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Jacob Moffat

Crossdressing and Bad Marriages:

Shakespeare’s criticism of the societal roles that marginalize women

“I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano,

A stage where every man must play a part,

And mine a sad one.” (The Merchant of Venice 1.1.81-83)

“All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players.

They have their exits and their entrances,

And one man in his time plays many parts,

His acts being seven ages.” (As You Like it 2.7.146-150)

Perhaps it should come as no surprise that the most famous playwright of all time

embraced the metaphor of the world as a stage, in which men and women merely play their parts

and William Shakespeare, as the playwright, assumes the role of God. In the case of any other

playwright, assuming a godlike role could be written off as mere arrogance, but Shakespeare’s

influence on Western culture over the past four hundred years might just validate the role he

creates for himself in his own metaphor.  After all, critic Samuel Johnson has asserted that “[w]e

owe Shakespeare everything,” and Harold Bloom argues that rather than simply describing

human nature, Shakespeare’s vast influence actually plays a role in creating human behavior
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(Bloom 2).  However, such a conclusion is troubling when considering the roles women play

throughout Shakespeare’s canon. If Shakespeare functions as a god within this metaphor, does

his decision to confine female characters to marginalized roles within a patriarchal system reflect

a validation of that system? Scholars and critics have heaped individual praise on Shakespeare’s

female characters, but one cannot deny the troubling pattern of Shakespeare’s vibrant, intelligent

and capable young female characters willingly submitting to an oppressive patriarchal order.

The subservient roles Shakespeare’s women eventually occupy are not consistent with the power

and grace the Bard imbues in his female characters.

French feminist and philosopher, Luce Irigaray poses the theory that this lack of a clear

path toward feminine power results from the absence of a feminine symbolic in Western culture,

a condition that predates Shakespeare and Renaissance  England; she contends a feminine divine

does not exist for women to emulate, which leaves no model for Shakespeare to present

dramatically. A broad look at Shakespeare’s female characters displays a large collection of

intelligent, confident, and powerful women whose capabilities far exceed the roles afforded them

in society. Those women who choose to conform to oppressive Elizabethan feminine ideals, the

female characters in the tragedies, hasten tragedy for themselves and their husbands by doing so,

and those who seek to defy those ideals, the female characters in the comedies, must resort to

cross dressing and acting like men in order to exert some level of power. A comparative analysis

of Shakespeare’s comedies, focusing particularly on The Merchant of Venice, and Shakespeare’s

tragedies, focusing on Othello and Julius Caesar, suggests that Shakespeare criticizes the

Protestant ideal of the powerless, loyal wife, while he also questions a patriarchal society that

does not offer the opportunity for a woman to exercise agency or maintain individual power

without sacrificing her gender or sex.  

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A close look at the dramatic reality behind the metaphor that “all the world’s a stage,”

reveals a Shakespearean canon lacking maternal characters and in which female actors  are

physically absent from the stage. When considering the many female roles throughout

Shakespeare’s comedies and tragedies, one cannot help but notice the conspicuous absence of

mothers. While Shakespeare does feature some mothers, such as Lady Capulet, Hermione,

Gertrude, Volumnia, and Lady McDuff, these maternal characters play marginalized roles in

their respective plays. Despite these few examples, Mary Beth Rose notes that mothers are

absent from Shakespeare’s most important plays; there are no mothers in The Tempest, King

Lear, Othello, The Merchant of Venice, and Measure for Measure, nor are they present in the

major romantic comedies (Rose 292).   Scholars have hypothesized that the demographic, legal,

and theatrical conditions of Elizabethan England explain the maternal void on Shakespeare’s

stage. However, each argument falls short of sufficiently explaining the absence of mothers in

Shakespeare’s plots.

The simplest argument for the absence of mothers on Shakespeare’s stage emerges from

the fact that Shakespeare wrote for an all-male acting company, in which young men and boys

played the roles of women.  The argument follows that Shakespeare would choose to limit the

roles of mature females, particularly in non-comic roles, because they would present a challenge

for the young male actors to portray convincingly.  James Hill extends this argument to suggest

that Shakespeare marginalized female roles in the tragedies because of the limited acting

capabilities of the apprentice actors tasked with portraying women on stage (236). His argument

suggests that tragic roles depend upon complex characterization beyond the acting capacity of

the young actors, while comic roles depend more upon ensemble performance, which can be

taught to juvenile as well as adult actors.  While male characters like Lear, Claudius, and Hamlet
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display complex and multifaceted personalities that experience significant psychological

transformation in a single scene, the tragic females, such as Ophelia or Lady Macbeth, have far

fewer lines, and their motivational changes occur between two large blocks of speech rather than

within a single speech (237-239).  Hill’s argument provides insight into the marginalization and

manipulation of complex female roles in the tragedies relative to those in the comedies, but it

does not serve to explain the lack of mothers. In fact, Hill’s argument would only help explain

the absence of mothers in the tragedies, and given his argument, the roles of mothers would be

limited, not eliminated, as is the case in the major tragedies. Furthermore, the plays often feature

other mature female roles, such as nurses, maids, and witches, suggesting that the theatrical

limitations of the all-male acting company do not provide a convincing argument for the

significant absence of mothers on Shakespeare’s stage.

The legal and demographic arguments also fail to explain the lacuna of mothers in

Shakespeare’s theater. In the legal realm, a woman in Renaissance England sacrificed all of her

personal and legal rights when she married.  Mary Beth Rose describes that when a woman

married, she “forfeited both agency and identity” (293). While a wife maintained nominal

ownership of any land to which she held title, her husband gained the rights and profit of that

land.  Furthermore, she lost her right to file suit, write a will, or hold guardianship over her own

children (Rose 293). In essence, marriage merged the couple in a single entity or person, which

was legally represented in the name of the man.  In the eyes of the state, the woman was nearly

erased; the dramatic argument holds that the absence of mothers represents a “dramatic-

economy, the conflation of two characters into one” (Rose 293). However, while the legal status

of wives in Renaissance England is certainly a compelling element in trying to understand the

role of women in Shakespeare’s day and on Shakespeare’s stage, it falls short of explaining the
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absence of mothers.  Furthermore, women did not truly have independent legal standing before

marriage; they were effectively the property of their fathers until they married. There is not, in

fact, an absence of young women or wives in Shakespeare; they are powerfully present

throughout the canon. The legal argument would demand an absence of wives or women

altogether, which is simply not the case.  The demographic argument ends with a similar logical

problem.  The demographic argument for the absence of mothers depends on data that suggests

that the dangers of childbirth in Renaissance England led to the death of one in four mothers in

the first fifteen years of marriage.  Scholars have suggested that a woman was twice as likely to

die during that period than was her husband. Therefore, the argument holds that mothers were

literally less likely to be alive. Therefore, the fact that mothers are absent from many of the plays

is consistent with the reality of English life at the time. However, much of the data upon which

these assumptions rely has been found to be inconsistent and incomplete, and more importantly,

historical evidence has emerged displaying the important roles both mothers and fathers played

in English life throughout the period (294). The historical evidence of the English family

suggests that the demographic argument is not compelling.

