Edward Herbert 1st Baron Herbert of Cherbury by Isaac Oliver. Image credit: Isaac Oliver via Wikipedia
Gavin Herbertson is an English postgraduate at Sidney Sussex, Cambridge. Focusing largely on the early seventeenth century, his research looks at spaces of overlap between early modern theatre and diplomacy. Working chronologically, broad areas of interest include: the poetry of Thomas Wyatt, the Palatinate wedding, John Donne’s elegies, and the general oeuvre of Herbert of Cherbury.
As a poet, his work was esteemed by the likes of John Donne and Ben Jonson, while among the circles of continental philosophy he won the respect of figures ranging from Hugo Grotius to René Descartes. And yet, for many scholars – even those working on the early modern period – Herbert of Cherbury’s name will conjure an altogether less flattering image. If known, it will likely be in the context of his self-aggrandising autobiography: a work he composed in his sixties, for which, as one critic points out, he has been ‘damned with faint praise’, ‘ridiculed for his “knight errantry”, and ‘mocked for his “unconscious humour.”’ Mockery of this sort has a long tradition. In fact, it is as old as the work in print. When the Life was first published by Horace Walpole in 1764, it was accompanied by a pillorying preface, painting the author as a conceited fool. For a long time, those who looked beyond it, and into Herbert’s philosophical standing, found themselves on firmer ground. Posterity seemed to have ossified Cherbury’s reputation as the so-called “Father of Deism”. However, in the last twenty years or so, this epithet has become similarly problematic – not least because, as David Pailin has convincingly argued, the term has always been retroactively and anachronistically applied.
The difficulties in attributing labels to Herbert’s philosophy arise, at least in part, from problems inherent to the writing itself. Composed in an awkward Latin, and riddled with inconsistency, Herbert’s magnum opus – De Veritate – has never been an accessible text. In April 1639, upon being acquainted with Mersenne’s French translation, Oxford theologian Jacob Aretius remarked that while ‘we all admire the most excellent Baron of Cherbury’s treatise […] scarcely one in a thousand (even of the learned) understand it.’ For critics, these interpretive difficulties were further compounded by the fact that no English language version existed before Carré’s 1937 translation.
Herbert began drafting the work in 1617, during a period of illness at Montgomery Castle. Although his autobiography suggests that it was ‘formed there in all its principal Parts’, the last few sections must have been written during his embassy in France. (The earliest extant manuscript copy is dated July 20th 1619, but it does not contain the chapters on revelation, probability, possibility, and falsehood. By contrast, both other surviving manuscripts, which contain the missing chapters, date from Herbert’s ambassadorial tenure.) In 1624, Herbert sent his treatise to a Parisian printer to be published at his ‘own Cost and Charges’. It was to be presented only to those whom the author deemed ‘worthy Readers.’ Despite this initial restriction, it evidently became popular: between 1624 and 1659, it went through four editions – three of which were published in London. As early as 1633, it had been disseminated widely enough to earn a spot on the Catholic Church’s Index of Forbidden Books.
In 1624, the text’s readership was comprised of several groups: namely, Herbert’s diplomatic entourage (which contained the likes of Thomas Carew), his circle of friends in the French Court (who knew him primarily as an ambassador), his friends among rival ambassadors and visitors to the French court (who knew him likewise), and whomever he sent copies to back in England. Members of the last group excepted, relations with the philosopher arose chiefly from his diplomatic role. And, when the first London edition (1633) made its return to the continent, it did so in the arms of Herbert’s relative, the fellow diplomat, Elias Diodati.
The central contention of this essay, then, is that, owing to the eclipsing effect of Herbert’s Life on his reputation, the diplomatic contexts surrounding the early dissemination of De Veritate, and the polymath’s oeuvre more generally, have been overlooked. While there is no reason to suspect that anybody viewed De Veritate as a treatise on diplomacy, this does not preclude the fact that a greater awareness of the diplomatic experiences to which Herbert was subject can provide a novel perspective into what has seemed, at times, an obscure body of work. In addition, I propose that – through an analysis of this sort – the points of intersection between early modern literature, diplomacy and philosophy might be better understood. After all, contemporary manuals on ambassadorship were largely written by legal professors, not philosophers or poets; and, while many prominent literary figures are known to have taken up diplomatic posts, few – excluding Bacon and Montaigne – also produced philosophical writings on truth.
