In Shakespeare’s play Henry IV, Part 1, Falstaff declares on more than one occasion, “I am a rogue.” Several exchanges between Falstaff, Henry V, and others like Hostess Quickly and Doll Tearsheet, see characters throwing the word “rogue” back and forth as both an insult and a badge of honor.

The term connects to a real form of slang underworld language known as rogue cant. Which was a secret, cryptic lexicon, spoken and understood only by criminals. Falstaff and his companions are the closest depictions of criminals in Shakespeare’s works. Their roguish behavior includes gathering at the Boar’s Head in Eastcheap to plan their crimes and divide their spoils. By choosing to use the word “rogue,” Shakespeare was deliberately connecting his characters to the real criminal underworld of 16th-century England that trafficked in this mysterious and coded language.

To introduce us to this rogue cant, and to help us unlock the hidden meanings of these words so that we can better understand the culture that produced them, we are excited to welcome Ari Friedlander back to the show.

Ari joins us today to take a closer look at rogue cant: where the words came from, how they were used, and what they reveal about Shakespeare’s world.

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When we think of King Arthur, many of us imagine medieval romance—knights in shining armor, enchanted swords, or chivalric quests. But for the Tudors, Arthur wasn’t just storybook material. In the 16th century, Arthurian legend was a political tool, a national symbol, and—for some—an actual piece of English history. From Henry VII naming his heir “Prince Arthur,” to Elizabeth I being welcomed at Kenilworth with Lady-of-the-Lake imagery, the Tudors used Arthurian myth to define their dynasty, elevate their authority, and shape the emerging idea of English nationalism.

This week, we’re exploring how Arthur, Merlin, and the world of Geoffrey of Monmouth were reinvented for a new age of politics, performance, and propaganda. Our guest, historian Andrew, walks us through royal pageants, literary allegory, and visual symbols that connected the Tudor monarchy to a heroic—and sometimes ominous—legendary past.

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In November 1621, two communities—Wampanoag and English—came together at the edge of Patuxet for a shared harvest meal. While today we call this moment “The First Thanksgiving,” the historical reality is far richer and more culturally complex than the simplified story many of us grew up hearing.

In this week’s episode, we explore this early moment of connection with Malissa Costa (Mashpee Wampanoag) and Richard Pickering (Plimoth Patuxet Museums). Together, they guide us through the world of the Wampanoag in the early 17th century—what they wore, how they prepared deerskin through traditional brain-tanning methods, how diplomacy often involved gift-giving, including venison, and what agricultural knowledge they shared with the English that ultimately saved lives.

Rather than a single act of generosity, the 1621 harvest feast emerges as a meeting point of two sophisticated cultures—each with its own traditions of giving thanks, diplomacy, and seasonal celebration. As we step into this history, we learn how deeply both communities valued gratitude, relationship, and the generosity of the land.

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When we imagine Elizabethan dining tables, we might picture roast meats, trenchers of bread, or tankards of ale. But lurking beneath the surface of rivers, marketplaces, and even the economy itself was a creature so valuable that it could pay rent, feed a nation, and still appear in Shakespeare’s humor — the eel.

Eels once filled England’s rivers in such massive quantities that they became a crucial source of protein for the poor and a delicacy for the wealthy. They appear in legal documents, household accounts, market records, and yes — in Shakespeare’s plays. In Love’s Labour’s Lost, Don Adriano says:

Today we’ll discover just how ingenious eels really were.

This week, I’m speaking with Dr. John Wyatt Greenlee — medievalist, cartographic historian, and the internet’s favorite eel enthusiast — to explore the culinary, economic, and cultural world of eels in Shakespeare’s England. From eel rents and floating aquarium-ships to eel pies and insult comedy, we’re diving into how this slippery fish shaped daily life in the world Shakespeare lived in.

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In All’s Well That Ends Well, a character is described as “That with the plume: ’tis a most gallant fellow” (III.5), and in Love’s Labour’s Lost, the Princess of France mockingly asks, “What plume of feathers is he that indited this letter?” (IV.1), revealing how feathers could both elevate and satirize their wearer. 