The absence of maternal characters can more thoroughly be explained as the result of the

lack of cultural or iconic reflections of a feminine symbolic as described by Luce Irigaray, whose

theory of the lack of a feminine divine in Western culture begins with maternal genealogy. She

posits that the mother-daughter relationship is unsymbolized, meaning that there is an “absence

of linguistic, social, semiotic, structural, cultural, iconic, theoretical, mythical, religious or any

other representation of that relationship” (Irigaray, Speculum 71; as cited in Whitford, 1991, 76).

The absence of a maternal genealogy juxtaposes sharply to the mother-son or father-son

relationships which are so prominent throughout Christianity; it is a cornerstone of western

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discourse and patriarchal philosophy. With no place in the patriarchal symbolic order, women

remain in what Irigaray describes as a “state of dereliction,” a term which describes the “state of

being abandoned by God” (Whitford 77). Men, on the other hand, can see themselves in the

symbolic image of God. Man can see himself symbolized in the father-son relationship between

Jesus and God, availing men of a divine relationship to emulate.  The symbolic relationship

forms a model for male identity and creates the structures for a patriarchal social contract that

includes men but alienates women; women are outside of the symbolic order. In her seminal

work on Irigaray’s philosophy, Margaret Whitford offers that “[w]hat [Luce Irigaray] sets out to

do in her work is to expose the foundations of patriarchy and in particular to show it at work in

what has traditionally been taken to be high discourse of universality and reason: philosophy”

(10). Irigaray bases her work in a fundamental rejection of the patriarchal focus of Jaques

Lacan’s mirror theory and specularization. She argues that “all of western discourse and culture

displays the structure of specularization, in which the male projects his own ego on to the world,

which then becomes a mirror which enables him to see his own reflection wherever he looks”

(Whitford 34).   She then displays the malignant effect on women, who “as a body/matter are the

material of which the mirror is made, that part of the mirror which cannot be reflected, the tain of

the mirror for example, and so never see reflections of themselves” (Whitford 34).  While the

absence of mothers in Shakespeare might correlate to the societal conditions of Elizabethan

England, it more powerfully reflects the historical denial of feminine power propagated by a

nearly exclusive patriarchal cultural history.

The Biblical figure of the Virgin Mary and the remarkable reign of Queen Elizabeth 1

would seem to contradict the argument that Elizabethan women did not have a feminine divine to

emulate. However, the two lofty figures share one key trait—their virginity. In fact, Queen
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Elizabeth is often described in relation to the Virgin Mary. Elkin Wilson suggests that "from

1558 to 1603 the virgin queen of England was the object of a love not dissimilar in quality from

that which for centuries had warmed English hearts that looked to the virgin Queen of Heaven

for all grace” (Wilson as qtd in King 31). Arguably, the Virgin Mary could be seen as the image

of the feminine divine that Queen Elizabeth emulated; she served as the virgin mother of

England. However, a conception of female power that requires a sublimation, or complete

negation, of female sexuality seems to be a dangerous, patriarchal vision of feminine power, one

that robs a woman of the very power that most threatens men and patriarchy. The Virgin Mary

actually presents an impossible feminine divine for women to emulate; she is a virgin and a

mother.  Women can emulate her by either becoming a mother or by being a virgin, but in

following one of these two paths, she is necessarily betraying the other.  In other words, a

woman following the path of the Virgin Mary is destined to fail, particularly in the eyes of men.

Furthermore, the idea that no man was involved in the procreative act actually robs the Virgin

Mother of feminine power because she had no agency in act of procreation; she is simply chosen,

functioning as a vessel rather than as an active agent. As such, the notion of the virgin birth

actually robs a woman of feminine power, granting maternal agency and power instead to a

masculine God. Unlike the Virgin Mary, Queen Elizabeth does exercise agency, but to do so, she

must essentially unsex herself.   Scholars agree that Elizabeth’s power depended on her chastity,

or at least the common belief in her chastity. Catherine Howey explains that “Elizabeth had to

present herself as a chaste, virginal woman to prove that she was morally worthy of holding the

traditionally masculine office of monarch. One of the ways Elizabeth defended herself against

charges of inferiority and unfitness to rule because of her sex was to build a chaste reputation

and to project an image of sexual virtue” (Howey 201).   Elizabeth actually went to great pains to
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ensure her makeup, dress, and personal presentation portrayed her virginity because her ability to

control her sexuality “demonstrate[d] her ability and right to control her realm” (201). Far from

being a divine image of feminine power, Elizabeth had to negate the essence of her female self in

order to maintain power; she is a reflection of a society in which power and female sexuality are

antithetical. Neither Elizabeth nor the Virgin Mary offers the symbolic image of the feminine

divine that Irigaray suggests is necessary for women. But more basically, if the defining

characteristic of both women is virginity, they remain painfully complicit with a patriarchal

pattern of the marginalization of feminine and maternal power.  Thus, neither figure truly

represents feminine power, nor does either pose a threat to traditional patriarchal structures of

power.

Denying feminine power has always begun with the marginalization of maternal power.

The story of Eve as the spawn of Adam’s rib and Athena springing forth from Zeus’ head seek to

deny the uniquely feminine biological power of birth and motherhood.  Western discourse and

iconic symbolism has long sought to display that “women were of secondary importance in

conception, vessels of imperfect, inchoate matter awaiting the perfected form supplied by male

seed” (Rose 299). Powerfully present mothers have historically represented a distinct threat to

patriarchal power.   While many Shakespearean comedies present powerful female characters,

such as Portia in The Merchant of Venice and Rosalind in As You Like It, those characters give

up their power at the end of the plays, submitting to male authority in marriage.  They relinquish

their male disguises that grant them agency in society and align their interests with their

husbands.  Essentially, they disappear at the end of the play, offering their husbands the public

role in society while taking the nonthreatening role of wife in private.