Generally speaking, when critics have analysed De Veritate, they have done so in the same way. They overlook the first section – which presents a taxonomy of the different kinds of truth – and focus their attention on the latter section, pertaining to religious ‘common notions’. Hence, Basil Willey professes that he is ‘only concerned with the application of [Herbert’s] general principles’ as they relate to ‘traditional religious beliefs’, and, despite the fact that epistemological abstractions form the bulk of the work, John Butler believes De Veritate to be an ‘eirenic religious treatise as much, if not more, than it is an epistemological work.’ It is clear, then, that for most scholars, R.D. Bedford’s cogent analysis of the field still holds true: Herbert’s philosophy is seen as ‘little more than a preparation for his specifically religious views.’
Once more, the fault is partly Herbert’s. In a letter alleged to have been written to the author in 1641, James Howell claims that ‘Divers of the scientificall’st, and most famous wits here [Paris], have spoken of your Lordship with admiration, and of your great work De Veritate’, but admits that many were disheartened to find the precepts were not ‘actually apply’ d to any particular Science.’ Astoundingly, in the intervening four hundred years, only one scholar has taken up Howell’s gauntlet, attempting to reconcile Herbert’s metaphysics with the real world.
In her 2006 doctoral thesis, Nancy Lynn Zaice used the example of a vase to explore how Herbert’s abstractions would function practically. To summarise, his theory entails four kinds of truth. The first, veritas rei, is best understood as a sort of proto-Kantian ‘thing-in-itself’. Drawing on Platonic idealism, Herbert posits that there are abstract truths whose existences and natures are invariable. However, in practice, awareness of these is always mediated through a second truth, veritas apperentiae, or ‘truth of appearance’. Relating to real-world phenomena, this truth encompasses the variant modes through which objects present themselves. Since no phenomenon perfectly manifests an abstract concept, as Herbert explains, ‘truth of appearance is highly conditional and is not easily brought into conformity with things in themselves.’ In turn, veritas conceptus – ‘truth of concept’ – comes to mediate veritas apperentiae. This tertiary truth corresponds to subjective perception, and the function of the sensory organs, with the distinction being that ‘the latter falls outside us, while the former is a part of ourselves.’ In the final phase, the now twice-filtered truth is presented to veritas intellectus, or “truth of intellect”. As with veritas rei, veritas intellectus exists without error. It aims to reconstitute the thing-in-itself by deciphering the falsified account which the sensory organs have transmitted. Logically, then, error can only come through the filtering truths: either an object appears to be that which it is not, or the sensory organs are damaged and deliver a false report of what they encounter.
After having provided her vase-based account of this model, Zaice applies it to Herbert’s role as a courtier: she advances the argument that ‘Herbert strove to be the embodiment of that concept in the world.’ The aspirant sought to emulate the ideal courtier – as presented in Castiglione’s Il Cortegiano (1528) – which, she argues, being part of ‘a corpus of foundational courtesy texts’, the philosopher would have encountered ‘in his studies.’
The problems with the approach are numerous – the most significant of which being that, for the period Zaice discusses, Herbert was not a courtier, but an ambassador. This is no trivial distinction. Taking Il Cortegiano as the basis for his argument, Douglas Biow has written extensively on the distinctions between the two. Essentially, a courtier provides counsel and service to his prince, while an ambassador must represent his prince, and by extension his nation, at a foreign court. This means that ‘whereas the courtier must maintain intellectual independence […] the ambassador must submerge his own identity as fully as possible in the image of the prince that he represents.’ It also means that, unlike the courtier, because the ambassador has already won his prince’s favour, his immediate aim is not to curry it further.
The second problem is that Herbert did not own, and may not have read, Il Cortegiano. Neither Dunstan Roberts’ extensive research into Herbert’s Montgomeryshire library, nor the work conducted by C. J. Fordyce and T. M. Knox into his London library, have located Castiglione’s treatise among the bibliophile’s two thousand works. Although it is possible that he had a copy which has gone missing, read someone else’s copy, or absorbed the general tenets through the intellectual grapevine, the same could well be argued, just as plausibly, of other works. Since Herbert’s libraries are known to have contained five texts by Alberico Gentili, it would be a more grounded conjecture to posit that he had encountered the Oxford professor’s most celebrated text, De Legationibus (1594), a treatise on diplomacy dedicated to Herbert’s relative. Conjecture aside, if the nobleman was consciously modelling himself on anything, it was most likely the swashbuckling aristocratic ideal of William Segar’s Honor, Military and Civill (1602). A conduct manual on chivalry and duelling, the work, which accords nicely with many of the preoccupations of the Life, is known to have been on his shelves.
