Contemporary accounts of Anne Boleyn’s execution mention the cap. Here is one account (probably not an eyewitness from what I understand, but certainly based on first hand accounts):

The said Queen (unjustly called) finally was beheaded upon a scaffold within the Tower with open gates… She brought by the captain upon the said scaffold, and four young ladies followed her…. She was then stripped of her short mantle furred with ermines, and afterwards took off her hood, which was of English make, herself. A young lady presented her with a linen cap, with which he covered her hair, and she knelt down, fastening her clothes about her feet, and one of the said ladies bandaged her eyes.

The point of this cap, as you mentioned, would have been to keep her hair off her neck and help make the execution go more smoothly. I’m not familiar enough with the accounts of Anne Boleyn’s execution to say whether observers attributed any special significance to it, but I don’t suspect they did.

I am somewhat more familiar with Stuart execution accounts, when the white cap sometimes appears with a new level of symbolic significance. P.J. Klemp has argued that during the mid-seventeenth century, “the earlier ‘uniformity of behaviour on the scaffold’ that characterized executions in the sixteenth century, in which only one role was available to the dying man—‘that of a Christian dying well’—gave way to a range of possible roles” which the dying chose to act out in part through their choices of clothing. Archbishop William Laud, for example, wore a fine new suit “after an old fahion” and a velvet cap to emphasize his authority and status.

Charles I, meanwhile, placed a white satin cap on his head immediately before his execution. While this served the same functional purpose as Anne Boleyn’s linen cap, it had an additional symbolic function that many observers would have noted. Charles had famously worn white satin at his coronation, associated with innocence and symbolically representing a bridegroom marrying his kingdom. At his execution, Charles was calling to mind both his own coronation, as well as those associations—white as a symbol of innocence (or martyrdom) took on new meaning at his execution, and instead of a bridegroom marrying his people, he now talked about “my second marriage-day” when in death he would be “espoused to my blessed Jesus.”

When the parliamentary military officer Captain Browne Bushel was executed for treason after switching sides and surrendering a castle to the royalists, he chose to wear a white cap like the king had, consciously associating himself with the king and framing himself as a royalist martyr (he also asked his executioner whether the Block and Axe were the same that “my late Royal Master received the fatal blow from”). Other executed royalists similarly chose to dress in white, probably for similar reasons.

TL;DR, while wearing a white cap to an execution came to hold powerful political significance much later, in Anne Boleyn's case, it seems to have been a much more utilitarian choice.

Sources:

P.J. Klemp, The Theatre of Death: Rituals of Justice from the English Civil Wars to the Restoration (Newark: University of Delaware Press, 2016)

David Cressy, Charles I and the People of England (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015)

James Gardiner, ed., Letters and Papers, Foreign and Domestic, of the Reign of Henry VIII Preserved in the Public Record Office, the British Museum, and Elsewhere in England, vol. x (London: HMSO, 1887)

There’s a broader point here, and I hope you’ll indulge my soapboxing: it is incredibly easy, from a modern perspective and blessed with the incredible gift of hindsight, to look at ideas, movements, or decisions made by people in the past and ask “are they stupid?” There are even entertaining but intellectually dishonest ways to tell the story of the past as a series of stupid decisions made by stupid or naïve people. Sometimes, the “everyone was stupid” approach to history can even have benefits—to take one example, the Horrible Histories television series frequently verges on this trope, though I’d argue that it also does quite a bit of good in promoting engagement and interest with the past in its audience of mostly kids (even if, as u/mikedash points out in this answer, its flaws and inaccuracies can and should be addressed).

Beyond this limited use, though, the “everyone was stupid” theory of history is ultimately unhelpful and even dangerous. Done right, studying history is an act of empathy (what else can you call an endeavor to study the actions and ideas of people who the passage of time has made utterly inaccessible to us?). When we treat people from the past as hopelessly naïve or stupid, we are giving ourselves license to look at history without empathy and denying the people we study a kind of fundamental humanity and complexity.

The people of the past—accused witches, witch accusers, and everyone else—were people. They were making difficult choices in difficult circumstances, and trying to make sense of the world within their own cultural and social frameworks, just like you and I. We don’t have to forgive or excuse them for doing horrible, atrocious things to each other (I hope that goes without saying, but unfortunately I don’t think it does), but what we do need to do is treat them as human beings instead of flat characters in a cosmic morality play about our own enlightenment and rationality.