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The challenge in considering Shakespeare’s women comes from the fact he crafted young

female characters who seem not to belong in the confines of the roles ultimately afforded them,

whether the loyal wife in the tragedy or the clever crossdressing lover in the comedy who

ultimately turns power over to an inferior husband. Moreover, Shakespeare did not write female

roles that emulated Queen Elizabeth 1 or the Virgin Mary. On the contrary, Shakespeare created

intelligent, capable women who embraced their own sexuality; Shakespeare did not create

women who emulated either of the iconic chaste feminine figures.  One could argue that Lady

Macbeth aspired to such a position when she pleads to the spirits to “unsex” her, but a

comparison between Lady Macbeth and the Virgin Mary seems laughable, at best. On the

contrary, Lady Macbeth presents an almost visceral rejection of the confines of a woman’s role

in society. She is situated in a play in which women are either witches, loyal wives—like Lady

Macduff—or are seen as prostitutes. None of the options are acceptable to Lady Macbeth,

particularly given the fact that Lady Macduff is slaughtered as a result of her loyalty to her

husband. From the start of the play, Shakespeare portrays Lady Macbeth as a literate, educated

woman; she is reading a letter when she first appears on stage. Disillusioned by the lack of

“acceptable” options for a woman, Lady Macbeth embarks on a plan marked by ambition and

violence, a path that is distinctly male. In rejecting her feminine role, she immediately becomes

the object of disdain. Though she is an aberration from the norm of Shakespearean female grace,

her decision to reject the role society created for her is not particularly inconsistent with other

Shakespearean women. Instead, Lady Macbeth reflects the extreme result of confining women to

roles that do not honor their capabilities and potential. Outside of Lady Macbeth, Shakespeare

creates powerful female characters who refuse to subjugate their sexuality and seem to chafe

against the confines their roles.

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Shakespeare crafts his young female characters throughout both his comedies and his

tragedies as powerfully intelligent, vibrant, capable, and moral young women.  They are easily

the intellectual and moral equals to their male counterparts, and in many cases, they far exceed

the men in their lives intellectually and morally.  Both As You Like it and The Merchant of

Venice feature a remarkable juxtaposition between the intellectual savvy of the female and male

leads; the women are unquestionably superior.

Portia, in The Merchant of Venice, displays intellect, virtue, and wit that far surpass her

eventual husband Bassanio; Shakespeare crafts Portia as superior in nearly all ways to her male

counterpart.  Bassanio enters the play as a man who is unable to support himself.  As he begs

money of his friend Antonio, Bassanio admits:

Tis not unknown to you, Antonio,

How much I have disabled mine estate

By something showing a more

Than my faint means would grant continuance. (The Merchant of Venice 1.1.129-132)

Though Bassanio proves himself to be verbally clever, he ultimately reveals that he cannot

support himself. In fact, he is a man whose sole economic plan is to woo “a lady richly left” (The

Merchant of Venice 1.1.168). Rather than use his intellect to earn a living, as does Antonio the

merchant, Bassanio hopes that his good looks will win him a wealthy wife.  Bassanio opts for a

path to wealth and comfort which is more prototypically the path of a woman who must find

wealth in a spouse because society does not allow her the opportunity to earn a living through the

use of her intellect.

In sharp contrast to Bassanio, Shakespeare crafts Portia as a vibrant, intellectual, and

capable woman with a firm control of the world around her. Portia’s first lines are those of a
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philosopher, as she laments the challenges of following one’s own counsel: “If to do were as

easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men’s cottages

princes’ palaces” (The Merchant of Venice 1.2.12-14). The scene highlights both Portia’s

intellect and her virtue.  She desires to control her own destiny as a man would, but she is

“curbed by the will of a dead father” (The Merchant of Venice 1.2.24-25). Shakespeare presents

her as a woman fully capable of exercising her own will, but as a good Christian daughter, she

will not defy her father’s will, which serves as a representation of patriarchal standards.

As the play progresses, the disparity between the Portia’s intellect and Bassanio’s vacuity

only widens. When confronted with the prospect of Antonio dying at the hands of Shylock

because he is unable to repay the loan he took out on Bassanio’s behalf, Bassanio is incapable of

crafting a useful defense for his friend. He fails to understand Shylock’s motivations, thinking

that shaming him or offering him money will curb his desire for revenge.  Bassanio is reduced to

offering his own “flesh, blood, bones, and all” in the place of Antonio’s; his only solution to the

problem is to sacrifice his own life to Shylock (The Merchant of Venice 4.1.114).  In sharp

contrast, Portia sets a trap for Shylock, enticing him to demand the full extent of the law in open

court. Portia delivers her “quality of mercy” speech, artfully equating mercy with Christian

virtue. He responds to her speech, “My deeds upon my head! I crave the law,/The penalty and

forfeit of my bond” (The Merchant of Venice 4.1.213-214). Unlike Bassanio, she comprehends

Shylock’s position in the courtroom and she has full knowledge of the law. Portia understands

that Shylock will reject the ideals of mercy, which will allow her to humiliate him when he

stands in court in need of mercy.  Once she gets him to commit that he wants the law rather than

mercy, she is able to manipulate him into bringing upon his own demise. As Bassanio sits lamely

by, Portia acts both as a philosopher and as an attorney, controlling and manipulating a
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courtroom full of men. She saves Antonio’s life, while stripping Shylock of his wealth. She is

not just a clever woman; she is smarter and more capable than any of the men.  

Portia punctuates her intellectual superiority over Bassanio by manipulating him into

giving up his wedding ring.  She displayed the remarkable foresight to declare the symbolic

importance of the ring when she first agrees to marry Bassanio, knowing that she would find the

opportunity to trick him into relinquishing it. Not only does Portia find a way to trick Bassanio,

she knows from their first conversation that she will be able to do so; she does not just stumble

upon the opportunity, she knows from the outset that she can craft the circumstances to outwit

her new husband. When he initially refuses to give the ring to the disguised Portia in exchange

for saving Antonio, she cleverly chastises him.

I see you are liberal in offers.

You taught me first to beg, and now methinks

You teach me how a beggar should be answered. (The Merchant of Venice 4.2.456-468)

Despite his attempts to resist, Bassanio eventually falls to Portia’s intellectual acuity,

relinquishing the ring, and with it, control in his marriage.  Portia is able to manipulate him at

will. Though Bassanio does not prove to be an intellectual match for Portia, the play displays that

he stands as her best available option. Portia spends the majority of Act 1, Scene 2 openly

mocking her other suitors for being illiterate, violent or drunk. The scene focuses on the

frustration that she cannot choose her own husband, but it also displays a dearth of suitable

options. Shakespeare displays Portia as an intelligent and capable woman making do with a

limited set of options in an oppressive, patriarchal society that benefits inferior and undeserving

men.
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The intellectual superiority of a woman is not unique to The Merchant of Venice.