Despite the abundance of material written on the subject, Zaice’s bibliography lists no contemporary diplomatic treatises. In her defence, owing to the sudden nature of his appointment, Herbert was probably not familiar with such texts. However, since they discuss the problems inherent to early modern ambassadorship, the contention that they could provide insights into his oeuvre, and vice versa, seems uncontroversial. In Gentili’s work, for instance, the author presents a clear distinction between ambassadors and courtiers, referencing Castiglione explicitly as someone who teaches another ‘discipline’, and whose work should be consulted when dealing with those matters. In essence, Gentili’s account is idealistic, arguing that ambassadors ‘have a high and worthy spirit, not only in great affairs but in everything.’ He attempts to establish a sort of ambassadorial veritas rei – the so-called ‘perfect ambassador’ – whose excellence is unattainable, but who represents the goal to which all practitioners should aspire. This sort of idealism is common to many works of the genre.
At the same time, however, we find many more pragmatic works which attempt to deal with the position as it exists. The most famous of these is probably Jean Hotman’s The Ambassador (1603). Originally published in French, the treatise was widely disseminated in James Shaw’s English translation. (Incidentally, the work was dedicated to another of Herbert’s relatives, the Earl of Pembroke.) Hotman declares that his aim is ‘not to make a perfect Idea of an Ambassador, as Tasso, Magio, Gentilis and some others have labored to do.’ Instead, prefiguring Henry Wooton’s famed quip that an ambassador is ‘an honest man sent to lie abroad for the good of his country’, he recognises that moral scrupulousness is fundamentally incompatible with many aspects of the role: ‘there is not almost any publike charge, wherein there is more lying, and sometimes by the Masters commaundement, and for the good of his service.’
When attempting to reconcile the tension between these two models, Herbert’s philosophy proves an invaluable tool. As has been stated, the successful ambassador must modify the image he projects to the world, aiming to embody the person of his prince. As a necessary consequence, to apply Herbert’s terminology, the veritas apperentiae which he cultivates must be disingenuous, since it attempts to approximate the veritas rei of something else – in this case “kingliness” – rather than that of his own person. Logically, because the role of the ambassador is entirely based on the cultivation of another’s image, no ambassadorial thing-in-itself can be said to exist. Early modern ambassadorial practice therefore represented a deliberate obfuscation in the transmission of truth, rather than its own abstract entity. In Platonic allegory, the ambassador is like the shadow of a hand on a wall, which has been manipulated to look like an animal’s silhouette. It does not exist outside of the cave.
Gentili did not recognise this. As Jo Craigwood has pointed out, for the professor, ‘ideal embassy [is] quasi-Platonic shadow to sovereign substance.’ That no ideal can be ‘shadow’ should be self-evident. But, by using Herbert’s epistemology, the genesis of this fallacy becomes clearer. In the Platonic sense, kings and ambassadors are both shadows aiming to embody abstract kingliness, the distinction being that the former do so truthfully (in Herbert’s sense), whereas the latter undertake an exercise in falsehood. For this reason, it appears that Hotman did not go far enough in his theorising. Diplomatic deceit was not merely for the good of the prince’s service, it was the service.