If you’re interested in reading more about witchcraft in early modern Europe, check out the relevant FAQ section as well as these answers by u/sunagainstgold and u/AncientHistory outlining the history of European witchcraft and this one by u/dhowlett1692 on the complex motivations behind the Salem Witch Trials, among others.

For Eire's quote, see Carlos Eire, They Flew: A History of the Impossible (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2023), 362. Actually, check out the entire book for a really interesting approach to studying these kinds of "social facts" that seem foreign to modern ideas about how the world works (he focuses especially on levitation among early modern Catholics, but he spends time talking about witchcraft as well).

For Hill's remark on "Acts of God," see The World Turned Upside Down: Radical Ideas During the English Revolution (London: Penguin, 1991), 87.

Neither.

The existence of witches in many times and places was—and I’d stress that in some places and cultures still is—a “social fact.” I’m going to quote Carlos Eire here, since I love the way he describes this concept:

Every age and culture has its own unquestionable beliefs, and our own tends to prize the rationality and superiority of unbelief as one of its core beliefs, especially in regard to denying the existence of a supernatural dimension. Such unquestionable pervasive beliefs—Troelstch’s “social facts”—which William Blake called “mind-forged manacles” in 1794 and Max Weber spoke of as the “steel-hard casing” or an “iron cage” a century later, are difficult to detect and acknowledge, for they frame our thinking and are very much like the air we breathe, which we take for granted as much as an octopus takes water for granted. And even when perceived for what they are—as difficult as that is to do—these manacles and cages are even harder to discard or annihilate.

Bear with me while I walk through a thought experiment. Imagine, for a moment, that three hundred years from now, somehow, the biologists of the future learn that germ theory is completely, irredeemably wrong. Sure, bacteria and viruses exist, future biologists say, but their presence in the body is more of a symptom than a cause of disease, to the extent they matter at all. Instead, disease is spread through evil spirits, invisible and undetectable using modern empirical methods, and much of modern medicine’s shortcomings turns out to reflect this lack of understanding. While some modern medicine effectively helps control the symptoms of disease and sometimes wards off the harmful spirits by accident, perhaps some of what we think helps cure disease is altogether irrelevant, or else actively harms the body. Armed with this knowledge, your descendant finds in your diary continual references to germs, bacteria, and viruses causing disease. What should your descendant think about you?

Admittedly, this thought experiment is pretty far-fetched, and we should only take it so far. But before you start writing in the comments about how totally nonsensical it is, I want you to think about how you—not we as a society, but you personally—know that germ theory is correct. Assuming that you aren’t a medical professional or have other advanced training in biology or a related field, most of what you know about disease probably comes from listening to trusted authorities. You know that most disease is caused by germs because you’ve been told that your whole life, and people who seem to know what they’re talking about confirm that fact regularly. More importantly, you know that the idea that disease is not caused by evil spirits is utterly ridiculous because you carry with you a constellation of other cultural assumptions about materiality, empiricism, and science that probably render that idea unlikely or impossible.

The point here is NOT to soft peddle conspiracy theories or undermine trust in science AT ALL, but rather to emphasize that in some ways we are all just as much a product of our own cultural assumptions as the people of the past. In many respects, they weren’t any more naïve or credulous than you or I. In fact, some early modern European witchcraft trials engaged heavily with debates about the nature of evidence and took seriously the possibility that an accused witch might not be guilty. Rather, we need to think about these people as operating from a different set of assumptions about how the world worked.

It's also helpful to remember that, as Christopher Hill points out, that it may be easier to believe in a law-abiding, rational universe because of the ways that modern life insulates us from the "Acts of God" like famine and plague which people in the past often felt far more acutely (though I'd hestitate to overstretch this point).

[1/2]

If you're interested specifically in how the idea of "white slavery" as an atrocity above all other atrocities entered the cultural canon, there have been a few AskHistorians answers dealing with similar questions that give some insights. These answers also help illustrate how historians tend to think about and analyze these kinds of issues that should offer insights into how the great answers already provided on this thread apply to your "white slavery" debate in particular. In particular, see:

• This answer by u/mikedash and these answers by u/sunagainstgold giving a very brief overview of the Barbary slave trade (including discussions of why comparing it to the Atlantic slave trade is unhelpful)
• This answer by u/mimicofmodes dealing with the idea of "white slavery" in the early twentieth century, especially as it related to alleged mass abductions of white women
• This answer by u/kieslowskifan dealing with the same idea in the era's films
• This answer by u/holomorphic_chipotle on the recent resurgence of "white slavery" narratives referencing a particular (somewhat problematic) book about Ottoman slavery

Since the main focus of your question is theoretical, I'll refrain from saying more, but much remains to be written on all these topics.

