MACBETH      We will proceed no further in this business.

He hath honoured 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.

LADY                          Was the hope drunk

Wherein you dressed yourself? Hath it slept since?

And wakes it now to look so green and pale

At what it did so freely? From this time,

Such I account thy love.        (1.7.31-39)

Macbeth’s trying to sound formal, business-like, in control (and he still can’t bring himself to spell it out): We will proceed no further in this business. (After due consideration, we have unfortunately taken the decision not to progress your application for this position.) He can’t sustain it though; he pleads. I’m in his good books, I’m enjoying having all the prizes and people saying nice things—people like me! He’s honoured me of late; I have bought golden opinions from all sorts of people, which would be worn now in their newest gloss, not cast aside so soon. These lovely new clothes, I’ve barely got any wear out of them! Can’t I just enjoy it for a while? I’m having fun (for once), reaping the rewards of all that unseaming and chopping and superhuman feats of loyalty and honour. Please?

She’s having none of it. Were you just pretending, then, to want more, to have ambitions, aspirations? Was it a drunken delusion? There’s a sharp, spiteful contrast between Macbeth, fancying himself in his golden opinions, his first bespoke suit, black tie, shiny shoes, and his wife saying, look at you, you’re a total mess, a disgrace, a failure. Was the hope drunk wherein you dressed yourself?Was it just a vague idea, this plan, some random clothes thrown on any which way, the drink talking? And now you’ve come to your senses and this is the hangover, you can’t cope, you don’t have the stomach? Having second thoughts, feeling sick, pale, green (like a teenage girl, perhaps)? You could talk the talk, just for a bit, and now—well, it turns out that’s all it was, talk. From now on, that’s all I think of your love, too—drunken bravado, all limp regret and sour breath in the morning. If you really loved me, is the implication (and she’s going to go on to make it explicit)—you’d do what you’ve said you’ll do. From this time, such I account thy love.Coward. Weakling. Loser.