In Love’s Labour’s Lost, Berowne declares, “Let us dance and sport,” while in Twelfth Night, Sir Toby Belch exclaims, “Shall we set about some revels?” Shakespeare’s plays are filled with movement—more than 100 stage directions across his works call for a dance, making dance not merely entertainment, but a powerful form of expression in the early modern world.

This week on That Shakespeare Life, we’re taking a closer look at what those dances might have looked like in real life. What was the significance of dancing in the 16th and early 17th centuries? What kinds of dances were popular? And how did they reflect the politics, courtship, and social hierarchies of the day?

To help us explore the rhythm and meaning behind Shakespeare’s choreography is our guest, historian and dance scholar Emily Winerock.

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When you picture a Shakespeare play, you likely imagine a continuous performance—scene following scene, act following act—until the final bow. But in Shakespeare’s lifetime, especially at indoor theatres like the Blackfriars, plays weren’t always presented without pause. Candlelight, used to illuminate the stage, had to be trimmed, replaced, or even relit during performances, which meant intentional gaps were built into the show itself. These intervals weren’t just practical; they were part of the theatrical experience—inviting music, moments of reflection, and a rhythm that modern audiences rarely consider.

Today we’re diving into this largely overlooked aspect of early modern theatre: the interval. What did it look like? What happened during it? And how did it influence the pacing and experience of Shakespeare’s plays?

To help us explore this topic, we’re delighted to welcome Mark Hutchings, whose latest research shines a spotlight on the physical and performative realities of candlelit stages, and their intervals, for the 16th and 17th centuries.

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In King Lear, Shakespeare has the king cry out, “Break, heart; I prithee, break!”—a line rich with sorrow, and one that may have held deeper meaning for Shakespeare’s audience than we often assume. Modern medicine identifies Takotsubo Syndrome—also known as “broken heart syndrome”—as a temporary dysfunction of the heart triggered by emotional distress. Incredibly, this concept may have had early roots in the Renaissance understanding of how emotion and the body were intertwined.

In this episode, we explore the 17th-century medical beliefs that made room for literal heartbreak, and the evidence in Shakespeare’s plays that suggests he was engaging with those very ideas. From Lear and Gloucester to Enobarbus and Cleopatra, Shakespeare’s characters don’t just feel emotion—they suffer from it physically, sometimes fatally.

Our guests this week, Dr. Bríd Phillips and Dr. Claire Hansen, are here to unpack their research connecting Shakespeare’s portrayals of heartbreak with modern cardiology, showing us how the science of the heart may have been hidden in plain sight on the Renaissance stage.

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“He that eats my capon, shall know me better.”

— All’s Well That Ends Well (Act II, Scene 2)

Roasted to perfection and served at noble feasts, the capon—a castrated rooster prized for its tenderness and rich flavor—was one of the most luxurious poultry options available in Shakespeare’s England. While today the word may be unfamiliar to many, in the 16th and 17th centuries, the capon was a delicacy, frequently mentioned in early modern literature, including a dozen times across Shakespeare’s plays.

But what did it mean culturally and culinarily to serve a capon in the Elizabethan era? How were they raised, what status did they hold in society, and what does their appearance in Shakespeare’s works reveal about daily life and dining customs of the time?

To help us explore the fascinating world of capons, roosters, and poultry practices in Renaissance England, our guest this week is food historian and prolific author Ken Albala.

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When we think of Shakespeare collaborating with another writer, the name John Fletcher quickly comes to mind. Together they penned Two Noble Kinsmen, All is True (also known as Henry VIII), and the now-lost play Cardenio. But what do we actually know about the working relationship between these two men? Did they sit down side-by-side at a table to write, or pass drafts back and forth in letters?

Thanks to new research into the living arrangements of early modern Londoners, we have fresh insight into the possibility that Fletcher and Shakespeare were not just professional collaborators—but next-door neighbors. This week, we’re exploring the archival evidence that places them both on Bishopsgate Street in the late 16th century.

Our guest is Domenico Lovascio, whose article “Giles, John, and Will: The Fletchers and Shakespeare in Bishopsgate Street, London, 1596” offers a compelling look at the real-life proximity of these famous playwrights.

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In the year 1603, just as Shakespeare was writing Othello and the reign of Elizabeth I was transitioning to James I, Galileo Galilei—famous for exploring the heavens—was also measuring the invisible. Among his lesser-known inventions was a device called the thermoscope, an elegant glass instrument that could detect changes in temperature—centuries before the modern thermometer. Today, we call it the Galilean thermometer, named after Galileo because he discovered the principle that the density of a liquid changes in proportion to its temperature—a concept that set the foundations for modern meteorology.

To help us explore how Galileo made his discoveries, exactly how a Galilean thermometer works, and how these scientific advancements were received in Shakespeare’s England, we’re joined by Dr. Dario Camuffo, author of extensive research on Galileo’s contributions to the measurement of temperature and the early development of thermometers.

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“Bait the hook well; this fish will bite.” So says Benedick in Much Ado About Nothing, and he’s not alone—Shakespeare drops over 70 references to fish and fishing across his plays, from slippery metaphors to full-on fishing scenes, including actual Fishermen characters in Pericles. But behind those lines lies a very real part of daily life in Elizabethan England.

In a world where Protestant reform gave rise to fish days on the calendar and entire industries formed around what came out of the water, one has to wonder: Where did all this fish actually come from? Who was catching it? What tools did they use? And could Shakespeare himself have cast a line into the Thames for a bit of dinner?

Today, we’re casting our net into the past to find out. Joining us is historian Mark Ferguson, here to help us explore the methods, markets, and meaning behind commercial and sport fishing in Shakespeare’s England.

Let’s dive in.

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