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| Papers on Language & Literature, Vol. 33, 1997 Fissured
families: a motif in Marlowe's plays
by Lisa Hopkins
Christopher Marlowe's plays are littered with family groups shattered and destroyed, either through their own actions or those of others.(1) Sometimes the disharmony is limited to family disagreements or ideological disunity within the family group; at other points it becomes more extreme, leading to internecine betrayal and even murder. As Frank Ardolino suggests, "the composite roles family members play as both fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, brothers and sisters provide Marlowe with rich sources of complex interactions and the opportunity to portray the tensions created by the shifting roles, to limn, in short, the dynamics of power as established within the microcosm of the family" (83).(2) I want to argue, though, that Marlowe does more than simply "limn" these: I am going to suggest that he provides a sharply focused and detailed critique of the problematics of familial interaction, and that, contrary to modern, psychoanalytically driven theorizing of the family, he sees these as arising fundamentally not from inherent inter-gene rational struggle, nor from the kinds of mythic model proposed by Ardolino--who sees the plays as radically informed by the Uranus-Jupiter-Saturn model--but as an aberration caused by particular aspects of social injustice and malaise. In what seems likely to have been Marlowe's earliest play, Dido, Queen of Carthage, the issue of family features very strongly. The play opens with what looks like a traditional scene of family life: a man with a boy on his lap. But we rapidly discover that this is not a scene of a father and a son, but instead of what the British government has termed "a pretended family," two homosexual lovers (homosexuality is something to which I will return in due course). Moreover, Jupiter promises to subordinate the interests of his real family to those of his lover Ganymede: he gives the boy the jewels which his wife Juno wore on her wedding day, and plucks a feather from the wing of his son Hermes.(3) The family conflict presaged here is actualized when Jupiter's daughter, Venus, enters--not in her traditional role as goddess of love, but, very pointedly, in her capacity as a mother, and, by implication, in the even less likely role, for a sex symbol, as grandmother. (This point is also stressed again later in the characters' repeated references to the kinship ties between herself, Aeneas, Ascanius, and her other son Cupid.) Jupiter's infatuation with Ganymede, she claims, has had repercussions throughout the family in that it has prevented him from paying proper attention to the welfare of her son Aeneas. Thus an initial lack of proper conjugal relations between husband and wife has apparently escalated into a situation which also affects both Jupiter's daughter and his grandson, and which will have serious implications too for his great-grandson Aeneas. We may, after all, remember, as David Farley-Hills reminds us in relation to Tamburlaine, that Jupiter usurped and killed his own father (45). The speech which Jupiter then makes to Venus assures her that she is wrong, and that he still has Aeneas's interests at heart: Content thee, Cytherea, in thy care, Since thy Aeneas' wandering fate is firm, Whose weary limbs shall shortly make repose In those fair walls I promis'd him of yore. (I.i.82-5) In fact, however, the play itself proves Venus to be very accurate in her diagnosis of strains within the family. She has less insight into the cause, though, for she is herself complicit in it. When she visits the son for whom she has professed so much affection, she appears in disguise to him; only after she has left does he detect her identity, and he then proceeds to lament the lack of a closer relationship between them. Here we seem to be invited to discern that Jupiter's own poor parenting skills have, in one of the classic patterns of child abuse, been transmitted in turn to his daughter, who fails to mother her son as he would wish. This is made very clear in Aeneas's moving comments as he realizes the identity of the disguised figure with whom he has been talking: Achates, 'tis my mother that is fled; I know her by the movings of her feet. Stay, gentle Venus, fly not from thy son! Too cruel, why wilt thou forsake me thus, Or in these shades deceiv'st mine eye so oft? Why talk