LADY                          Hie thee hither,

That I may pour my spirits in thine ear,

And chastise with the valour of my tongue

All that impedes thee from the golden round

Which fate and metaphysic aid doth seem

To have thee crowned withal.

Enter Messenger

What is your tidings?

MESSENGER              The King comes here tonight.

LADY              Thou’rt mad to say it.

Is not thy master with him, who, were’t so,

Would have informed for preparation?

MESSENGER              So please you, it is true; our thane is coming.

One of my fellows had the speed of him,

Who, almost dead for breath, had scarcely more

Than would make up his message.

LADY              Give him tending;

He brings great news.

Exit Messenger                      (1.5.21-34)

 

And so Lady Macbeth summons her husband, because he needs her if he’s to do anything: hie thee hither, come quickly, come to me, that I may pour my spirits in thine ear. The pouring is wonderfully vivid; it’s a transfusion of words, courage, perhaps, or ambition (and, implicitly, malice, wickedness, evil). Her words will replace the milk of human kindness which she fears dominates Macbeth’s nature; there’s a sensuality to it too, a kind of seduction. There’s a recollection of Hamlet, the most famous ear-poisoning, but also of Othello, where Iago metaphorically ‘pours pestilence’ into Othello’s ear. Lady Macbeth’s image seems half-way between these two because of her invocation of spirits; the suggestion is that she is going to do more than merely speak with him, that her words are spirits, animate, evil. She will, in a sense, possess him; it aligns her with the witches. She will chastise him with the valour of her tongue, mock him, reproach him with her own resolution and courage, her woman’s tongue more courageous than his manly arm, his weapon, his sword; are you a man? the comparison between the tongue and the implicit phallic sword is obvious. She’s willing to carry out a terrible plan. (Such a plan still has not been fully described or articulated.) His wife will, in effect, give him a tongue-lashing; she’ll make him fit for their plan, by purging him of everything that is holding him back, impeding him from the golden round—the crown, a sudden flash of a shining circlet, against the darkness which she is already summoning—which has been promised, which is his for the taking. He has already been crowned by fate and by metaphysic aid, Lady Macbeth’s sidelong, euphemistic glance at the witches. (Her conviction and ruthlessness might already making them sound somewhat staid by comparison.)

News: a messenger; what do you want? The King comes here tonight; we know that already, but it’s news to Lady Macbeth, and her response brilliantly demonstrates how overwrought, how wound up she already is. Thou’rt mad to say it! (She thinks for a moment that the messenger is referring not to Duncan, but to Macbeth, as king: how does even this messenger know what’s in the letter?) Even so, this is too much, happening too fast; what’s going on? Surely Macbeth’s with the King; if he were coming, he’d have sent word, so that we could get ready, inform for preparation. It’s true, it’s true; there was another messenger, one of my fellows, who had the speed of him, that is, of Macbeth. He got ahead, rode or ran post; he was almost dead for breath when he got here, so that he could scarcely gasp out his message. Lady Macbeth’s recovered herself and all she wants, now, is to be alone again: no instructions for the messenger to take to the kitchen, nothing about beds or towels, but rather she just gets rid of the hapless messenger: go and tend to the breathless exhausted messenger (I think that’s the case, rather than, go and attend to Macbeth and the King; they’re not imminent quite yet). For he brings great news…