Rosalind and Orlando, in As you Like It, display an intellectual disparity similar to that of Portia

and Bassanio. In the play’s opening conversation, Orlando explains his desire to change his

position of servitude to his brother, but he “knows no wise remedy how to avoid it” (As You Like

It 1.1.24-25). Rather than craft a plan to overthrow his brother or otherwise improve his state, he

simply accepts the challenge to grapple with a professional wrestler. Though he manages to

emerge victorious from the match, his decision seems foolhardy and poorly conceived. The

match eventually gets him banished and with no plan for success. In fact, he ends up begging for

food in Arden Forest to avoid starving.  Like Bassanio, he fails to pursue his own success,

depending instead on the support and goodwill of those around him.

Like Portia, Rosalind displays wit, intelligence, and virtue that far surpass her male

counterpart.  When Duke Frederick says he cannot trust her, Rosalind boldly challenges both his

virtue and his intellect.

ROSALIND

Yet your mistrust cannot make me a traitor.

Tell me whereon the likelihood depends.

DUKE FREDERICK

Thou art thy father’s daughter. There’s enough.

ROSALIND

So was I when your Highness took his dukedom.

So was I when your highness banished him.

Or if we did derive it from our friends,

What’s that to me? (As You Like It 1.3.59-66).

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Rosalind’s exchange with her uncle proves her insightful intelligence as well as her strength.

She understands the situation, and she is not willing to back down. Even as she tells Celia of her

plan to disguise herself as a man, Rosalind displays a remarkable insight into the nature of man

in the world. She calms Celia’s doubts by explaining, “We’ll have a swashing and a martial

outside--/As many other mannish cowards have/That do outface it with their semblances” (As

You Like It 1.3.127-129). Rosalind makes a bold jab at the tenuous nature of gender roles,

suggesting that men often wear a bold suit to mask true cowardice. Ironically, she seems to fear

nothing, but she is forced assume the habit of a man in order to provide her more freedom to

move about in the world. However, her adoption of a man’s clothing should not be confused with

the sacrificing of her sexuality. Rosalind uses her disguise to get Orlando to woo her, and

afterward, she exclaims to Celia, “O coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz, that thou didst know how

many fathom deep I am in love” (As you Like It 4.1.118-119). Though society forces her to

cross-dress in order to exercise agency in society, she has no interest in relinquishing her female

sexuality. She even uses her disguise to achieve romantic ends. As with Portia, Shakespeare

portrays Rosalind as a young woman who is a force to be reckoned with while her future

husband bumbles his way toward undeserved success.

Once in Arden Forest, the intellectual disparity between Rosalind and Orlando only

widens.  Just as Bassanio filled the seemingly feminine role of pursuing economic security

through marriage, Orlando adopts a stereotypical feminine role of the lovestruck youth,

wandering through the forest carving love poems into the trees.  Rather than concoct a plan for

pursuing his love, he moves through the forest saying, “Run, run, Orlando, carve on every

tree,/The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she” (As You Like It 3.2.9-10). As Orlando mopes

like a lovelorn girl, Rosalind dresses as Ganymede and takes control of her situation, both
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wooing Orlando and helping others in the forest. Thus, while Orlando laments that without

Rosalind’s love, “in mine own person I die” (As You Like It 4.1.98), Rosalind proves the

philosopher, alluding to Trolius and Leander to chastise Orlando for his frailty in love. She

continues to display her intellectual prowess, speaking circles around him, even mocking women

as wives. “Maids are May when they are maids, but the sky changes when they are wives” (As

You Like It 4.1.154-155). Again Rosalind playful and ironically questions patriarchal gender

roles, while Orlando listens helplessly. Orlando functions as an untutored, helpless, and lovesick

child, while Rosalind displays a vibrant assertiveness, accompanied by an impressive intellect

and a vast knowledge of the world.

Though the same intellectual disparity between male and female characters does not exist

in the tragedies, the tragic women are no less impressive than those in the comedies.  Throughout

the tragedies, the women tend to spend less time on stage than they do in the comedies.  Perhaps

this is the result, as James Hill asserts, of the fact that young male actors portrayed female roles,

and the tragic roles required more emotional and psychological complexity in the acting, a task

beyond the skills of the young, apprentice actors (Hill 236-237). Regardless of the reason, the

women still have a similar vibrancy and intellect as the comic women. Shakespeare presents

Julius Caesar’s Portia and Othello’s Desdemona as confident and intelligent women who are the

equals to their powerful military and political husbands.

Julius Caesar’s Portia displays a keen understanding of her husband and of the minds of

men. Shakespeare grants her the ability to sense the error in Brutus’ plot while he, himself, is not

able to understand or see his own flaw. She confronts Brutus as he is spending another sleepless

night.  His decision to kill his best friend for political reasons has left his conscience racked with

guilt:
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Since Cassius first did whet me against Caesar,

I have not slept.

Between the acting of a dreadful thing

And the first motion, all the interim is

Like a phantasm or a hideous dream. (Julius Caesar 2.1.64-68)

Brutus sees the dreadful nature of his plot, but he naively believes that his political ideals justify

his plan.  However, he does not believe fully enough in his motives to share them with his wife,

and when she demands an explanation for his behavior, he lies and says that he is ill.  Portia

responds insightfully that “Brutus is wise and, were he not in health,/He would embrace the

means to come by it”(Julius Caesar 2.1.278-279). She understands that he engaged in some

behavior or plot that makes him ill at heart and that he is making a mistake by contradicting his

own moral standards.  When Brutus dismisses Portia’s assertion that he is not physically ill, she

replies sharply, “No, My Brutus,/You have some sick offense within your mind”  (Julius Caesar

2.1.287-288). When he denies that he has any such plan, she points out that men had come to the

house “who did hide their faces/Even from darkness” (Julius Caesar 2.1.298-299). Portia

attempts to hold Brutus to his own stated standard of honor, in which one never need hide his

motives because they are so pure. She pleads with him to understand the dangers of his own

secrecy, even displaying the strength and conviction to stab herself in the thigh to prove she is

“stronger than [her] sex” (Julius Caesar 2.1.319). Just like her comic namesake, Brutus’ Portia

highlights the ironic assumptions of a woman’s weakness, even as she defies those assumptions.