we not together hand in hand, And tell our griefs in more familiar terms? But thou art gone, and leav'st me here alone To dull the air with my discoursive moan. (I.ii.240-8) Here the familiar relationship between Aeneas and his mother, indicated in the fact that he can recognize her from so minor a detail as "the movings of her feet," forms a sad counterbalance to her unexplained unwillingness voluntarily to reveal her identity to him--apparently, from his use of the term "so oft," a familiar feature of her behavior to him. Despite--or perhaps because of--Aeneas's sensitivity to his mother's lack of trust in him, he too is revealed as a poor parent. Ascanius early demonstrates a strong sense of kinship: when Aeneas imagines that a rock he sees is Priam, Ascanius assures him that it cannot be, "For were it Priam, he would smile on me" (II.i.36). Perhaps it is this sense of a lost family--Aeneas has, after all, literally mislaid his wife, Creusa--which makes the child at once accost Dido with "Madam, you shall be my mother" (II.i.98). (Richard Proudfoot points out that "Marlowe's Dido, unlike Chaucer's, doesn't count pregnancy among her claims on Aeneas" (7); instead she is presented throughout the play as poignantly childless, anxious to mother.) But like Jupiter and Venus before him, Aeneas in turn proves so indifferent to the fate of his offspring that he actually proposes at one point to leave Ascanius behind with Dido--his protestation that he couldn't have been about to depart because he would have had to leave his son behind is savagely undercut by the audience's awareness that that was in fact precisely what he was planning. Even Aeneas's denial is couched in worrying terms: "Hath not the Carthage queen mine only son?" (IV.iv.29) suggests that Ascanius's importance to his father may be at least as much dynastic as personal--as the only son of a widower, he forms a unique and temporarily irreplaceable link in the chain of succession; the implication, however, is that had he brothers, he might prove expendable, as Tamburlaine's son Calyphas is later to be. The inclusion of four generations in Dido allows us to see very clearly how the cycle of flawed parent-child relationships renews and perpetuates itself. Even when fewer generations are considered, however, the pattern is still discernible. Tamburlaine Part One both opens and closes with families: the sharp differences between Cosroe and Mycetes open up questions of heredity, family resemblances and the nature / nurture debate, which is of course raised again in even more radical form by the victories won over kings by the mere son of a Scythian shepherd; and the end of the play sees both a marriage-providing an unusually comic form of closure to so violent a story-and also the reunion between Zenocrate and her father. Family is thus signaled as an issue of some importance, and it becomes even more so in Part Two where we observe closely Tamburlaine's three boys. We see the rivalry between them, brought about primarily by the very fact that they, unlike Ascanus, are members of a family instead of isolated heirs; we witness the effect on them of their mother's early death--indeed Calyphas's effeminacy, although clearly present from the beginning, could be interpreted as perhaps becoming exacerbated by a subconscious attempt to take over the role within the family of a lost mother;(4) and, as with Cosroe and Mycetes in Part One, we see also the radical differences amongst brothers which result eventually in the ultimate example of family fragmentation, Tamburlaine's infanticide. Tamburlaine's killing of Calyphas is difficult to decode. It has often been seen as in some sense exemplary, in the light of Renaissance educational theory.(5) T. A Pearce argues that it is indeed precisely a response to such theory: Here is portrayed a father who is at once a man of arms and a lover of poetry and worshipper of beauty, now faced with the problem of bringing up boys, his sons. The entire passage might have been written by Marlowe after reading Sir Thomas Elyot's Boke Named the Governour (1531), which appeared some fifty years earlier. (20) Pearce sees in Marlowe's portrayal of Tamburlaine's immovability a response to twin stimuli: the attack by Gosson (like Marlowe, a former pupil of the King's School, Canterbury) on lack of proper moral fiber in the theater, and the attack by Sir Humphrey Gilbert on modern educational methods and their failure to prepare for military