"He hath honored me of late; and I have bought Golden opinions from all sorts of people, Which would be worn now in their newest gloss, Not cast aside so soon." He discusses the project of murdering Banquo in the same way:-- "Though I could With bare-fac'd power sweep him from my sight, And bid my will avouch it, yet I must not, For certain friends that are both his and mine, Whose loves I may not drop, but wail his fall, Whom I myself struck down." His wife must needs have sore dealings with such a non-committal spirit:-- "Thou'd'st have, great Glamis, That which cries, 'Thus thou must do, if thou have it; And that which rather thou dost fear to do, Thou wishest should be undone.'" He wants to win a game to which his hand does not entitle him; and the desire to win is as great as the dread of cheating. This tainted mood of her beloved husband makes her almost frantic. Dreams satisfy her thirst as the mirage quenches the craving of a caravan. Here comes my Macbeth and--"thou'rt mad to say it"--Duncan with him,--a lifetime's opportunity: 'twill never come again. Heaven drives Duncan "under my battlements,"--yes, _mine_, for this night only; Macbeth's at every other time, but mine this once, to hold out with against my husband's mood. The raven himself is hoarse with chiding his delay. What need the tone of my language be, when the bird croaks Duncan's fatal entrance? Let it be unsexed. Here I tear every rag of woman's garments from it, in this my frenzy of dread lest Macbeth elude Fate's purpose:-- "Come to my woman's breasts And take my milk for gall, you murd'ring ministers, Wherever in your sightless substances You wait on Nature's mischief." For love's sake her tongue becomes unlovely; and the delicate woman, with blue eyes sparkling like an electric firmament, and that little hand, snatched out of its old dalliance and clenched as if to drive a weapon, is transformed by the spirit of some ruthless Medea who has lent herself to contrive and enjoy another murder.