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Shakespeare's Script as a Cue for Pedagogic Invention

by Edward L. Rocklin

A version of this essay appeared in Shakespeare Quarterly Summer 1995 46:2.

Curiously, most of us, lay people and educators alike, tend to underrate teaching. We rarely underestimate the difficulties of learning. Having had to learn, we know that it is a complicated and unpredictable business. Likewise, the craft of provoking us to learn- the act of teaching-is itself complicated. ---Theodore Sizer

When a practitioner sets a problem, he [or she] chooses and names the things he [or she] will notice.... So problem-setting is an ontological process-in Nelson Goodman's memorable word, a form of worldmaking. ---Donald Schön

We can allow Shakespeare's dramatic technique to cue our teaching technique. ---Robert Ornstein

Prologue: Articulating a Tacit Premise of the Performance Approach

IN DEVELOPING, EMPLOYING, AND DISCUSSING THE VARIETY of pedagogical methods collectively called "the performance approach to drama," we often focus on aspects such as the performance of students in action together, the knowledge those students produce through their transactions with the text, and the knowledge they produce about themselves as well as about the plays in their interactions with each other. I want to examine another aspect of the performance approach, however: its effects on our work as teachers. In particular, I want to focus on the dramatic nature of the pedagogic production and teachers as pedagogic designers who participate in their own designed occasions. This less-noticed and less-discussed aspect of the performance approach emerges when we recognize a parallel between what we ask students to learn to do in a performance-centered class and what we ask ourselves to learn to do in designing and conducting such classes. Stated in the simplest terms, what the performance approach seeks to do directly for students is what employing the approach can and is likely to do indirectly for teachers.

What does the approach seek to do for students? First, the model offers students the opportunity to learn how the script of a Shakespeare play is a cue for invention and how they can accept the invitation it offers them to collaborate in reinventing the play. Second, as they rehearse this model of reading, students are invited to widen their imaginative powers, so that they recreate the play from something approaching its total range of possibilities.

What does the approach seek to do for teachers? First, the model offers teachers the opportunity to learn how the text of a Shakespeare play functions as a cue for pedagogic invention and how we can accept the indirect invitation the script offers us to teach people how to read and imaginatively perform the play. Second, as we rehearse both the act of creating a scenario and the action through which students learn to read the plays differently, we encounter varied opportunities to develop our creativity as teachers and learners. In this way teaching Shakespeare's plays offers us an opportunity to extend our creative energies as designers of what Patricia Bizzell calls "inventive environments" in which other people can learn.

The parallel is implied but not worked out by Robert Ornstein when he suggests that "We can allow Shakespeare's dramatic technique to cue our teaching technique." The Shakespeare play becomes the core element in the classes we design: in learning to recognize and respond to the dramatic text as offering cues for invention by actors, we also learn how to create pedagogic scenes that offer cues for invention, discovery, and new practices by students.

Just as we invite students to learn to read differently through the languages of the stage, which are centrally the languages of the body and voice in action, so also we can widen our pedagogic inventiveness precisely by employing approaches that restore the body-and mind-in action to a more prominent role in the classroom. Employing a grander vocabulary than Ornstein's, we can say that in learning something about the poetics of Shakespeare's drama, we can also learn about the poetics of our own pedagogy.

As readers will have noted, I am assuming that most university instructors teach in ways that employ only a narrow part of the full spectrum of classroom activities that make learning possible. This is a point that university teachers who have begun to make connections with elementary- and secondary-school teachers are coming to recognize as a critical issue. Testimony to that effect comes from Stanley Katz, president of the American Council of Learned Societies, in the speech that inaugurated the first major ACLS program for revising the humanities curriculum in K- 12 education:

...there is an unnecessary and counterproductive fracture within the teaching profession, between those who teach youngsters in the K through 12 years and those who teach grades 13-16.... What happens educationally in the schools is important to post-secondary educators not only because precollegiate teachers prepare some of their students for us, but also because they have both experiential and theoretical knowledge about pedagogy (both teaching and learning) to impart to us, though we have seldom taken their expertise with sufficient seriousness.