Craigwood’s study focuses on Shakespeare’s history plays, and it is from there that she sources her terminology. Her central argument is that, given the overlap between ambassadors and their sovereigns, Shakespeare is alive to the possibility that their roles can become confused. Hence, in 3 Henry VI, dignitaries usurp lords and sleep with their queens. In Herbert’s poetic oeuvre, similar concerns abound. At the end of his earliest extant (and untitled) poem, for example, one reads:
Sleep, Death’s Embassadour, and best
Image, doth yours often so show,
That I thereby must plainly know
Death unto us must be freedom and rest. (21-4)
By the logic of his configuration, the nature of ‘Death’ is not only knowable, but regularly shown, through the ‘best image’ of an ambassador – a sleeping mistress. Though many believe that death is violent, the attributes of a frequently encountered surrogate suggest that this is not the case. Through an analysis of the ‘image’, one discerns what the qualities of the original ‘must’ be. The image was not ‘carelessly added on’ ensuring ‘the sense is hopelessly broken’, as John Hoey proposes. Rather, the concluding remarks introduce unconscious bathos on the part of the speaker. Since sleep is a shadow aiming to approximate the appearance of death, and not death itself, the poem’s core message is undermined. Although the speaker is certain that he and his lover will enjoy a posthumous reunion – ‘for our loves cannot dye’ (18) – this surety is nothing but blind optimism, and it cannot be substantiated by the ambassadorial evidence. In the year of the poem’s composition (1608), Herbert was staying in the Parisian home of George Carew, then ambassador to France. Elsewhere, this visit influenced his poetry more explicitly. In his ‘Satyra Secunda’ (1608), for example, Herbert’s speaker describes travellers ‘putting on / Some forc’d disguise, or labour’d fashion’ (36-7) when they ‘come / To Fauxbourgs St. Germans, [and] there take a Room / Lightly about th’Ambassadors’ (23-5).
David Reid terms a curious preoccupation with sleep (and by association ambassadorship) characteristically ‘Herbertian’. Correspondingly, in ‘To his Mistress for her true Picture’ (1624-31?), the poet further develops the same conceit. Terming death the ‘soveraign Queen / Of all that ever breathed’ (1-2), he proposes that she is best known by ‘The picture, Nature drew’ which ‘Doth figure [her] by sleep and sweetest rest’ (9-10). After having praised ‘Sleep’ with no fewer than four appositional epithets, ‘nurse of our life, care’s best reposer, / Natures high’st rapture, and the vision giver’ (11-12), the speaker recognises that, by virtue of these accomplishments, a question arises concerning representation. Specifically, ‘Can pictures have more life / Then the original?’ (15-16). It is not until the end of the poem, around 120 lines later, that he reaches his conclusion. He requests that Death ‘Grant [him her] true picture’, so that ‘he [her] matchless beauty might maintain’ (133-5). No matter how highly commended the image may be, its beauty cannot compare to the ‘matchless’ original. The same assertion underpins the concluding lines of ‘The Idea’ (1639), composed around a decade later: ‘If the picture can / Here entertain a loving absent man, / Much more th’Idea where you first began’ (91-3).
Herbert’s artistic motif is intriguing because, when taken in tandem with De Veritate, possibilities for literary theory emerge. In fact, employing Herbert’s philosophy in this way is not without precedent, for in the treatise itself, some of the images have clear poetic analogues. If the relationship between sleep and death is not only that of a prince and his sovereign, but also that of an artwork and an original, then the last two are logically equivalent. Thus, in direct contravention of Philip Sidney’s Defense (1595), Herbert’s epistemology dictates that poetry is not only inferior to nature, it is fundamentally a practice of deceit. Without an ideal form to emulate of its own, fiction, like an ambassador, can only ever mimic the shadowy princes of nature. The former thereby derives its existence from, and is subordinate to, the latter.
To return to the Life. Sidney Lee was the first to notice the apparent inconsistencies between Herbert’s remarks about honesty and the narrative he relates. He pointed out that, despite the author’s grandiose claims – ‘from my first Infancy to this houre I told not willingly any thing that was false’ – Herbert was guilty of many lies of omission. In accordance, Lee argued that he should be considered honest in letter, rather than in spirit, since his project was to ‘supresses the truth’, not commit ‘deliberate perjury. And yet, at times, even this generous affordance is strained. Upon meeting Louis XIII, for instance, Herbert informed France’s king that, given James’ positive disposition towards him, it would be a ‘great fault in me, if I behaved my Self otherwise than with all respect to his Majesty.’ This sentiment is retroactively undermined when, immediately afterwards, Herbert goes on to scandalise Louis: terming him a ‘stutterer’, plagued by ‘suspicion and dissimulation’. It seems that, by his own admission, Herbert spent years pretending to respect somebody whom he plainly did not.
This sort of deception can be reconciled with the author’s claims about honesty. One need only recognise that, on this occasion, Herbert considered himself truthful to James’ person in place of his own. His last extant despatch serves to corroborate this line of reasoning: ‘I am of no faction, nor have any passion or interest, but faithfully to perform that service and duty which I owe to your sacred Majesty.’ Similarly, in a letter sent during March 1623, Herbert insists that he has not been ‘interestinge [him]selfe, in any things, for which [he has] noe Commission’. Elsewhere, he claims to have ‘endeavord nothinge more then to keepe up your Sacred Maiesties Dignitie in this place.’ In truth, of course, Herbert’s conduct did not match his rhetoric. The despatches show an awareness of what the role was supposed to entail, but the fact that Herbert felt obliged to send them at all suggests he had not performed his duty in the manner they describe.
