but for pleading so well for his life’ (4.7.100-1). Surely, we may think, Shakespeare is here working to undermine any sympathy we might have conceived for the rebels. As an educated man he could hardly have disagreed with Lord Say’s view that ‘ignorance is the curse of God’ and ‘Knowledge the wing wherewith we fly to heaven’ (4.7.68-9), and Cade himself confesses he feels ‘remorse’ for his determination to execute the apparently deserving noble (4.7.99). At such times Cade’s behaviour seems to set him on the high road to hell, to which Anthony Iden consigns him at the end of Act Four (4.10.76-8), as if in vindication of the beliefs of the educated middle class (the class that included Erasmus, Luther, Marlowe, Gosson, Jonson and Shakespeare himself) who saw education as the road to personal success, if not to a more widespread social redemption, and ignorance as a vice akin to idleness.
Yet our discomfort with Cade’s aggression is based on shaky premises. Above all, it relies on the too-easy assumption that everyone in a given historical epoch shares a consistent set of values, with learning, reason and benevolence near the top of the moral hierarchy and rape, murder and betrayal near the bottom. In 2 Henry VI this assumption has been exploded long before Cade’s arrival by the behaviour of the English nobles, who blithely arrange for the assassination of the innocent Lord Protector, and whose predatory sexual behaviour belies their stated respect for uncontaminated bloodlines. Cade’s most outrageous actions, in fact, merely parody those of his social superiors. His announcement that he will have the right to sleep with all virgins in the realm before their marriage revives an old feudal privilege claimed by local lords, as well as further undermining an aristocratic system of heredity that has already been seriously compromised by the aristocrats themselves. And his contempt for learning echoes his former master York’s contempt for the ‘bookish’ Henry VI (1.1.257). Cade, however, has far better reason than York for his hostility to letters, since learning has very different connotations for the powerful than for the powerless. As applied by lawyers, learning makes possible the atrocious situation that ‘parchment, being scribbled o’er, should undo a man’ (4.2.75-6); that judges are able ‘to call poor men before them, about matters they [are] not able to answer’ (4.7.38-9); and that the setting of a seal on a written contract may sign away a person’s freedom (‘I did but seal once to a thing,’ claims Cade, ‘and I was never my own man since’ (4.2.77-8)). As a remedy for these abuses Cade proposes to kill all lawyers, burn all written records and distribute justice orally: ‘My mouth,’ he says, ‘shall be the parliament of England’ (4.7.12-13). His oral form of government is no more arbitrary than the regime it replaces; and in proposing it he strikes a blow in the ongoing struggle between the social classes in early modern Europe, exposing the complacency of the intellectual assumptions on which the polemics of the theatre-haters – and indeed the whole humanist educational enterprise on which they drew for their arguments – depended.
Cade’s career is a short one, but even its ending reveals the moral vacuum at the heart of the English hegemony. Lord Clifford seduces his followers to turn against him by invoking the name of the dead national hero Henry V: a warlord whose popularity rested on his appeal to English xenophobia rather than his birthright (from one point of view, his claim to the throne was not much better than Cade’s). As we have seen, young Henry’s plans for England in the Famous Victories and Cade’s plans for a new commonwealth in 2 Henry VI have much in common – except that Harry renounces his plans when he gets the crown, whereas Cade never ceases to urge his followers to ‘recover your ancient freedom’ (4.8.26-7). Lord Clifford invokes Henry’s name in a spurious promise to channel the commoners’ aggression into a new assault against their old enemies the French, whose recent successes against the English form part of the general resentment against the current administration. ‘Will [Cade] conduct you through the heart of France,’ Clifford asks, ‘And make the meanest of you earls and dukes?’ (4.8.36-7). As the Elizabethan audience knew full well, Clifford has no intention of doing any such thing: the only wars in prospect for the English are civil ones. The empty call to arms that closes his speech, and to which Cade’s followers respond so enthusiastically (‘To France! To France! And get what you have lost!’ (4.8.49)), perfectly demonstrates the lack of a shared set of values or a trustworthy system of communication between the rulers and the ruled in England. The land is fundamentally split, Henry V and his heroic deeds are dead and buried, and Cade’s efforts to reinvent England on a new model are founded on an accurate perception of its irreversibly damaged current state.