More testimony comes from Edward Berenson, professor of history at UCLA, in an essay describing his tenure as the first director of the California State History-Social Science Project:

Most professors operate within an extremely narrow pedagogical range, limiting themselves almost exclusively to lecture and discussion. After observing the work of K- 12 teachers over the past few years, I now realize that there is so much more I can do.... Not all of these techniques are appropriate for university students, but the principle of making the classroom more interactive could not be more relevant to undergraduates bored by "discussion" sections in which little discussion takes place.

I think that many readers can supply abundant examples from their own years as students to support Berenson's claim that most professors do limit their methods to lecture and some form of discussion.

As Berenson's analysis suggests, we narrow our pedagogic range by two fundamental exclusions: by excluding the huge variety of actions and activities students perform in many other types of learning and by excluding interaction among the students. The two dimensions intersect, of course, since many of the activities we might ask students to engage in either work better when performed in collaboration or can only be performed in collaboration. When students collaborate, they sharply increase opportunities to learn because they can stimulate each other's inventiveness and teach each other.

The most obvious symptoms of how we narrow our options are in front of us in many classrooms: students sit in rows looking at the back of the head of the person in front of them and take notes while the teacher lectures. These symptoms point toward what is being limited, which is student participation and, in particular, the use of the body as a source of learning. But this exclusion of the body is itself symptomatic of what is really excluded, namely action in which the focus is on people doing things, experimenting, and trying new moves. What is missing in our classrooms is what is sometimes spoken of as "learning through doing."

A more interactive classroom is not an incidental pedagogical choice but a choice that shapes how and what students learn-and, crucially, how they learn to learn. An interactive classroom is a necessary condition for enabling students to return to being the active learners most of them were when they entered kindergarten or first grade. The "fracture" Katz and Berenson have come to recognize is even more fundamental and disabling than it appears to be to either of these educational leaders or to many other university professors. If we want to heal that fracture, we should assume that a teacher who uses the total range of modes in which human beings learn can improve the students' learning, that employing such a wider pedagogy will enable more students to learn, and that a widened spectrum of approaches will enable the teacher to learn more both about the plays and about how students learn.

Just as we can invite students to learn to read differently, in part by reading in the language(s) of the body, so also we can invite ourselves to learn to write our pedagogic scripts differently, widening our pedagogic range precisely by restoring the body to the classroom.

Teaching as Art and Action: Working Out Two Aspects of the Analogy

In suggesting that teaching is a form of action, I am also suggesting a profitable analogy with the dramatic medium itself. Such an analogy suggests a twofold relation between the dramatist and the teacher: like the dramatist, what the teacher composes is a script, although pedagogic rather than dramatic; and what the teacher orchestrates is a drama, although a pedagogic drama. In exploring teaching as an art, an understanding of drama becomes an instrument for thinking about how to function as pedagogic composers and what choices we make as our students play out our "scripts." In Aristotle's terms, the analogy enables us to delineate more precisely aspects of our identity as both makers and doers, people engaged in both a productive and a practical art. The teacher is engaged in a productive art when he or she is composing the script for an entire course or the scenario for a single class. In this phase of the work, a teacher operates with some of the attributes, skills, and constraints of the poet, the maker of a designed object. The teacher is engaged in a practical art when he or she moves into the performance of the script in a course and in a class. While the teacher can be seen in part as being a director or stage- manager, coach, facilitator, and observer, we must also recognize his or her ethical role as someone who, according to Louise Wetherbee Phelps, is "inhabiting a world of choice calling for judgments based on inadequate knowledge and conflicting values." Furthermore, it becomes evident that, in this phase, a teacher's aesthetic concerns with the elegance of the script must be subordinated to the pedagogic and ethical concerns of offering students an opportunity to learn while respecting their purposes, needs, and limits.

The teacher in the role as composer of scripts is like a poet, and especially like the poet we call a dramatist since what he or she creates is more directly a form of making than of doing. As someone who initiates the enactment of a script, the teacher is engaged in practice: what he or she creates is the unfolding, collaborative action of a group of people who have some resemblance to a cast of actors, though more to actors in a rehearsal than to actors in a performance. And what they are engaged in is a form of doing. Thus, in knowing how to study a play so as to own the text, the teacher is a maker practicing a productive art; in knowing how to teach others to achieve ownership of a text and produce criticism, the teacher is a doer participating in a practical art.