Though Julius Caesar is a play dominated by the conflict among powerful men, Portia may be

the most perceptive, constant, and thoughtful character in the play.  Had Brutus heeded the

warnings his wife, he almost certainly would have avoided tragedy.  In a historically based play,
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the focus on the interactions between husband and wife serves as perhaps the most significant

editorializing in the play; Shakespeare’s plot is true to the historical events, save for those

personal interactions he chose to include, and a husband’s unwillingness to listen to his

intelligent and insightful wife is chief among them.

The fictional plot of Othello features a similar failure of a husband to understand and

respect the intelligence and capability of his wife. Though one might question Desdemona’s

decision to submit to her husband at the end of Othello, Shakespeare presents her at the

beginning of the play a confident, intelligent, and capable young woman.  Rather than wilt from

the pressure of being asked to proclaim her loyalties in front of the Venetian senate, she offers a

brilliant explanation of her choice to marry the Moorish general.

My noble father,

I do perceive here a divided duty:

To you I am bound for life and education;

My life and education both do learn me

How to respect you; you are the lord of duty;

I am hitherto your daughter: but here's my husband,

And so much duty as my mother show'd

To you, preferring you before her father,

So much I challenge that I may profess

Due to the Moor my lord. (Othello 1.3.208-218)

Desdemona does not feel the need to hide behind either her father or her new husband.  Instead,

she takes responsibility for her own choice, and she highlights the fact that society places a

woman in an impossible position, one in which she must choose between the two men that
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patriarchal society demands she obey.  Like the other Shakespearean women, Desdemona

brilliantly highlights the ironies and injustices of patriarchal demands and expectations.

Desdemona further displays her mettle when the Duke asks her if she would like to stay with her

father while Othello heads to Cyprus to defend Venetian interests.  After quickly dismissing the

idea of returning to her father’s home, she asks to accompany Othello to war, stating, “If I be left

behind,/The rites for why I did love him are bereft me/And I a heavy interim shall support/By his

dear absence” (Othello 1.3.208-218).  Desdemona yearns for the life of adventure that Othello

can pursue as a man and that she is denied as a woman.  She sees in Othello the opportunity to

live a more vibrant and full life. Like the other female characters throughout the Shakespearean

canon, Desdemona is a remarkably intelligent, capable, and confident young woman.

The presence of such an array of powerful women in the Shakespearean canon begs, not

only the question of what Shakespeare intended thematically by introducing women who far

outshined the roles they filled, but also more basically what served as the imaginative or creative

source for these female characters who serve to so thoroughly question patriarchal standards.

The maintenance of a powerful feminine sexuality in these characters displays that they are not

emulating the iconic figures of Elizabeth or the Virgin Mother, which suggests that either

Shakespeare looked to pre-Christian sources for models of female strength or he drew his

characters from the rapidly changing London society surrounding him, one in which traditional

systems of wealth and social status were being tested and challenged daily.  Both explanations

argue a Shakespearean tendency toward challenging the strict patriarchal standards of

Renaissance England.

Though much debate and controversy has centered on Shakespeare’s education, there is

little doubt that he was well versed in Greek and Roman mythology and history. Shakespeare’s
 Moffat 19

fascination with classical mythology and history emerges both through the profusion of allusion

throughout the canon, as well as in the construction of plays such as Antony and Cleopatra, Titus

Andronicus, and Julius Caesar. Certainly the powerful women in Shakespeare’s historically

based plays provide a sharp contrast to the image of the Virgin Mary and Queen Elizabeth.

Tamora and Cleopatra are rulers whose female sexuality enhances rather than marginalizes their

power; they represent a different path to feminine power.  However, they stand as uniquely

foreign figures, too distant to be meaningful in the context of Renaissance England. Marcus

Brutus’ wife Portia functions as a more realistic model for a young playwright looking for an

inspired female character. Shakespeare wrote The Merchant of Venice almost three years before

Julius Caesar, and the use of the name Portia reflects more than an affinity for the name. Even

before her initial entrance on stage, Bassanio tells Antonio, “Her name is Portia, nothing

undervalued/To Cato’s daughter, Brutus’ Portia” (The Merchant of Venice 1.1.173-174).

Bassanio introduces this Portia as the equal to the historical figure, and she proves to be fictional

perfection of her namesake, indeed. In fact, most scholars have argued that the differences

between the historical Porcia and this fictional Portia are too vast to entertain the connection as

meaningful.  The suicidal Porcia featured in Plutarch’s “Life of Marcus Brutus,” the likely

source for Shakespeare’s historical knowledge, seems too unlike Portia of Belmont to accept

Bassanio’s comparison as meaningful (Velz 305).  However, John Velz argues that the

connections become more meaningful if one considers Bassanio’s Portia as a dramatic foil to

Plutarch’s Porcia: “a perfected’ Cato’s daughter’” (306). Velz continues to argue that “[t]he

comedic ending of The Merchant of Venice is brought about by a woman's competence in a male

world; the Portia of that play is, finally, what Plutarch's Porcia wishes she could be” (306).

Shakespeare has taken the historical figure of Portia, one that yearns to enter the male world in
 Moffat 20

order to save her husband, and he has reimagined her in the fictional world of The Merchant of

Venice, allowing her the opportunity to enter the male world and save her husband. It would not

take much work to rewrite The Merchant of Venice as a tragedy in which Portia confines herself

to the monastery and laments her inability to influence the world of men and save Antonio.

Similarly, one can easily envision the comic version of Julius Caesar, in which Portia enters the

senate chambers dressed as a senator, saving the lives and friendship of Caesar and Brutus and

salvaging the future of the Roman Republic while simultaneously shaming the skinny, ambitious

Cassius. When set side-by-side, the plays do, in fact, function as foils.