In that vein, throughout his tenure, many differences of opinion would put the ambassador at loggerheads with his sovereign. Not long after his arrival, the support Herbert afforded the Elector Palatine’s claim to the Bohemian throne was already at odds with James’ official position. Two years later, an altercation with the Duc de Luynes proved serious enough to warrant a recall; and, not long after his reinstatement, the disgraced ambassador was dismissed again, having publicly opposed James’ preferment of a Spanish match for Charles. That granted, even this sort of behaviour is not wholly irreconcilable with Herbert’s claims about honesty. In a letter to Robert Naunton, dated October 25th 1619, the author explains how, when advocating Frederick’s acceptance of Bohemia’s throne, ‘what I had to say was only in ye name of the Palsgraues H. without yt I had any such command from ye King my Mastre.’ Herbert always considered himself truthful, but whether that was to James’ position, or to his own, was variable.
All things considered, I propose that Herbert’s Life should not be ridiculed for its romance or hypocrisy because, in truth, the work is no autobiography in the modern sense. Herbert wanted to present a fiction which, by approximating the appearance of his experience, and eschewing ‘vulgar Rules and Examples’, might serve as a vehicle for imparting wisdom to his descendants. Just as we must work backward from an ambassador, through their sovereign, to abstract kingliness, Herbert hoped that future readers might take his fiction, consider his real life, and use the latter as a vehicle for deriving worldly truth. Far from undermining this project, Herbert’s lies of omission are ambassadorial; they aim to present their sovereign in the best light. And, in those rare instances where fiction and reality actively contradict one another, the tension arises from the nature of the project itself. Since sovereigns and ambassadors never hold identical beliefs, there will always be disagreement concerning the best way to manifest kingliness. And, since abstract veritas rei cannot be known, fictional and lived experiences will occasionally quarrel over its terms.
End notes and bibliography
 Christine Jackson, ‘Memory and the Construction and Experience of Elite Masculinity in the Seventeenth-Century Autobiography of Lord Herbert of Cherbury’, Gender & History, 25.1 (2013), 107–31 (p.107).
 See: David A. Pailin, ‘Should Herbert of Cherbury be Regarded as a “Deist”?’, The Journal of Theological Studies, 51.1 (2000), 113–49.
 R. W. Serjeantson, ‘Herbert of Cherbury before Deism: The Early Reception of the De Veritate’, The Seventeenth Century, 16.2 (2001), 217–38 (p.220).
 Edward Herbert, The Life of Edward, First Lord Herbert of Cherbury, ed. by J.M. Shuttleworth (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1976), p.120.
 Shuttleworth, Life, p.121.
 Eugene D. Hill, Edward, Lord Herbert of Cherbury, (Boston: Twayne, 1987), p.14.
 Basil Willey, The Seventeenth Century Background: Studies in the Thought of the Age in Relation to Poetry and Religion (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1979), p.113.
 John A. Butler, Lord Herbert of Chirbury (1582-1648): An Intellectual Biography (Lewiston: Edwin Mellen Press, 1990), p.113.
 R. D. Bedford, The Defence of Truth: Herbert of Cherbury and the Seventeenth Century (Manchester: MUP, 1979), p.130.
 Serjeantson, p.290
 Edward Herbert, De Veritate, trans. by Meyrick H. Carré (Bristol: J.W. Arrowsmith, 1937), p.84.
 De Veritate, p.101.
 Nancy Lynn Zaice, ‘Lord Edward Herbert of Chirbury: “Being” and Creating the True Renaissance Courtier’, (Unpublished Doctoral Thesis, University of South Carolina, 2006), p.57.
 Zaice, p.68.
 See Douglas Biow, ‘Castiglione and the Art of Being Inconspicuously Conspicuous’, Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies, 38.1 (2008), 35–55.
 Summarising Biow’s argument; John Watkins, ‘Toward a New Diplomatic History of Medieval and Early Modern Europe’, Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies, 38.1 (2008), 1–14 (p.9).
 Email correspondence with Dunstan Roberts (November, 2016).