service. Tamburlaine, Pearce suggests, embodies the very virtues which both Gosson and Gilbert were, in their different ways, advocating, and in nothing is this more apparent than his stoic sacrifice of his own son. Paul Kocher similarly sees in Tamburlaine's stabbing "an act of military discipline . . . from the Elizabethan point of view Tamburlaine is merely heroic in this" (225), and suggests, moreover, that Tamburlaine's action is also rendered glorious by its association with the story of the Roman consul Manlius Torquatius, who similarly slew his son for disobeying orders. But such readings are, as Carolyn Williams recognizes, counterintuitive; and, more importantly, they are notably not shared by the on-stage audience of dignitaries. Infanticide also occurs elsewhere in the play, in Olympia's very differently motivated decision to kill her son, and crops up again in two more of the plays, The Massacre at Paris--where it is threatened rather than actual, since Catherine never needs to carry out her resolve to kill one or both of her sons--and The Jew of Malta. Here Barabas's initial affection for the daughter whose name means, ironically, "the father's joy" (Tambling 95) is violently transmuted by her conversion to Christianity--her adoption, it could perhaps be argued, of a different father-figure--into a murderous hate whose momentum not only wipes out Abigail and her entire convent of nuns but is also echoed in the kind of mock infanticide in which Barabas kills Ithamore, who, he so often stresses, has assumed the position of his heir. Family fragmentation is, of course, further emphasized in the play by the recurring presence of the two bereaved parents, Ferneze and Katherine, both of whom are apparently partnerless as well as childless. Moreover, Jeremy Tambling points to further elements in the play of fury directed at literal and symbolic members of its families when he comments on Barabas's stress on the nuns' frequent pregnancies, his identification of Abigail with the original exemplar of sibling rivalry, Cain, and the ways in which his celebrated image of "infinite riches in a little room" (I.i.37), "parodying the idea of Christ in the womb, suggest[s] a pre-Oedipal desire for identification with the mother" (99, 103-4). In others of the plays matters never reach the pitch of family self-destruction seen in The Jew of Malta and Tamburlaine; but very often this is because, in them, families are never formed in the first place. It is notable that one of the few things Mephostophilis denies Faustus is a wife:(6) thus the scholar, whom we assume to have long since drifted apart from the "base stock" from which he was sprung, is afforded no opportunity to recreate a family unit, something for which he perhaps compensates in his marked affection for his friends and for Wagner, and, arguably, even in his desire to please the pregnant Duchess of Vanholt. Marlowe, however, pointedly withholds from his hero personal participation in such a family unit, even though, as Emily Bartels points out, "in the sources... he and Helen get married and have a son" (135). In a brilliant analysis of the play, Kay Stockholder demonstrates Faustus's unease with his own sexuality and the ways in which his approaches to heterosexuality are thwarted by powerful patriarchal figures which, together with the presence of the strongly developed cuckoldry theme she shows to be present in the play, indicates a deeply unresolved Oedipus complex. Ironically, the woman he is offered instead of a wife is Helen--the legendary marriage-breaker of mythology, the woman who abandoned her husband Menelaus and her daughter Hermione for the seducer Paris. Family even becomes an issue in the pageant of the Seven Deadly Sins. Pride "disdain[s] to have any parents" (II.i.116), Wrath "had neither father nor mother" (II.i.141), Gluttony's "parents are all dead" (II.i. 148), while all the rest cite ill-matched couplings as their source of origin. Once again it is possible to discern a suggestion that fractured or non-existent family structures lie behind the darkest events of the play. Similarly in Dido, Queen of Carthage there is a strong sense of the fact that in coming together these two, widow and widower respectively, would be able to restore the family structure that each has lost--something that seems strongly signaled in Dido's desire effectively to reconstitute her former marriage by rechristening Aeneas Sichaeus, and by her enthusiastic response to Ascanius's request that she should function as a replacement mother for him.