The idea that Shakespeare used an unleashed Porcia as a model becomes a particularly

compelling argument given that he was writing in a time of massive social upheaval, in which

women where experimenting with pushing the boundaries of patriarchal order. Shakespeare was

born into a society in which one’s “social station” was thought to be “providentially determined

and immutable” (Howard 421).  However, social historians agree that by the time Shakespeare

was living in London, this rigid social order was under remarkable pressure. Social mobility was

a fact, its effects strikingly clear in the urban center of London, and the rapid economic and

cultural changes in the city were creating tensions between a social order based on hierarchy and

deference and one increasingly based on entrepreneurship and the social relations attendant upon

the emergence of early capitalism (Howard 422). In fact, the strictures for dress based on class

were increasingly being tested. In his book Anatomie of Abuses, written in 1583, Philip Stubbes

argued that “transgressions of the dress code don't just signal social disruption; they constitute

such disruption” (Howard 422). Stubbes wrote with significant alarm of the trend of women

dressing as men in the streets of London, a practice which suggests that women were

increasingly seeking ways to move outside of the confines of a strict patriarchal social order. In
 Moffat 21

fact, by 1620, the practice had become pervasive enough that “King James I ordered the

preachers of London to inveigh from the pulpit against the practice of women dressing as men in

the streets of London” (Howard 420). The King’s demand suggests that Shakespeare could see in

the streets of London the potential power of cross-dressing, possibly inspiring the transformation

from Brutus’ historical Porcia to Shakespeare’s reimagined Portia. While the women cross-

dressing in London were likely lower class women fighting to earn a living, they still displayed

the spirit to subvert the patriarchal order; Shakespeare captures this same spirit in his comedies.

The fact that cross-dressing in the streets of London was common enough in 1620 to alarm the

King provides an intriguing insight into Shakespeare’s comic plots.  Far from condemning the

rebellious behavior as the Crown and Church did, Shakespeare thoroughly validated the practice,

which constitutes a not so subtle challenge to the established social order. One might legitimately

ask whether the popularity of Shakespeare’s theater might have played a very real role in

actually promoting the practice, making the streets of London a stage in which women were

attempting to play new roles.

The female characters within the plays encountered the same problem as the real women

in London; there were no powerful roles for women to play, nor were there any powerful role

models for them to emulate. In fact, marriage sat as the only acceptable path for a woman, one

which the Crown and the Church were working actively to protect. Despite the social changes in

London, Michael Kastan explains that “the pressure of Protestant thought that a woman's proper

role was docile and domestic. Theologians regularly echoed Luther's notion that "women should

remain at home, sit still, keep house, and bear and bring up children” (115). While nearly all of

Shakespeare’s plays end up confining young women to the role of wife, he displays that the role

does not fit the strengths and capabilities of the women.  In the tragedies, the loyal wife is
 Moffat 22

ultimately punished as a result of her loyalty, and the comedies highlight the injustice of a

superior woman yielding all power and agency to an inferior man. In neither genre does

Shakespeare come close to validating the Protestant belief that a woman should “remain at home,

sit still, keep house, and bear and bring up children;”  on the contrary, he creates women who are

far too capable to be confined to sitting quietly and keeping house. The plays affirm the assertion

that there existed no model—no feminine divine—for a powerful woman in society.

Both  Julius Caesar and Othello feature intelligent confident women who meet disastrous

ends as a result of their loyalty to their husbands and their fealty to the prescribed role of the

wife. Though Desdemona can be seen as a rebellious woman for her decision to marry Othello

without her father’s blessing or consent, her loyalty as a wife is almost superhuman. When

mistreated by Othello and then confronted with evidence that he might be jealous, she declares,

“my noble Moor/Is true of mind and made of no such baseness/As jealous creatures are”

(Othello 3.4.26-28). Desdemona cannot and will not believe that her husband could be anything

but noble. Even after he has spoken to her “startlingly” and “rash[ly],” demanding that she

produce the handkerchief, she continues to defend him. She even chastises herself for

questioning his motives: “But now I find I have suborned the witness,/And he is indicted falsely”

(Othello 3.4.26-28). She cannot see or accept that Othello can be anything other than a noble

husband, one deserving of her faith, love, and loyalty. She declares her duty as a Christian to

treat her body as a vessel for her lord, and even if her husband were wayward, she would not

“pick bad from bad, but by bad mend” (Othello 4.3.117).  In other words, she sees being a wife

as a Christian duty that requires complete fidelity, regardless of the behavior of her husband.

She functions as a reflection of the Protestant ideal of wifely duty, and the play offers a clear and

painful lesson on what that loyalty earns for her. When Emilia asks Desdemona if she “would
 Moffat 23

not make her husband a cuckold to make him a monarch?” she declares, “Beshrew me if I would

do such a wrong for the entire world!” (Othello 4.3.85-91). Desdemona believes so fully in

Protestant ideals of marriage that she does not believe that “there is any such woman” who

would do such a thing (Othello 4.3.94). She cannot imagine betraying her husband, even if it

would benefit him immensely. Within this exchange between Emilia and Desdemona,

Shakespeare poses a sharp criticism to the prescribed role of women in marriage.  Shakespeare

creates Desdemona as the intellectual equal of the men around her, but the confines of the

Protestant role of wife do not allow her to help him “become a monarch.” On the contrary, her

unfailing loyalty to her role as the dutiful wife leads to her own demise and to the demise of her

husband.

Desdemona’s final act as a wife is to accept her own death and even defend her

husband’s vicious and ill-conceived decision to murder her for a transgression she did not

commit. When Emilia discovers her dying, Desdemona faithfully protects Othello, saying that

she killed herself, asking Emilia to “commend [her] to [her] kind lord” (Othello 5.2.154).

Desdemona’s final act of loyalty is so extreme that one can almost not be take it

seriously. However, when one considers the extent and nature of domestic violence present in

society to this very day, the scene takes on a new and chilling focus. Patriarchal societal and

legal standards have long dictated that such violence is an acceptable element in a marriage, and

the lack of societal roles outside of marriage has long left women in a position in which they

cannot escape a violent spouse because they have no economic avenue for escape. Shakespeare’s

depiction of the marriage between Othello and Desdemona does not condone this societal

standard. In no way does the play suggest that Desdemona deserves the abuse and murder at the

hands of Othello; she has no fatal flaw unless her perfect adherence to her role as a wife is
 Moffat 24

deemed a flaw.  Shakespeare’s use of dramatic irony allows the audience to see that her only

failing is her unwillingness to question her husband.  She is certainly not responsible for

Othello’s actions, but with more agency and independence she could easily have pushed her

husband to question what Iago was telling him, saving both of their lives and his career.

The sharp criticism of societal standards of marriage is not confined to the play’s final

dramatic scene; the play offers repeated critiques of the role society dictates that wives must play

in marriage.  In their first conversation in Cyprus, Iago proclaims that regardless of her merit, all

a woman can become is a housewife.  Desdemona asks what becomes of a woman “that in the

authority of her merit did justly put on the vouch of very malice itself?” (Othello 2.1.161-162).