Cade is a home-grown threat, rooted in English soil as firmly as any noble. Yet he is able to mimic England’s foreign enemies with the same skill he displays in mimicking the aristocracy. He looks exactly like Lord Mortimer, heir to Richard II, York tells us (3.1.371-2); yet during England’s war with Ireland Cade has often spied on the Irish disguised as a ‘shag-haired crafty kern […] And, undiscovered, come to me again / And given me notice of their villainies’ (3.1.366-9). England’s most despised antagonists overseas and her most privileged native sons have become indistinguishable in the current climate; and this loss of distinction is underscored when York invades England at the head of an Irish army while announcing himself as ‘England’s lawful king’ (5.1.4). Clearly England under Henry VI nurtures the seeds of its own destruction. At the same time, its abundantly fruitful soil is incapable of sustaining all the English equally under the current regime; a fact we are apprised of by the death of Cade. In a final gesture of defiance the starving rebel confronts a prosperous landowner, Anthony Iden, in his orchard: and the comparison that follows between the landowner’s sturdy body and Cade’s emaciated corpse offers an animated picture of the commoners’ grievances against the wealthy. ‘Thy hand is but a finger to my fist,’ Iden points out (4.10.47-8), ‘Thy leg a stick compared with this truncheon’ (meaning his own swelling thigh and calf). The garden of England is only Eden to those like Iden with the means and the name to take advantage of it; everyone else is an enemy of the nation, regardless of nationality. The rights of men as the common descendants of Adam have no place there, and ‘ancient freedom’ has been replaced with backbreaking ‘slavery to the nobility’ (4.8.28). If nothing else, the comic mock-history of Jack Cade graphically illustrates the amount of mental and physical ‘labour’ that will be necessary before ‘the public good’ takes precedence over private interest in this divided country. And after its suppression, the claims of the nobility to be working in the interests of the people of England look thinner and more self-deluding than their comic shadow Cade did at his death.
Cade’s history displays the extent to which the commoner’s medium – laughter – may both comment on and affect the course of public events, despite the claims of the ruling classes to have a monopoly over national politics. The Famous Victories showed this too, of course, but in 2 Henry VI laughter undermines the monarchy instead of sustaining it. Cade proves the power of comic fooling both to subvert ‘legitimate’ claims to power and to forge outrageous new ones; and the lesson is taken up after Cade’s death by the funniest and most alarming of Shakespeare’s monarchs, Richard III, who effectively laughs the heads off his rivals as he jests his way to power. Richard fails, however, to harness popular support as Cade does, so that his reign gets increasingly humourless as it staggers towards its end, unable to sustain the tide of anxious mirth that swept this despot to power with the horrified approval of the playhouse audience. It remains for Prince Hal to learn the trick of popularity from Cade’s successor Falstaff, whose ample body gives weight and lasting sustenance to Hal’s serio-comic campaign for the crown, as Cade’s skeletal corpse and Richard’s twisted frame were unable to do for theirs.
 Will Summers – jester to Henry VIII – was celebrated in A Pleasant History of the Life and Death of Will Summers(1637). The heroic Long Meg, who also lived in Henry’s time, starred in The Life of Long Meg of Westminster (1620). Dobson the early Elizabethan chorister-cum-practical-joker held court in Dobson’s Dry Bobs (1607), while his contemporary the haberdasher Hobson was commemorated by Richard Johnson in The Pleasant Conceits of Old Hobson the Merry Londoner (1607). Roger Bacon’s career was recorded in The Famous History of Friar Bacon (1625). Some of these texts were published in Elizabethan times, although the early editions have been lost; the Famous History, for instance, was the likely source of Greene’s play Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay (c. 1592).
 See Thomas Deloney, Jack of Newbury (1597), and Thomas Nashe, The Unfortunate Traveller (1594), both reprinted in Paul Salzman (ed.), An Anthology of Elizabethan Prose Fiction (Oxford and New York, 1987).