(7) It is one of the most savage ironies of the play that it is family strife amongst the gods, specifically between Juno and Venus, which prevents this dream of a new family from reaching fulfillment, just as it has previously devastated the family of Priam and Hecuba. Family breakdown is, then, repeatedly stressed as a recurring motif in Marlowe's plays, and its impact is heightened by the use of vignettes of happy families which provide both contrast and pathos. Obvious examples are Zabina and Bajazeth in Tamburlaine Part One, whose mutual affection, undiminished by the brutal circumstances of their captivity, could be seen as strongly reminiscent of the marriage of affection and mutual support proposed by Protestant ideology, and Olympia and her family in Part Two, where again conjugal and filial devotion triumphantly survives external disasters. It is also noteworthy that Marlowe has rearranged chronology in The Massacre at Paris by deferring the death of Jeanne of Navarre until after her son's wedding, which allows us a tragically brief glimpse of the happy life she could apparently have led with her son and her new daughter-in-law (who is presented as markedly affectionate and deferential to her mother-in-law). But there are also, and more strikingly, instances of the same phenomenon in the only play that I have not yet mentioned, Edward II. In Dido, Queen of Carthage it might be possible to argue that it is Jupiter's homosexual attachment to Ganymede which is seen as the initial spark for family disunity(8) (though in fact this idea is largely exploded by Jupiter's account of strife between him and Juno reaching much farther back, as when she harmed Heracles, and by the unpleasant insight into her character we are offered during her meeting with Venus). In Edward II, however, the question of whether or not homosexuality gives rise to family disruption is addressed head on, and answered with a resounding negative. The issue is highlighted from the very first lines of the play: "My father is deceased. Come, Gaveston, / And share the kingdom with thy dearest friend." Here we could, perhaps, see a suggestion that individual happiness can be enabled only by a breakdown of family structure, at least for Edward and for Gaveston; and undoubtedly Edward's preference for Gaveston has soured relations between himself and Isabella. Homosexuality seems, however, to have been seen in the Renaissance period not as an exclusive alternative to heterosexuality, but rather as a sort of additional extra to it, so that the breakdown of the marriage need not necessarily have been attributable solely to Edward's sexual preferences,(9) and as Claude J. Summers points out, "while the word `unnatural' occurs frequently in the play to describe rebellion and anarchy and dissembling, it is never applied as a sufficient definition of homosexuality" (223). Certainly Gaveston's undoubted homosexuality very markedly fails to have any deleterious effect on his marriage to Edward's niece;(10) and family ties other than the marriage bond are shown in the play to be totally unaffected by homosexuality. There is strong affection between Spenser and his father, between Edward and his brother, and, most notably of all, between Edward and his son. There is no trace, in the conduct of the homosexual king, of the poor parenting which characterized that supreme example of heterosexuality, the Queen of Love, let alone of the infanticidal rage of a Tamburlaine or a Barabas. If we judge by the devotion to him evinced by his son, Edward II is the best parent in the plays. If it is not the attempt to set up a "pretended family" that undermines the stability of the real family, then, what does? Perhaps part of the answer may lie in Marlowe's depiction of power relationships within the affected families. The children who suffer most badly in these plays are all royal children, or, what I take to be effectively analogous, the children of gods:(11) Venus, Hermes, Aeneas, and Ascanius, in Dido, Queen of Carthage, are all divine or of divine ancestry; the son of the Guise in The Massacre at Paris, forced to view his father's murdered body, is the child of perhaps the foremost political figure in the country. Tamburlaine's troubled brood have as father "the scourge of God," conqueror of half the world, and Jill Levenson points to the way in which the concept of Tamburlaine's kingship is insistently reinforced by the play's language (102). Finally, the young Edward III is son and nephew not only of a king, but also, and perhaps even more importantly, of a queen, a power-broker both between nations and in the internal political affairs of England, who shares in the responsibility for the brutal murder of his father. Even Abigail comes to grief only when her father has acquired so much wealth and power that he will soon be able to put himself forward as a serious candidate for the governorship of Malta: before his development of such ambitions, their relationship seems solid enough.