Here's my best shot:

Forasmuch as it apeers by too much experience that divers Children and
Servants doe behave themselves too desrespectively disobeadiently and disorderly
towards their parentes masters and governours to the distourbance of Families
and discouragem[en]t of such parentes and govornours for the ^readye^ p[re]vention where of
It is ordered by this Court and the Authoritie thereof that it shall henceforth be
in the power of any one of our Honourd Magistrates by warrant directed to
the Constable of that Towne wher such offender dwell upon complayne to call
before him any such offender and upon commishion of such misdemeanour to sentence
him or them to endure such Corporall punish[en]t ^by whipping or otherwise(?)^ as in his Judgm[en]t the merrit
of the fact shall diserve: not exceeding Tenn stripes for one offence or
binde the offender to make apeerence at the next Court of that Countie
and Farther it is also orderd that the Comissioners for the Towne of Boston
and the Three Com[m]issioners of each Towne wher no Magistrate dwell shal
have the like power p[ro]vided that the p[er]son or p[er]sons so sentenced shall
have libertie to make thier Legall ap[p]eale to the next Countie Court
if they desire it in any of these cases: this to be forthwith published
in Boston ^and all other Townes in the Jur{isdict}ion(?)^ w[i]th the beater(?) of a Drume & then upon to be of force the
deputies have past this & desire the Consent of o[u]r
Honor[abl]e Magist[rat]es hereunto
24 August 1654

William Dorrey Cleric

Consented to by the Magist[rat]es

Edw. Rawson Secret[ary]

Thank you! This was a lot of fun to write!

You leave prison more convinced than ever that the Church of England is corrupt to its very core. Perhaps if things had gone slightly differently or if this had all happened a year or two later, you might have become a Congregationalist (or Independent), but no. You crossed a line somewhere, and deep in your soul nothing can convince you that the Church of England is utterly irredemable in its entirety. You are a separatist now. A Brownist, as your enemies have already started calling you.

Your antics in Wimblesford have brought you infamy. Let the ungodly mock and jeer. You will go your own way and gather your own congregation. You reach out to some old friends in the Netherlands for support, and even make plans to leave for there if you need to, though given the state of English politics you don't expect that will be necessary.

In conversations with the godly community in Wimblesford and nearby towns and villages, you discover that many in the parish are more open to separatism than they first appeared. Hate-sin and others form themselves into a gathered congregation, and choose you as their minister. It doesn't pay well, but a sympathetic member of the local gentry manages to provide you with a position as a lecturer in a nearby parish, easing your financial troubles.

There are problems, of course. The new parish priest has declared himself your avowed enemy, and you are widely reviled as a Brownist even by many of the godly. When you begin publishing pamphlets and engaging in religious controversies, you gain even more notoriety over the coming years.

Somehow, though, things have worked out for you in Wimblesford-on-Bray.

You decide to flee the corruptions of Babylon and set out for New England, where you hope to finally enjoy a godly society. Your preparations don't take long, and you manage to get your affairs in order very quickly. Very soon, you arrive in Massachusetts. You never see Wimblesford again, but you don't mind.

As the years go by, you sometimes reflect on your brief stint as minister of Wimblesford, and wonder if things ever could have worked out. Probably not, you think. They are a wicked, perverse, and stony-hearted people, after all. Any minister who would sink to their level is surely no true man of God.

Trusting that God always defends his righteous servants, you decide to go investigate. There, you see Hate-sin leading a mob of angry puritans assembled around your beautiful church, and you notice that while the majority of the mob is made up of your parishioners, many of them come from neighboring towns. Evidently, your reputation has spread far and wide.

Hate-sin is giving an impromptu sermon on the evils of idol-worship. Though it pains you, you're forced to admit he's actually a pretty good speaker, even if he is a bit longwinded.