 Star of the anonymous play George a Green, The Pinner of Wakefield (c. 1590).
 The tragicomedies are Anthony Munday, The Downfall of Robert, Earl of Huntingdon and The Death of Robert, Earl of Huntingdon (1598). Robin Hood fights with George a Green in lines 1049-1106 of the anonymous play: see Joseph Quincy Adams (ed.), Chief Pre-Shakespearean Dramas (London, Calcutta and Sydney, n.d.), p. 708.
 See Sir John Oldcastle, Part 1, in The Oldcastle Controversy: Sir John Oldcastle, Part 1; The Famous Victories of Henry V, ed. Peter Corbin and Douglas Sedge, The Revels Plays Companion Library (Manchester and New York, 1991), sc. 10.
 The phrase ‘by head and shoulders’ comes from Philip Sidney’s discussion of Elizabethan clowning, An Apology for Poetry, ed. Geoffrey Shepherd, revised R. W. Maslen (Manchester, 2002), p. 112, line 3.
 The classic account of Falstaff in the context of Shakespearean comedy is C. L. Barber, Shakespeare’s Festive Comedy: A Study of Dramatic Form and its Rellattion to Social Custom (Princeton, 1959), especially ch. 8.
 See W. Carew Hazlitt (ed.), Shakespeare Jest-Books, 3 vols. (London, 1864), vol. 2, p. 155: ‘Scogin seeing that he had lost the favour of the King and Queene, hee mused how he might be pardoned of the King and of the Queene. Hee heard say that the King would ride a progress, and at a convenient place, Scogin said to his servant: cast a coverlet over me, and say that I am dead, and say that, at my departure, I desired thee to pray to the King and Queen to forgive me. When the King and Queene did come by, Scogin lying under the coverlet by the high way, his servant said: here doth lye Scogin dead, and when hee departed, hee prayed both your Graces to forgive him. Now (said the King and Queen) God forgive him, and wee do. Scogin start up, and sayd: I do thank both your Graces, and hereafter I will no more displease you: for I see it is more harder to keepe a friend, then to get one.’
 For Skelton’s clashes with Cardinal Wolsey see Shakespeare Jest-Books, ed. Hazlitt, vol. 2, pp. 18 and 34. For Jack of Newbury’s run-ins with the cardinal see An Anthology of Elizabethan Prose Fiction, ed. Paul Salzman (Oxford, 1987), pp. 346-7 and 364-6.
 For a comparison of Nashe’s Jack Wilton and Falstaff see Neil Rhodes, Elizabethan Grotesque (London, Boston and Henley, 1980), Part 2: ‘Shakespearean Grotesque: The Falstaff Plays’.
 For the notion, derived from the Greek physician Hippocrates, that laughter makes you fat, see Laurent Joubert, Treatise on Laughter, translated and annotated by Gregory David de Rocher (University, Alabama, 1980), Book 3, ch. 13, pp. 124-6.
 George kills the traitor Sir Gilbert Armstrong at lines 693-781 of Adams’s edition.
 All references are to the edition of The Famous Victories in The Oldcastle Controversy, ed. Peter Corbin and Douglas Sedge.
 On Tarlton’s performance in Famous Victories see The Oldcastle Controversy, ed. Corbin and Sedge, pp. 25-8.
 For a detailed account of the dates and sequence of the Henry VI plays see King Henry VI Part 2, ed. Ronald Knowles, The Arden Shakespeare (Walton-on-Thames, 1999), pp. 111-21. See also Stanley Wells, Gary Taylor et al., William Shakespeare: A Textual Companion (Oxford, 1987), pp. 111-3.
 For Cade’s relationship to the real fears of the Elizabethan authorities see Annabel Patterson, Shakespeare and the Popular Voice (Oxford, 1989), ch. 2.
 See The Norton Shakespeare, The First Part of the Contention of the Two Famous Houses of York and Lancaster (2 Henry VI), 4.7.112n.
 Salisbury and Warwick promise to ‘labour’ for the ‘common profit’ of the land at 1.1.180-204.