Desdemona asks Iago what a woman full of merit, such as herself, can become in society, and

Iago responds that she will use her merit to get a husband, leaving her to “suckle fools and

chronicle small beer” (Othello 2.1.175). Though it appears to be nothing more than ale house

misogyny, Iago’s commentary on women highlights both the lack of opportunity for women

beyond marriage and the indignity a woman suffers once confined to marriage. He paints a

particularly grim picture of marriage, one in which a woman’s intellect and capabilities are

marginalized completely. Later in the play, Emilia redoubles the critical commentary on the

nature of marriage.  

But I do think it is their husbands' faults

If wives do fall: say that they slack their duties,

And pour our treasures into foreign laps,

Or else break out in peevish jealousies,

Throwing restraint upon us; or say they strike us,

Or scant our former having in despite;

 Moffat 25

Why, we have galls, and though we have some grace,

Yet have we some revenge. (Othello 4.3.97-104)

Where Iago described the fate of wives, Emilia describes the behavior of husbands.  Emilia does

not just suggest that these abuses by husbands might occur; she declares them as the truths of

marriage.  Her own marriage to Iago, who is both abusive and dismissive, serves as a primary

example. With no other roles to play, women have no choice but to enter into marriage, and once

they are in one, they are left powerless.  They have no recourse to leave an abusive marriage

once they are in one. Sadly, the play begs a comparison of the two marriages in order portray the

marriage of Othello and Desdemona as the standard of an excellent marriage, and yet it ends in

abuse and murder. The grim portrayal of marriage might lead one to think that remaining single

would be preferable, but the play’s one unmarried woman, Bianca, is shunned by the women and

mocked by the men. She is essentially a prostitute, and her singular option for advancement and

respect in society is to marry Michael Cassio.  Despite being portrayed as a negative option,

marriage is the only available role for women to play.

Though Portia and Calpurnia, in Julius Caesar, are not in relationships that are abusive or

murderous, the depiction of marriage ends up being no less critical or tragic. Though she plays

only a limited role in the plot, Shakespeare seems to take particular interest Brutus’ dismissal of

Portia’s intelligence and insight. Brutus stands as a man of legendary moral standards, but he

still cannot see or honor the intellectual capabilities of his wife. Portia, herself, comments on the

societal bonds placed upon her by her sex that lead to Brutus’ assumptions: “Think you I am no

stronger than my sex,/Being so father'd and so husbanded?” (Julius Caesar 2.1.319-320). She

goes to remarkable pains, including stabbing herself, to convince Brutus to listen to her insightful

counsel, but he refuses to listen to her. Her loyalty to Brutus and to the ideals of marriage prevent
 Moffat 26

her from exercising the agency necessary to saving him and from potentially saving Rome.

When he heads to the senate to murder Caesar, Portia desperately wants to intervene, but she

declares that she must “set a huge mountain ‘tween [her] heart and tongue” (Julius Caesar 2.4.8).

She laments that despite “hav[ing] a man’s mind,” she can do nothing but wait at home while her

husband makes his fatal error (Julius Caesar 2.4.9). Dramatic irony connects the audience with

Portia in the desire to stop Brutus before he murders his best friend and begins a tragic chain of

events for himself and for the Roman Republic.

Portia’s role in the drama could be dismissed as a dramatic foil used to highlight Brutus’

latent guilt, but for the fact that Calpurnia plays a very similar role of a capable wife who is

tragically dismissed by her husband. While critics often suggest that Caesar suffers the flaw of

idealistic naiveté and Caesar dies as the result of his hubris, neither flaw would have led to the

downfall of these powerful men if they had listened to their wives or if their wives had the

agency to act independently. Just as Portia challenges Brutus to reassess his motives, Calpurnia

directly contradicts Caesar’s decision to go to the senate.

CALPURNIA

What mean you, Caesar? Think you to walk forth?

You shall not stir out of your house to-day.

CAESAR

Caesar shall forth: the things that threaten'd me

Ne'er look'd but on my back; when they shall see

The face of Caesar, they are vanished. (Julius Caesar 2.2.8-12)

Calpurnia understands that her husband is in danger, but his lack of respect for the intellectual

capabilities of women keeps him from listening to her.  Though Caesar dismisses her warning
 Moffat 27

because it emerges from a dream and from the mystical happenings in the streets of Rome,

Calpurnia displays that she is keenly attentive to what is happening throughout Rome. Not only

is Calpurnia asking him to stay home from the senate, she is entreating him to pay attention to

the happenings around him, a failing that contributes to his downfall.  When he declares that he

is more dangerous than danger itself, she brilliantly and insightfully retorts that “his wisdom is

consumed by confidence” (Julius Caesar 2.2.53). Calpurnia understands Caesar’s flaw as clearly

as Cassius does, but she does not have the agency to alter his course. Her warnings could have

saved his life, but his fear of appearing weak for listening to a woman leads him to call her

“foolish,” saying that he is “ashamed” that he almost yielded to woman (Julius Caesar 2.2.110-

111). Of course, the play reveals that the woman was right and the man was wrong. While

Shakespeare’s decision to include the exchange between husband and wife does highlight

Caesar’s extreme hubris, the scene the domestic exchange is not necessary to display Caesar’s

flaw.  Caesar’s flaw is fully evident in his interactions in the senate, where he refers to himself in

godlike terms as being as “constant as the Northern Star” (Julius Caesar 3.1.66). The fact that

this scene between husband and wife is not dramatically necessary for the political plotline

suggests that its inclusion in the play, particularly given the parallel scene between Brutus and

Portia, serves primarily as a criticism of the marginalization of capable women. Caesar dies as a

result of his hubris, but he could have avoided that fall if he had listened to his intelligent and

insightful wife. A close reading of these personal elements added to the historical account

displays that men’s unwillingness to listen to their wives led to the fall of Rome, or perhaps more

radically, that women have the intelligence and insight to fill the roles in which these men fail.

Might Shakespeare have considered the female senator? He seems to create, in Portia and

Calpurnia, women potentially fit to govern.  Shakespeare’s dramatic retelling of this Roman
 Moffat 28

tragedy displays a frustration with the fate of these two powerful women, almost as though he

wants to find another fate for them.

While the tragedies display the abusive and unjust nature of the only societally acceptable

role for women, the comedies argue that women are capable of fulfilling those myriad roles from

which a patriarchal society bars them. The powerfully capable women of the comedies often turn

to cross dressing to negotiate the world with a freedom and agency that their gender does not

otherwise allow them, and they prove themselves more than capable of fulfilling those roles.   In

The Merchant of Venice, Shakespeare presents a striking alternate fate for Portia, and in the

process, he pushes back critically on the boundaries and restrictions society places on women.