Deciding he has gone on for long enough, you interrupt his speech to calmly inform the crowd that they are gathered seditiously, and you calmly and lovingly urge them to abandon their devilish plots and to be obedient. Somehow, this does not have the desired effect, and the crowd begins to throw stones at the stained glass windows, shattering them. Some of them enter the church, and begin scraping the faces off the paintings on the walls. A few others set to work violently dismantling the atlar-rails. When you rush in to stop them, they start throwing rocks at you as well.

A few rocks aren't enough to stop you, however, and you calmly and lovingly try to tackle some of the rioting iconoclasts to the ground before they can do more damage. This, however, only results in you getting pinned to the ground yourself. For a moment, you're worried you might not make it out of this alive, but then two broad-shouldered men pick you up and put you on the back of a bony, saddle-less horse that begins to run as fast as it can with you on its back.

As you leave the parish, probably for the last time, you start to wonder how things ended this way. Were you too uncompromising? Was your parish always going to rise up in revolt? Probably, you conclude. After all, if they would reject a man as utterly reasonable as yourself, the same thing would probably happen to everybody.

At least you can say you lasted two years in Wimblesford.

For some reason, you decide to double down on what already seemed like a risky plan. You have a powerful patron, however, so you are sure everything will work out fine.

That Sunday, you refuse to grant communion to anyone you don't deem sufficiently godly, then give a rousing sermon calling out the sins of Sir Humphrey de Mesnes, the evils of Episcopacy, and the tyranny of the King.

Your entirety congregation is taken aback. Some look like they are going to do you violence. Even Hate-sin Godliman, your staunchest supporter, seems surprised. It did not occur to you that your choice to deny communion to most of the parish was tantamount to separatism, something even most hardline puritans are hesitant to endorse. When you insist to Hate-sin that it's not the same thing, he reluctantly agrees, but says he needs some time to think about it.

Sir Humphrey ensures that word quickly reaches your patron about what you have done, and you soon hear that he has cut ties with you entirely. You suddenly find yourself without a parish or a living, and must leave your house as soon as a new minister is appointed. That's not too much of an immediate problem, though, since in the mean time you are brought before a Justice of the Peace and arrested for sedition. Of course, you eventually manage to send a petition to the House of Commons to get your case dismissed, but things are still difficult.

Maybe you made a mistake somewhere along the line. Or maybe this was what Providence had in mind all along.

Do you:

A) Decide you're a separatist now. You might as well embrace it.

B) Beg your patron for another chance, promising to moderate your position.

C) Give up on England's corruptions and set out for New England.

Responded above!

In a spirit of meekness and love, you calmly explain to Hate-sin that he is an overzealous hypocrite whose seditious ardor are endangering his own soul, the stability of the parish, and the entire nation. You think you are quite persuasive, but Hate-sin responds by calling you a black-hearted church papist in thrall to the devil. When you respond by calmly asking him to consider his own wife’s fidelity or lack thereof (though you’d never dream of insinuating anything improper), he picks up the nearby Book of Common Prayer and begins to beat you with it.

As you lie on the floor of the church, bloodied and bruised, you begin to wonder if somewhere along the line you made a mistake. Probably not, though—the devil has clearly seized control of this poor man’s heart. You will have to ensure he faces the full consequences of the law for all his actions. For the sake of his own soul, of course.

You don’t see much of Hate-sin for the next couple of weeks, but about that time, during the second week of September, you hear disturbing news from London: Parliament has issued an order encouraging the destruction of all crucifixes. Some rumors are spreading that the order from Parliament is really a license to destroy stained-glass windows, wall paintings, and other things that Hate-sin probably calls idolatry. For a moment, you wonder if you should do something, but decide that everything is probably fine.

That night, though, while you are comfortable in your bed, you hear a commotion coming from the direction of the church. You can hear Hate-sin’s voice yelling something indistinct. For the second time in as many weeks, you wonder if you might have made a mistake somewhere.

Do you:

A) Go investigate! Everything is probably fine, and if it’s not, that’s all the more reason for you to defend your church. Alone. Against an angry mob.

B) Run away! If you stay in the village, you might be in danger. You’ve got friends in a nearby town where you can probably stay until this all blows over. Maybe you can find another village more appreciative of your talents.

Even though it's illegal, you decide to restrict access to communion so that only the godly can partake of it. After all, how will the cause of truth and reformation advance without some bold steps? After all, you've been in the parish for a few months and it's now 1640-- the King seems like he's about to call a parliament, the Presbyterian Scots have handily defeated the King's armies in his corrupt cause, and the fortunes of puritanism seem to be looking up. If now isn't the time, when will it ever be?