(12) As Simon Shepherd points out, the parenting of royal offspring was felt to be an especially difficult issue.(13) In cases like these the usual disadvantages of patriarchy--the discrepancy between the prospects of the eldest son and those of the other children--are significantly increased: for the eldest boy a crown, for the others the unenviable position of needing to be kept alive as possible successors, but equally of representing an everpresent threat, as is illustrated in the situations of Henry III and Henry IV in The Massacre at Pans, and in the strife between Cosroe and Mycetes in Tamburlaine Part One. (This question of the situation of potential heirs to thrones could, of course, have been an issue particularly highlighted for Marlowe himself and for his audiences by Elizabeth I's refusal to name her successor and by the consequent intrigues surrounding the various possible claimants such as the Grey sisters, Arabella Stuart, and James VI of Scotland). For the daughters, moreover, there was the unappetizing propsect of being used to seal a diplomatic marriage: this was the fate that awaited Zenocrate before her capture by Tamburlaine, and we are reminded of the fact when, towards the end of Part One, we briefly meet her first fiance. The usual fate of princesses is also figured in The Massacre at Pan's in the person of Marguerite of Valois, who is treated with surprising sympathy--the racier aspects of her rather scandalous history, which included taking several lovers who reputedly included the Duke of Guise, are suppressed, and she is turned into the model daughter-in-law(14)--and perhaps also in that of the Duchess of Guise, trapped in a loveless marriage which she owed to her high birth and her relationship to the royal family of France, who is seen as inextricably enmeshed in the structures of the family which simultaneously enable her and cripple her. She is saved from death at the hands of her jealous husband through the fact of her pregnancy, thus keeping the family unit (however unhappily) together, but she is also, like Venus in Dido, Queen of Carthage, complicit in the replication of her own unhappy situation by producing children born into an atmosphere of violence, suspicion and bloodshed, as we see only too clearly when her young son is forced to look at his murdered father's body.(15) In her case, mothering, which would be seen by contemporary audiences as fulfillment of the most natural of all possible instincts is also, from another perspective, blameworthy and inevitably disastrous. (The potential consequences of family bonds are made further apparent within the Guise clan when, having murdered the Duke himself, they also make sure of his brother the Cardinal, whose only apparent crime lies in the fact of the relationship). It seems, then, that it is primarily the question of power, and perhaps more specifically of patriarchal power, which is involved in the production of unhappy marriages and fractured families. The more unequal the distribution of power within the family grouping, and the greater the concentration of it within the hands of the patriarch, the greater the risks of family break-up and disharmony. In this context it is perhaps significant that although Edward II is a king, and thus in theory a wielder of near-absolute power, it is in fact made very clear to us from an early stage in the play that his power is so seriously qualified by the disaffection of his barons that it amounts to virtually nothing (Mahood 119). Whereas his brother-in-law of France, more secure on his throne, turns his back on the request for help which he receives from his sister and nephew, Edward never forgets his affection for his son, and ultimately resigns his crown--and with it, inevitably, his life--in order to ensure the boy's succession to a throne which might otherwise have been bid for