Pedagogic Designer: Teacher as Maker

In the first of the two phases, then, the teacher is analogous to the dramatist insofar as he or she is someone engaged in a productive art or poetics-the composition of a course of study. Louise Wetherbee Phelps's formulation of this moment as speculative theorizing offers a concise account of what a teacher does in "making" a course:

In planning a curriculum ... there is a starting point that occurs without the student. At this point the teacher ... must, like any composer, imagine the student audience for which they are "scripting" a learning experience.... This teaching moment is speculative thinking.

To view this designed event performed in the classroom through the lens of the dramatic event, we might employ an analysis of the specific elements that constitute the dramatic medium.

I present, therefore, a list of eight of the constitutive elements of drama that I often use both with my students and as a heuristic to design my own peclagogic script. First, there is what Peter Brook has called the empty space, in which performers and audience come together to enact the script. Second, there are the tacit conventions that form the contract between the performers and the audience, and that are in effect the enabling conditions for the re-creative actions that follow. Third, there is the presence of actors, the medium of the performance, in whose actions the words of the, script become incarnated and who ensure that no two performances are identical. Fourth, there is the presence of the spectators, present to each other so that one person's response can influence the response of others and present to the actors as the actors are present to them. Fifth, there is the objective form of presentation in which speech follows speech and action follows action without a narrator to instruct us in a particular point of view. Sixth, there is the temporal dimension, the movement of the play in time so that, unlike a reader, a spectator cannot stop the experience; this unstoppability of time mimics our human subjection to choice and contingency. Seventh, there is the verbal medium, the specific multiple functions of the language seen not only as the dialogue between characters but also as instructions to the actors to transform the words into character. Eighth, there is the script that functions as the performance's blueprint, shaping the experience the spectators will undergo; while scripts vary in specificity, all scripts mandate some actions, delimit other options, and leave some areas open to the performers' decisions.

Each of these elements can provide a starting point for inquiry into a corresponding element in the act of teaching and the drama of the classroom event. Teachers can explore different uses of the empty space. The most common arrangement, for example, with a teacher up front and students in rows, corresponds to the proscenium stage with the teacher as performer and the students as audience. But other arrangements allow us to initiate other kinds of performance. One obvious alternative is the circle, which enables the teacher to dissolve the stage/auditorium division and transform the entire room into the stage, thus foregrounding the complex ways in which students can be asked to shift between roles as actors and spectators. In this arrangement the students can be much more fully present to each other, verbally and nonverbally, and hence much more likely to create complex connections among themselves. Another alternative, better known to elementary and junior high-school teachers than to those teaching in universities, is the arrangement called the fishbowl, in which a small group of actors sits inside a larger group of observers. The small group performs an action or activity. The outer group then discusses both content and process, analyzing not only what was said but how things were said. Here we begin to initiate the sort of complex interplay between being an actor and being a spectator that makes one a successful performer in any discipline. I have used the fishbowl arrangement in composition classes by having an inner group of five students, four of whom offer feedback to the author of a paper. Such an arrangement dramatizes the act of responding to the draft of an essay and enables the group to discuss the process of giving feedback in useful ways. When successful, this "dramatized" scene enables the class to talk about tacit knowledge of several kinds and focus on the elusive but crucial skills needed to improve as critical readers, writers, speakers, and listeners.

In discussing the use of the fishbowl in a composition class, we have already begun to examine the tacit conventions that bring together students, teachers, and the texts that students read and write. As is true in the theater, the tacit conventions of teaching and learning are givens and go largely unexamined until those conventions are modified or violated. Thus when asked to adopt innovations such as a performance approach, students are likely to feel that they are being asked to learn in a new way and step outside conventions they have spent years in mastering. These conventions include the roles they expect teachers and students to play; the sources of knowledge and power in the classroom; the relative authority of the participants; the nature of the actions they are asked to perform; and what counts as a legitimate performance of the various roles in reading, discussion, and writing. A colleague of mine, for example, once outraged his students in the first class meeting by asking them to write the speech they "knew" he was going to give on the importance of the subject of the course. Group activities often elicit challenges from students who believe the teacher is the sole source of authority and there is nothing to be learned from other students. If a teacher not only uses group performances of scenes but also decides to assign a single grade for group performance, he or she may be perceived as violating the conventional assignment of grades. By reflecting on this tacit contract, teachers may become aware of other elements, rules, roles, and patterns of action they might want to experiment with and may think about conventions that they might find it difficult to challenge. As is true with some forms of metatheatrical drama, the conventions can be a focus of inquiry.