Even though he usually attends church elsewhere, Sir Humphrey de Mesnes, the largest landowner in the area and a fervent supporter of the king, is alarmed, as are a number of your parishioners.

"What the devil are you thinking? Do you have any idea what you're doing?" Sir Humphrey asks, barging in on you while you are eating dinner. His face is bright red, and he looks like he has just ridden here as fast as he could. Still, he could bear to be a bit more polite, and you don't appreciate his foul language.

You calmly explain to Sir Humphrey that the Lord's Supper should only be consumed by those who are worthy, and proceed to quote the New Testament. Strangely, he does not seem to appreciate the words of St. Paul. What a disagreeable, wicked man. He leaves in a huff, promising that you will suffer the consequences of what you're about to do.

You briefly wonder if it would be a good idea to back off slightly and simply ask some of your parishioners not to partake of communion instead of banning them from it. You've heard about other godly ministers doing that, after all.

Do you:

A) Pump the breaks! Maybe you haven't thought this through all the way. You're treading dangerous waters here, and you don't want to lose your living, after all.

B) Double down! Not only will you restrict access to communion, but in your sermon you'll tell your parish exactly how you feel about Sir Humphrey, the Bishops, and the King himself.

Just answered this above!

You are optimistic about your new parish, but as a godly minister you know these are dark times for the Lord's elect. When you arrive at your new parish, you are reminded just how dark these times are when you see a Maypole-- an ancient symbol of pagan idolatry and sinful revelry. Alas, what can be done when there is so much sin in Babylon? At least your new church doesn't have altar-rails around the communion table. You shudder at the very thought.

After your first sermon, one of your new parishioners, a pious shoemaker named Hate-sin Godliman, comes up to talk with you. He has an enormous smile on his face, which you suspect is not often the case. "Wimblesford has a godly minister at last! Verily, the time of the Lord is upon us!" he exclaims, which makes you feel quite good about yourself if you're being honest. Certianly not puffed up with pride, though. Never puffed up.

You strike up a friendship with Hate-sin and the other godly people in the parish. They are all overjoyed to have you here! Hate-sin is especially pleased with your sermons, which average about three-hours long-- much longer than the last minister's, at any rate! Now that you've gotten started here, you can really get things moving now.

Do you:

A) Declare war on fun! Tear down the Maypole and give a rousing sermon on football should not be played on Sunday! Surely your parishioners will be pricked within their hearts and repent when they hear you speak.

B) Go nuclear! Start restricting access to communion so that only the godly can partake! Surely this can only have good consequences.

Given the dead heat between the two options, both were combined above!

Given the dead heat between the two options, both were combined above!

Sorry for the delay! It looks like a dead heat between the two choices, so why not combine the two?

 Some beautiful paintings of New Testament scenes are just what your church needs, you decide, centered around a depiction of the Transfiguration. You also decide to include an image of Christ telling His apostles to render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s, since that story has always been a particular favorite of yours.

Unfortunately, it takes a while to find a painter with the requisite skillset. For reasons unfathomable to you, many of the people you approach in nearby towns seem reticent to paint the scenes in the church. Moreover, your search has started to spread your reputation in the local area. Hate-sin has even begun calling you “The foremost enemy to the cause of Christ ever seen in Wimblesford,” which you think is quite hurtful.

Eventually, you manage to find a painter willing to do the work. It will take a while, though, since he is busy and this is a big project. He also frankly tells you that you’re not paying him enough to make this a priority, which is fair enough.

In the meantime, things are pleasantly quiet in the parish.

To fulfil your pastoral duties, you try and visit your most unpleasant parishioner, Hate-sin Godliman. When you go to his house, though, he is nothing but rude, even when you are gracious like always! Some people are simply impossible.

Still, you are nothing if not a moderate man, and moderate men have a responsibility to moderate immoderate men like Hate-sin. That’s how moderation works, after all. When Hate-sin comes to church the next week, you refuse to let him partake of the Lord’s Supper until he kneels, which he steadfastly refuses to do. You know that this is because Hate-sin is stubborn and full of pride, unlike you, a humble servant of the Lord.

After that, you don’t see much of Hate-sin at church. When you ask around, you find that he has been attending a neighboring parish whose minister he thinks is more godly. You also hear that Hate-sin is leading a small group of people in his house every week as they read the Bible together. The news about Hate-sin’s secret conventicle troubles you, but at least you don’t have to deal directly with him for a while.