Rather than passively accept her assigned feminine role, Portia proves her mettle in a man’s

world, and she also rewrites the rules of marriage. When she describes her courtroom plan to

Nerissa, Portia explains: “I have within my mind/A thousand raw tricks of these bragging

Jacks,/Which I will practice” (The Merchant of Venice 3.4.79-81). Not only does she offer an

understanding of the simple minds of men, she mocks their weaknesses.  Portia, who humbly

fears “praising of [her]self,” explains that it is easy to impersonate a young man because all one

needs to do “tell twenty of these puny lies” that men tell about women and courtship (The

Merchant of Venice 3.4.21 & 77). Portia describes men as juvenile and simple and, therefore,

easy to mimic and fool. When Nerissa asks her if they “shall turn to men,” Portia retorts, “Fie,

what a question's that,/If thou wert near a lewd interpreter!” (The Merchant of Venice 3.4.83-84).

While clearly a tongue in cheek response, Portia’s rejection of the idea that they would actually

turn to men provides valuable insight into the gender dynamics in the play.  In order to save

Antonio’s life, Portia needs to exercise the freedom and agency that society only allows men.

She would not be permitted into the courtroom as a woman, and she has no faith they these
 Moffat 29

young men can outwit Shylock. However, she has no interest in sacrificing her female sexuality.

When Bassanio selects the correct casket, Portia declares in an aside: “O love, be moderate, allay

thy ecstasy,/In measure rain thy joy, scant this excess!” (The Merchant of Venice 3.2.114-115).

She has no interest in emulating the virginal icons available to her; instead, she wants to be, and

is, a powerful woman, but society forces her to dress as a man to exercise that power publically.

The fact that she must dress as a man, and is successful as a man, presents a sharp criticism of a

patriarchal system that does not allow her to exercise agency as a woman.

Unlike many of the comedies in which marriage serves as the end of the play, The

Merchant of Venice offers significant commentary on the marriage of Portia and Bassanio by

placing the marriage in Act Three. Though Portia feigns submission to the prescribed role of the

loyal wife, she never intends to accept the role. When she agrees to marry Bassanio, she does so

conditionally.

Myself and what is mine to you and yours

Is now converted: but now I was the lord

Of this fair mansion, master of my servants,

Queen o'er myself: and even now, but now,

This house, these servants and this same myself

Are yours, my lord: I give them with this ring;

Which when you part from, lose, or give away,

Let it presage the ruin of your love

And be my vantage to exclaim on you. (The Merchant of Venice 3.2.170-178)

Though Bassanio and the audience do not understand it at the time, Portia sets up Bassanio with

the offer of the ring by granting it with an implied contract.  The language Portia uses reflects
 Moffat 30

Shylock’s bargain for a pound of flesh, in which he hopes to gain control of Antonio’s person.

Similarly, Portia seeks to have the “vantage to exclaim” on Bassanio; her bargain secures the

opportunity to gain the control and agency legally denied women in marriage. Shylock does

much the same thing as a marginalized Jew attempting to gain agency over a Christian in a

severely anti-Semitic society. In the same manner that she enters the courtroom with full

knowledge of the eventual outcome, she uses the ring to manipulate Bassanio into sacrificing his

patriarchal power.  She cleverly creates a marriage in which she is able to maintain her female

sexuality—she has no interest in being virginal—and which she ensures that she remains “queen

o’er” herself and over her husband. In a society in which there is no powerful role for a woman

outside of marriage, Portia both displays that a woman is fully capable of succeeding in a male

role, while she also reinvents a woman’s role in marriage.

Once one shifts the focus away from the anti-Semitism that permeates the play, The

Merchant of Venice emerges as an impressively feminist play, particularly when considered next

to the tragedies. Shakespeare not only displays extreme irony in the myriad abilities of a woman

relative to men, but he also challenges the patriarchal standard for women in marriage. Portia

displays that a woman could only find power and agency either by shedding her gender and

taking on a man’s role or by figuring out how to manipulate her marriage to gain control and

agency in the private realm of marriage. The Merchant of Venice serves as the comic foil to the

criticism of marriage that emerges in the tragedies. When considered in concert, the tragedies

and comedies offer a criticism of a society in which intelligent and capable women have no other

option than to submit to abusive and dismissive marriages. In his comic Portia, Shakespeare

seems to be searching for a new role for women to play, but no role model of a feminine divine

who maintains her sexuality and has agency existed for him to emulate.  
 Moffat 31

Over the last four hundred years, women have embraced the spirit of Portia and pushed

back against the oppression of the patriarchal social order, emerging from the confines of the

limited roles afforded women in Renaissance England. However, as the roles of women in

society have transformed, the popularity of Shakespeare’s plays has not waned. The fact that

Shakespeare’s women are confined to traditional female roles does not appear antiquated on

stage because the women are do not fit their roles. Shakespeare’s women have continued to

flourish in the imaginations of modern audiences; they serve as an inspiration to women because

they are too confident, intelligent, and capable to fit the only roles available to them in an

oppressive society. Audiences see in The Merchant of Venice that a woman can command a

courtroom and in Othello that a woman must not accept the oppressive and abusive treatment of

a husband. The plays do not ask women to conform to the roles prescribed by society, but

instead feature female characters that inspire women to break out of those roles. The dynamic

potential in the women Shakespeare crafted might well help to explain the longevity and

permanence of Shakespeare’s work. In his “Eulogy to Shakespeare,” which was printed in the

Preface of the First Folio, Ben Johnson famously writes that William Shakespeare was “not of

an age, but for all time.” Johnson’s praise has stood since 1623 as evidence of Shakespeare’s

massive popularity in his own lifetime, but it has also proven to be a prophetic declaration of

Shakespeare’s permanence. Despite filling traditional female roles, Shakespeare’s women are

arguably a central element in making the plays resonant “for all time” because they display the

strength, intelligence, and confidence to take on roles that had not even been imagined for them

yet. Had Shakespeare’s women simply faded into their roles as good Protestant wives, the plays

would simply be “of an age,” failing to speak to generations of women who have since stepped

out of their marginalized place in the home in order to fill new roles in the courtroom, the board
 Moffat 32

room, and beyond. Though they were imagined more than four hundred years ago, Shakespeare’s

women seem capable of stepping off of the stage and directly into twenty-first century roles.
 Moffat 33

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