Turning to the third and fourth elements, it is apparent that in the classroom the presence of actors and spectators takes many forms. Some instructors use such a pure form of lecturing as their sole medium that they become teacher-actors delivering monologues to their student-spectators. When we alter this theatrical model, we ask students to shift between the roles of actor and spectator, first performing an action and then becoming spectators who reflect on those performances. We can shift our roles as well. Many teachers, for example, reserve the role of actor for themselves, while others serve as stage managers so the students can take centerstage. Teachers can reverse the roles in interesting ways, making students dramatists or directors and even, on occasion, having the students direct the teacher. One teacher I know demonstrates the writing process by having his students assign him a topic and then writing an essay on the board, talking through his choices as he writes. And certainly a teacher with enough skill as an actor could invite students to direct him or her in alternative performances of a scene or character. As a teacher you should ask yourself how much you perform the activities you ask students to perform. Do you act? When you ask them to do writing for discovery in class or in journals, do you share writing with them? If you do, do you present yourself as expert? a model? a learner? Do you share drafts of your work and ask for a critique? Such questions can sharpen your awareness of the way you present opportunities for students to move through cycles of action, reflection, and reaction during the term.

In looking at the temporal dimension of our medium, we can ask "What does the beginning do?" The beginning of a play, I would suggest, sets the event in motion, establishes the relation between the event and the spectators, and establishes expectations and questions that become the premises from which spectators begin to construct meaning. In the first class meeting, then, you are performing a scene that can be likened to a prologue to the course; you should ask yourself what the beginning of your course is doing. Can you, for example, define what you want the action of your course to be and what are you doing to set that action in motion? What relations do you want to establish between yourself, your students, and the texts they will be writing and reading? What roles do you want students to take? If these are difficult roles, how does your opening work to make it safe to take the necessary risks? What expectations do you establish and what questions do you invite students to formulate? Exploring the wide array of options lets you imagine and test out moves you have not attempted. If you break the familiar rituals of many opening classes-in which the teacher comes in, takes roll, adds or drops students if necessary, reads the syllabus, and dismisses the class-you can pose a challenge for the students: can they assimilate what you are doing to an alternative schema, or are they discovering the limits of their existing categories? Changing the arrangement of the space, for example, is one way to challenge students to predict what will follow; this very act of making a prediction begins to alter the nature of their participation in the action-just as beginning to predict what will happen to Fortinbras, Laertes, and Hamlet changes the nature of our participation and investment in a performance of Hamlet.

When we examine a Shakespeare play, the verbal medium is the verse and prose in which the dialogue is cast. Most obviously, in our classes the texts are Shakespeare's plays and whatever critical writings we assign, but we may ask students to share other types of writing which may range from in-class entries to more considered journals to formal papers to their own experiments with blank verse and sonnets. We can even go beyond the verbal medium. One well-known example proposed by Miriam Gilbert is the sound-and-motion exercise in which students are asked to take a scene and perform it without any words, using only nonverbal sound and motion (I use this activity for the scene between Richard and Anne (Richard III, 1.21). As Gilbert notes, the point is twofold: on the one hand, it forces students to concentrate on the action of the scene; on the other, suspending Shakespeare's language sharpens students' perception of what his language accomplishes that sound and motion cannot. Working with drama in performance is likely to sharpen our perceptions of the ways in which we and our students react to each other through reading body language and other nonverbal cues.

The script in drama is a peculiar constitutive element. First of all, the spectrum ranges from scriptless drama (perhaps pure improvisation) through the scenarios of commedia dell'arte to the fully scripted drama. Second, even in forms of drama based on written scripts such as those of Shakespeare's plays, the script disappears when the play is performed. So, too, we can explore not only the constituting function of the pedagogic scripts we employ but also the range of scripts from the most improvisatory to the most fully constructed. Teachers vary enormously in how completely they script the course as a whole, the individual class session, or smaller units of time. As teachers, if we become more conscious of our scripts and even more explicit in writing them out, we add another element of experiment to our own pedagogy in which we can use our students' performances to revise our script. This might seem, at first, simply to formalize what many teachers do when they improve their teaching by a trial-and-error process, but foregrounding that process will also change it and make us focus on the differences between our productive and practical phases. I also suspect that the widespread use of computers is going to sharpen our awareness of teaching as a design profession in the sense suggested by Sizer and Sch6n, and thus impel us to pay more attention to the nature of our own pedagogic scripts.