Finally, after more than a year of waiting, the painting is complete. You stand back, amazed. It is beautiful, and you feel you have finally reformed your parish. Surely all your parishioners will feel the same way.

As you are admiring the new painting, Hate-sin walks into the church for the first time in months. He looks at the painting aghast.

Do you:

A) Have a reasonable conversation with him about his failure to attend his own parish church and explain why his own hypocritical zeal is putting his soul in danger.

B) Have a reasonable conversation with him about the weather and the latest news from London. Maybe you can salvage this relationship!

Just responded to this above!

You push away your doubts as soon as they appear. You have a job to do, after all! Together with the churchwarden, you pay a visit to the carpenter and start setting things in motion. You can see now why your presence here was so necessary.

The carpenter does good, fast work, and the altar rails are ready by the end of the month. In the meantime, though, word about what you are up to has begun to spread through the parish, and you can tell some ignorant and haughty people are beginning to grumble. Not that that matters to you, of course. Your eye is continually fixed on the greater good: there must be order in the church, and a more beautiful, ceremonial church will impress the beauty of holiness into the hearts of all your parishioners. They will understand soon enough.

Unfortunately, a local shoemaker named Hate-sin Godliman doesn't seem to understand. As you are supervising the carpenter, who is taking measurements in the church, Hate-sin comes barging in and starts to shout.

"I knew you were a popish backslider from the moment I laid eyes on you!" He yells. "You pig-faced child of Hell! I will never suffer these idols in my church!"

You think Hate-sin is being quite rude. After all, look at all the good you're doing for the parish! Very calmly, you try to explain why altar rails are so important, as well as how beautiful they will look. This doesn't seem to work, though, and he responds by shouting a few Old Testament verses at you that he seems to consider a threat before storming off. Oh well, I'm sure that's nothing to be concerned about.

Admiring your church, you think about all the good you can still do here.

Do you:

A) Decide the church could use some new paint. Actually, why not a mural showing scenes from the New Testament! Who wouldn't love that?

B) Leave things for now, since you're already moving pretty fast anyway. Maybe you can even try and reconcile with that blustering hypocrite Hate-sin so that he doesn't do anything he might regret.

Note: It’s very close, so I might come back and respond to the other option later.

That’s a good choice. There’s never been a better time to be  a defender of church ceremonies and the royal prerogative, right? Surely you’re in for a quiet and uneventful time, just like you’re hoping. After all, the river Bray is known for its excellent fishing. You're sure to have plenty of time to enjoy the Beauty of Holiness and the beauty of the countryside alike.

When you arrive at your new church, however, you are shocked to see that the previous minister never put up altar rails, and that the communion table is in the wrong place entirely! What a mess! You’ll have to get this sorted out before the Bishop’s Visitation, at the very least. In fact, maybe it’s best to get started on this right away?

Do you:

A) Put up those altar rails, and a crucifix while you're at it! There’s a carpenter in the village, and the churchwarden informs you that there’s enough money to pay for new rails to be made right away.

B) Hold up! Is it really a good idea to do this your first week in the parish? It might be best to leave things be for now.

It’s both haha. Because spellings weren’t standardized during the period, foul and fowl were used interchangeably, and that’s how it was spelled in the contemporary printed version I was looking at. However, I was modernizing the spellings as I typed, but that one slipped by me!

Incredible! Thank you so much!

Sources

Oxford Dictionary of National Biography

Conrad Russell, The Fall of the British Monarchies, 1637-1642 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1991)

Austin Woolrych, Britain in Revolution, 1625-1660 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002)

John Walter, “Killing (Catholic) officers no crime? The politics of religious violence in England in 1640,” in Insolent Proceedings: Rethinking Public Politics in the English Revolution, ed. Peter Lake and Jason Peacey (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2022).

John Forster, The Debates on the Grand Remonstrance, November and December 1641 (London: John Murray, 1860)

John Forster, Arrest of the Five Members by Charles the First (London: John Murray, 1860)

Wilson H. Coates, “Some Observations on ‘The Grand Remonstrance,’” The Journal of Modern History 4, no. 1 (1932): 1-17.

Jason Peacey, “The Print Culture of Parliament, 1600-1800,” Parliamentary History 26, no. 1 (2007): 1-16.