by Mortimer. It is equally noteworthy that the Earl of Kent forsakes his brother when he sees a chance for his own political star to gain the ascendant, but returns to a blind and indeed ultimately stupid loyalty to him when he loses his influence with Mortimer and Isabella. Isabella herself may also be an example of this phenomenon; historically, her father Philip IV stood apart as the one strong French king in a period of generally weak rule, and it may well be that we should see her career of decimating her family--she is directly or indirectly responsible for the deaths of her husband, his brother, and her niece's husband--as a product of his upbringing as much as of her husband's neglect. In these plays, it seems, the principal threat to the institution of the family is, paradoxically, the patriarchal power structure itself, and what Marlowe is showing us, in his analysis of the politics of family, is the inherent self-annihilation which fissures patriarchal ideology. (1) For comment on this aspect of Marlowe's plays, see Stephen Greenblatt. "Marlowe and the Will to Absolute Play," from Renaissance Self-Fashioning: from More to Shakespeare (Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1980) 193-221, reprinted in New Historicism and Renaissance Drama, edited by Richard Wilson and Richard Dutton (Harlow, Essex: Longman. 1992) 57-82. J. B. Steane, in the introduction to his edition of Marlowe's complete plays (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1969), notes that Marlowe was himself a member of a troubled family, but also pays due regard to the problematic nature of adducing biographical information in criticism 11; all quotations from Marlowe's plays will be taken from this edition. (2) I did not discover Professor Ardolino's paper until late in the preparation of my own: although interested in very similar concerns, we have in fact used different instances and approaches. (3) For an acute analysis of the giving of jewels as effecting a reification of relationships, and thus highlighting the power structures inherent in them, see Shepherd. Michael Hattaway comments on how Tamburlaine similarly fetishises his armor. (4) M. M. Mahood has an interesting suggestion to make about Calyphas's difference from the other sons, commenting that "Calyphas has the most character of the three sons; but, by the sharpest irony, Marlowe causes Tamburlaine to kill the only being he has endowed with some measure of his own vitality, and to leave his kingdom to his other two sons, pale and sketchy replicas of their father and quite incapable of maintaining his conquests" (102). (5) For a forcible argument that Tamburlaine might in fact be seen as a good father in terms of Renaissance values, see Carolyn D. Williams, "`The Jealousy of Wars': Marlowe's Tamburlaine and Renaissance Parenthood," paper read at a conference on Literature, Politics and History, University of Reading, 1995. I am very grateful to Carolyn Williams for sending me a copy of this paper. (6) Interestingly, Robert H. Watson ("Tragedy," in The Cambridge Companion to English Renaissance Drama, 301-351) comments that "Faustus's first demand of Mephostopholis is a beautiful spouse." Certainly this is what one might expect Faustus to ask, but the fact that he does not actually do so, and stipulates merely a wife in general, seems to me to suggest that he is motivated not so much by lust as by the desire for family ties. Mahood points to the ironic contrast between Faustus's situation when he cries Lente currite, noctis equi," and that of the original speaker in Ovid, a fulfilled lover (110). (7) That this aspect of Dido's and Aeneas's situations would have been readily perceived in the Renaissance is suggested by the banter between Antonio and Sebastian in The Tempest about "widow Dido" and "widower Aeneas" (The Tempest, edited by Anne Righter [Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1968], II.i.79-82). Dido's widowhood is also repeatedly referred to in Chapman's comedy The Widow's Tears. (8) Wilbur Sanders, for instance, sees Marlowe's treatment of his homosexual characters as informed by "a neurotic desire for symbolic punishment and expiation" (140). As will become clear, I disagree. (9) See Alan Bray, Hamosexuality in Renaissance England (London: Gay Men's Press, 1982) 16; Thomas Laqueur, Making Sex: Body and Gender from the Greeks to Freud (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard UP, 1990) 63-148; Jean