As these examples suggest, this heuristic can enable teachers both to illuminate surprising moments in their own classroom experiences and to probe the alternative pedagogic choices available to them at any point in the unfolding action and the different scenes they might create. Using such a heuristic may lead them to invent moves and combinations of moves they have never tried before. ("What happens if I combine a fishbowl structure with a sound-and-motion exercise?") And since one of the plots in any teaching script based on the performance approach is to have students cross the gaps between knowing that something is true and knowing how to do an activity, then the sense of scripting our teaching can help us design a course that leads students across these gaps.

Director, Actor, and Reflective Practitioner: Teacher as Doer

The second part of the analogy between the dramatist and the teacher suggests that when we move into the classroom we see ourselves as performers. In this phase we are people, in Aristotle's terms, engaged in a practical art. As is true when we move from text to performance in drama, when we move from planning to conducting a class we are also shifting into the language of action. When a class session begins, we start to speak in a language that is both verbal and nonverbal and that includes a much wider range of stimuli than is in the words on the page or in our minds as we first compose our script. In this language speech is action and action speaks. And whereas in the first phase we can textualize in imagining the play in the classroom, in the second phase, as that pedagogic script is lived, we find ourselves operating in a complex unfolding event that is difficult to describe or analyze in detail.

What goes on in the classroom is difficult to talk about precisely as a dramatic performance is difficult to talk about, since much of it is subtextual, based on a network of considerations that are largely tacit and unarticulated. For example, insofar as we have a plot for a given session, one powerful imperative is to guide the action so that students move towards the learning that our plot aims to make possible. At the same time, we are subject to a competing imperative to let unplanned and surprising actions lead us in alternative directions. Thus one aspect of our performance as teachers as we immerse ourselves in the scripts and scenarios we have created is maneuvering to balance an imperative to do the script as planned against the impulse to follow out unplanned cues in improvised actions. The work of Donald Schön, especially in his book Educating the Reflective Practitioner, offers useful ways to begin unpacking some of the complexities of the classroom phase of the drama/teaching analogy. Examining the competing imperatives I have just sketched out, Schön describes the manner in which reflective practitioner, having named and framed a situation in composing script, enters into a dialogue with the unfolding event:

From time to time, their efforts to give order to a situation provoke unexpected outcomes-"back talk" that gives the situation a new meaning. They listen and reframe the problem. It is this ensemble of problem-framing, on-spot-experiment, detection of consequences and implications, back talk and response to back talk, that constitutes a reflective conversation with the materials of a situation-the design-like artistry of professional practice. Several features make this process learnable, coachable, but not teachable.

In balancing our competing imperatives we encounter back talk as we attend to our students; as we monitor both what and how students are learning, we find ourselves revising the script for a particular class session. When such back talk is extensive enough, we learn things that force us to revise notjust the scene but also major elements of the script. In transforming a pedagogic script into a classroom event, we play the director, shaping the event in order to move through a script or scenario; we play the experimenter who, while participating in that performance, is also trying to observe how students are learning in order to revise the script both during and after that performance; and we play the reflective practitioner, who, like the dramatist, seeks to compose a better design by watching how the audience responds-how the students learn from the design at hand.

From Theory and Practice to Theory, Production, Practice

If we employ Aristotle's distinction between theoretical, productive, and practical knowledge, not only will we discard the theory/practice dichotomy but we will begin to articulate more complex relations between these three types of knowledge than the bipolar model suggests. Teaching has traditionally been seen as a sort of stepchild, not quite elevated enough to turn the dyad into a triad. Indeed, the accepted model still assumes that to choose what type of pedagogy we will employ is simply to choose the appropriate methods for "delivering" the content of the course, the theory and practice that students need to acquire. However, I hope it is evident from the material presented here, and from the logic of a performance approach itself, that teaching is not separable and subordinate in this way because how we teach shapes what we teach, and it shapes both how, or even if, students learn what we teach. Teaching is not, or not just, the transmission of information. The relation of theory to production and practice is mutual, not hierarchic; cyclic, not linear; reciprocal, not unidirectional. Theory does indeed shape production and practice, but production and practice, in turn, demand that we revise theory. Teachers designing their classes can be thought of as revising their theories based on the results of production and practice.