Feathers might seem like a simple decoration today, but in the 16th and early 17th centuries, feathered clothing—especially feathered hats—spoke volumes about a person’s status, identity, and even their participation in the expanding global economy. 

To better understand the culture behind feathers in clothing for Shakespeare’s lifetime, we're sitting down this week with Professor Ulinka Rublack, whose article Befeathering the European investigates the history of feathers in clothing, to help us explore where the feathers come from, what they looked like, and how they were used. 

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In 1612—just one year after Shakespeare wrote The Tempest—Venetian physician Santorio Santori transformed Galileo’s simple thermoscope into the world’s first thermometer by adding a calibrated scale and sealing the device. His invention marked the birth of quantified medicine, turning vague sensations of “hot” and “cold” into measurable data that could guide treatment. In this episode, historian of medicine Dr. Fabrizio Bigotti joins us to explore Santorio’s remarkable innovations, how they predated Galileo’s own instruments, and why this quiet inventor deserves recognition as the true father of the thermometer.

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This week, we’re dipping into the strange, the enchanted, and the eerily familiar with a sampling of the rich world of 16th-century folklore during Shakespeare’s lifetime. From medieval hares and charmed pilgrim tokens to tales of mermaids, dragons, and accidental witchcraft, the folklore of this era reveals a world both magical and deeply human. 

To help us explore the kinds of beliefs that shaped everyday life—and occasionally show up in Shakespeare’s plays—we’re joined by two leading voices in folklore studies: Owen Davies and Ceri Houlbrook, co-authors of the new book Folklore. 

Rather than a deep dive into any one custom, today’s conversation offers glimpses into a few of the many fascinating traditions and superstitions that colored Shakespeare’s world. 

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“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” – Romeo and Juliet, Act II, Scene ii.

In Shakespeare’s England, roses were more than poetic symbols of love and beauty—they were political emblems, medicinal ingredients, culinary flavorings, and the foundation of a flourishing perfumery trade. From the red and white blooms of civil war to the distillation practices in early modern households, the rose occupied a central place in the sensory world of the 16th and 17th centuries.

This week, we’re speaking with historian Dr. Aysu Dincer, whose research uncovers the real-life role roses played in Shakespeare’s lifetime. From cultivation and trade to the recipes for perfumes and rosewaters that would have been familiar to Shakespeare’s contemporaries, Aysu joins us to share the historical backstory of this iconic flower and explore what it meant to smell sweet in the Elizabethan age.

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Linlithgow Palace, set between Edinburgh and Stirling, was one of the great royal residences of the Scottish crown. It was the birthplace of Mary Queen of Scots and a favored court for the Stuart monarchs long before the Union of the Crowns in 1603. When her son, James VI of Scotland, ascended the English throne as James I—the very monarch under whom William Shakespeare's company became the King's Men—the cultural and political world of Linlithgow directly fed into the world Shakespeare inhabited and wrote for. 

While Shakespeare likely never visited Linlithgow himself, the palace remained symbolically important in his lifetime. In fact, when part of the palace collapsed in 1607, a formal report was sent to James—now James I of England—detailing the damage and requesting royal attention. That connection between a crumbling Scottish stronghold and an English king who patronized Shakespeare makes for a compelling link between the palace and the playwright. 

Admittedly, exploring Linlithgow as part of Shakespeare’s world requires a slight chronological and geographical stretch—but it’s a leap well worth taking. The palace was a cultural and ceremonial stage for the Scottish monarchy, and its chapel in particular would have resonated with sacred music and royal spectacle that shaped the theatricality of early modern power on both sides of the border. 

Today’s guest, James Cook, is a scholar and musician who led a remarkable project to recreate the sound of choral music as it might have been heard at Linlithgow Palace in that very year—1512. Using a blend of historical research, vocal performance, and virtual reality technology, James and his team brought this long-lost acoustic experience back to life. 

In our conversation today, we’ll explore Linlithgow Palace itself—its significance in the lives of Mary Queen of Scots, James VI, and Anne of Denmark—and how music played a role in shaping royal image, religious devotion, and political theater. We’ll also talk with James about the recreation of the 1512 performance, how virtual reality is reshaping historical interpretation, and what it might have sounded like if you were a member of the royal household, listening to sacred music in that chapel over 500 years ago. 

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