E. Howard, "Sex and social conflict: the erotics of The Roaring Girl," in Erotic Politics: Desire an the Renaissance Stage, ed. Susan Zimmerman (London: Routledge, 1992) 170-190; and Valerie Traub, "Desire and the Differences it Makes," in The Matter of Difference, ed. Valerie Wayne (Hemel Hempstead: Harvester Wheatsheaf, 1991) 81-114. Lisa Jardine interesting comments that "Marlowe is also able to exploit the stage irony that Edward's `natural' love--his queen Isabella--is also, in the event, a boy" (23), while Bruce R. Smith remarks that "the misogyny of Edward II does not equate homosexuality and effeminacy: it insists on their separation" (Homosexual Desire in Shakespeare's England: A Cultural Poetics [Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1991], 215). (10) Shepherd (119) regards the niece as being essentially a dupe of Gaveston, but I see no evidence for this. (11) James I argues that "in the Scriptures Kings are called GODS" (qtd. in Leonard Tennenhouse, "Strategies of State and political plays: A Midsummer Night's Dream, Henry IV, Henry V, Henry WI, "in Political Shakespeare, edited by Jonathan Dollimore and Alan Sinfield (Manchester: Manchester UP, 1985) 109-128, 117. (12) Mahood views Barabas as ambitious to rule (113). (13). See Shepherd, 75 and 156-7, and also David M. Bergeron, Shakespeare's Romances and the Royal Family (Lawrence: UP of Kansas, 1985) 110. There is also an interesting discussion on the allocation of children's inheritances as an increasing source of tension during the Elizabethan period in Jardine, Still Harping on Daughters (68-102). (14) For an account of the career of Marguerite of Navarre, see my Wtomen Who Would Be Kings: Female Rulers of the Sixteenth Century (London and New York: Vision Press and St. Martin's Press, 1991). (15) It is interesting that the Duchess of Guise, like the Niece in Edward II, has taken one of the king's minions for her lovers. This could be seen as adding force to the view that male homosexuality is not necessarily incompatible with more conventional family structures. Indeed Margot Heinemann ("Political drama," in The Cambridge Companion to English Renaissance Drama, 183) has suggested that even in Edward II "the decisive issue is not his homosexuality (though that antagonizes the barons, and probably the audience, they admit that 'the greatest kings have had their minions'), but that it leads him to favor social upstarts and squander wealth on them." WORKS CITED Ardolino, Frank. "The `Wrath of Frowning Jove': Fathers and Sons in Marlowe's Plays," Journal of Evolutionary Psychology 2 (1981): 83-100. Bartels, Emily C. Spectacles of Strangeness: Imperialism, Alienation, and Marlowe. Philadelphia: U of Pennsylvania P, 1993. Farley-Hills, David. "Tamburlaine and the Mad Priest of the Sun." Journal of Anglo-Italian Studies 2 (1992): 36-49. Freidenreich, Kenneth, Roma Gill, and Constance B. Kuriyama, eds. "A Poet and a filthy play-make": New Essays on Christopher Marlowe. New York: AMS, 1988. Hattaway, Michael. "Drama and society." The Cambridge Companion to English Renaissance Drama, eds. A. K. Braunmuller and Michael Hattaway. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1990. 91-126. Jardine, Lisa. Still Harping on Daughters. Brighton: Harvester, 1983. Kocher, Paul H. "Marlowe's Art of War." Studies in Philology 39 (1942): 207-45. Levenson, Jill L. "Working Words": The Verbal Dynamic of Tamburlaine. Friedenreich 99-115. Mahood, M. M. "Marlowe's Heroes." Elizabethan Drama: Modern Essays in Criticism. Ed. R.J. Kaufmann. Rpt 1970. Oxford: Oxford UP, 1961. 95-122. Pearce, T. M. "Tamburlaine's `Discipline to his Three Sonnes': Am Interpretation of Tamburlaine, Part II." Modern Language Quarterly 15 (1954): 18-27. Proudfoot, Richard. Marlowe the Playwright. King's School Monographs No. 4. Canterbury: King's School, 1993. Sanders, Wilbur. The Dramatist and the Received Idea. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1968. Shephard, Simon. Marlowe and the Politics of Elizabethan Theatre. Brighton: Harvester, 1986. Stockholder, Kay. "`Within the massy entrailes of the earth': Faustus's Relation to Women." Friedenreich 203-219. Summers, Claude J. "Sex, Politics and Self-Realization in Edward II." Fredienreich 221-240. Tambling, Jeremy. "Abigail's Party: `The Difference of Things' in The Jew of Matta." In Another Country: Feminist Perspectives on Renaissance Drama. Eds. Dorothea Kehler and Susan Baker. Metuchen, N.J.: Scarecrow, 1991.95-112. |