If we can begin to see our classes through the lens of drama and use drama-framed concepts to reflect more searchingly and more productively on our work as teachers, then this analogy might enable us not only to analyze what we already do but also to redesign our pedagogic scripts so as to elicit better performances from our students and ourselves. At the core of this model, the parallel suggests that just as the dramatic script is the actor's cue for invention, so, too, when we teach Shakespeare's plays we can design our own pedagogic scripts to offer our students cues for invention in the classroom-some of them versions of the cues in Shakespeare's plays, some of them the cues in our own pedagogic scenes.

The dramatist can be seen as someone who engages in the craft of provoking us to respond to the performance of an action. The teacher, Theodore Sizer notes, can be seen as someone who engages in the craft of provoking us to learn. Shakespeare, Robert Hapgood suggests, "seems . . . much less interested in telling his audience what to think about a given play than in suggesting how best to go about understanding it."9 The performance-oriented teacher is often much less interested in telling his or her students what to learn from a particular playtext than in suggesting how they might best go about exploring its potentials and learning from their own performance. What the dramatist and the teacher share, then, is a poetics, whether a poetics of drama or a poetics of pedagogy. Despite the differences in their mediums and goals, the dramatist and the teacher share the challenges that arise when we seek to compose designs that, when performed, will provoke both actors and spectators to learn more about their worlds and their ways of worldmaking.

1  Sizer, Horace's Compromise: The Dilemma of the American High School (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1992), 2; Schön, Educating the Reflective Practitioner: Toward a New Design for Teaching and Learning in the Professions (San Francisco:Jossey-Bass, 1987), 4; Ornstein, Shakespeare in the Classroom (Urbana, IL: Educational Illustrators, 1960), 15.

2  Patricia Bizzell, review of Invention as a Social Act by Karen LeFevre, College Composition and Communication 38 (1987): 485-86.

3  Stanley Katz, "The Humanities and Public Education" in The Humanities in the Schools, ACLS Occasional Paper No. 20 (New York, 1993), 2-3. The ACLS Elementary and Secondary Schools Teacher Curriculum Development Project ran from 1992 to 1995; my own participation in the project provided me with the opportunity to complete an earlier version of this essay, and I thank the ACLS, Stanley Katz, and Michael Holzman, the project's director, for their support.

4  Edward Berenson, "The California History-Social Science Project: Developing History Education in the Schools," Perspectives (December 1993): 21-24.

5  Louise Wetherbee Phelps, "Practical Wisdom and the Geography of Knowledge in Composition," College English 53 (1991): 863-85, esp. 877.

6  Louise Wetherbee Phelps, "Developmental Challenges, Developmental Tensions: A Heuristic for Curricular Thinking" in Developing Discourse Practices in Adolescence and Adulthood, Richard Beach and Susan Hynds, eds. (Norwood, NJ: Ablex, 1990), 386-414, esp. 410.

7  The concept of constitutive elements has been developed as a way to look at some of those activities which human beings carry out in a systematic fashion. Such activities can be said to be constituted by the presence or participation of certain elements or the existence of certain rules which make the activity uniquely itself. The clearest instances are probably rule-governed activities such as games, where the concept can be stated with particular clarity because we can distinguish constitutive from regulative rules. This distinction has been presented by John Rawls in "Two Concepts of Rules" (Philosophical Review 64 [1955]: 3-32), elaborated by John R. Searle in Speech Acts: An Essay in the Philosophy of Language (Cambridge UP, 1969), and applied to grammar by Richard McLain in "The Role of Explanation in Teaching Standard English: Constitutive and Regulative Rules in Language" (College English 38 [19761: 242-49). Searle makes the distinction in this way: "As a start, we might say that regulative rules regulate antecedently or independently existing forms of behavior; for example, many rules of etiquette regulate interpersonal relationships which exist independently of the rules. But constitutive rules do not merely regulate, they create or define new forms of behavior. The rules of football or chess, for example, do not merely regulate playing football or chess, but as it were they create the very possibility of playing such games" (33).

8  Schön, 157-58.

9  Robert Hapgood, Shakespeare the Theatre-Poet (New York: Oxford UP, 1988), 38.

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