 The same correspondence.
 Alberico Gentili, De Legationibus Libri Tres, trans. by Gordon J. Laing, ed. by James Brown Scott (New York: Oxford University Press, 1924) II, pp.135-6.
 De Legationibus, p.186.
 Jean Hotman, The Ambassador, trans by. James Shaw (London: 1603) [accessed via University of Michigan Digital Collections, 28/11/16], n.p.
 The Ambassador, n.p.
 Joanna Craigwood, ‘Diplomatic Metonymy and Antithesis in 3 Henry VI’, The Review of English Studies, 65.272 (2014), 812-30 (p.830).
 In all cases, see: The Poems English and Latin of Edward, Lord Herbert of Cherbury, ed. by G. C. Moore Smith (Oxford: Clarendon, 1923).
 John Hoey, ‘A Study of Lord Herbert of Cherbury’s Poetry’, Renaissance and Modern Studies, 14.1 (1970), 69–89 (p.72).
 See: David Reid, ‘Lord Herbert of Cherbury’s “Elegy Over a Tomb” and Carew’s “Aske Me No More”’, Notes and Queries, 48.4 (2001), 388–90 (p.389).
 Reid, p.389.
 Shuttleworth, Life, p.14.
 Sidney Lee, ‘Introduction’ in The Autobiography of Edward, Lord Herbert of Cherbury, by Edward Herbert, 2nd edn (London: Routledge, 1906), p.xix.
 Shuttleworth, Life, p.93.
 Lee, p.203.
 London, National Archive, PRO, 30/53/5, p.25. My transcription.
 London, National Archive, PRO, 30/53/6, p.89. My transcription.
 Old Herbert Papers at Powis Castle and in The British Museum, ed. by Morris Charles Jones (London: Whiting, 1886), p.252.
 Shuttleworth, Life, p.1.
Adlington, Hugh, ‘Donne and Diplomacy’, in Renaissance Tropologies: The Cultural Imagination of Early Modern England, ed. by Jeanne Shami (Pittsburgh: Duquesne University Press, 2008), pp.187-218.
Chapin, Chester, ‘A “freethinking” Speech in Herbert of Cherbury’s the Life and Reign of King Henry the Eighth (1649)’, Notes and Queries, 46.3 (1999), 337–39.
de Montaigne, Michel, ‘The Doings of Certain Ambassadors’, in The Complete Essays, ed. by M. A. Screech, (London: Penguin, 1993), pp.77-80.
Gilman Sherman, Anita, ‘The Politics of Truth in Herbert of Cherbury’, Texas Studies in Literature and Language, 54.1 (2012), 189–215.
Hampton, Timothy, Fictions of Embassy: Literature and Diplomacy in Early Modern Europe (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2009).
Hampton, Timothy, ‘The Diplomatic Moment: Representing Negotiation in Early Modern Europe’, Modern Language Quarterly, 67.1 (2006), 81–103.
Hill, Eugene D., Edward, Lord Herbert of Cherbury, (Boston: Twayne, 1987).
Hutton, Sarah, ‘Platonism, Stoicism, Scepticism, and Classical Imitation’, in A New Companion to English Renaissance Literature and Culture, ed. by Michael Hattaway
(Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2010), pp. 106-20.
Mills Block, Alexandra, ‘Eucharistic Semiotics and the Representational Formulas of Donne’s Ambassadors’, in Renaissance Tropologies: The Cultural Imagination of Early Modern England, ed. by Jeanne Shami (Pittsburgh: Duquesne University Press, 2008), pp.169-86.
Old Herbert Papers at Powis Castle and in The British Museum, ed. by Morris Charles Jones (London: Whiting, 1886).
Powers-Beck, Jeffrey P., Writing the Flesh: The Herbert Family Dialogue (Pittsburgh: Duquesne University Press, 1998).
Reid, David, ‘Lord Herbert of Cherbury’s “Elegy Over a Tomb” and Carew’s “Aske Me No More”’, Notes and Queries, 48.4 (2001), 388–90.
Sharrock, Roger, ‘Modes of Self-Representation Herbert of Cherbury, Kenelm Digby, Pepys’, The Seventeenth Century, 3.1 (1988), 1–16.
Watkins, John, ‘Toward a New Diplomatic History of Medieval and Early Modern Europe’, Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies, 38.1 (2008), 1–14.