LADY              My worthy lord,

Your noble friends do lack you.

MACBETH                  I do forget.

Do not muse at me, my most worthy friends.

I have a strange infirmity, which is nothing

To those that know me. Come, love and health to all,

Then I’ll sit down. [To an attendant] Give me some wine; fill full.

Enter Ghost

I drink to th’ general joy of the whole table,

And to our dear friend Banquo, whom we miss.

Would he were here! To all and him we thirst,

And all to all.

LORDS            Our duties and the pledge.   (3.4.81-90)

Lady Macbeth tries another tactic; scolding and mocking haven’t worked, so she’s back to wheedling, seeing if she can bring him back to this extraordinarily public social occasion that he is completely trashing; paradoxically, she can be more public in addressing him like this than the hissed insults she’s tried before. (Would the acutely felt social embarrassment have been as appalling for an audience in the early seventeenth century? Difficult to gauge, but they’d certainly feel the violation of the norms of hospitality, the disruption of social hierarchies.) My worthy lord, your noble friends do lack you, she says. And it seems to work: I do forget, he replies. Excuse me, miles away. But then—of course!—he makes things worse, repeating his wife’s earlier attempt to explain away his weird behaviour. Do not muse at me, my most worthy friends, don’t mind me, don’t worry, I have a strange infirmity—what? just what you want in a king, a hitherto unannounced strange infirmity—which is nothing to those that know me. Nothing to see here! (Wishful thinking.) Does Lady Macbeth smile with performative indulgence, pat his hand, while Lennox and Ross exchange glances: did you have any idea about this? No, me neither. (Or perhaps they separately worry that, since this is news to them, that they’re not in the inner circle after all.) Come, love and health to all, then I’ll sit down. Forced jollity, and another toast, perhaps, draining his cup, so that he can distract a bit by calling to a servant, give me some wine; fill full. Look at me, the host, drinking deep, in control (or gulping for some courage from the bottom of a glass). Another toast: I drink to the general joy of the whole table—and perhaps there’s relief, breathing again, as the lords raise their glasses, led by Lady Macbeth—is this party back in business? But Macbeth can’t help scratching the itch, the obsession, tempting fate (and look, the Ghost’s back already); he speaks to what’s on his mind, almost wanting to be found out, it seems: a toast to our dear friend Banquo, whom we miss. Would he were here! (Be careful what you wish for…) To all and him we thirst, and all to all. Just shut up, man, you’re not helping, going on like this, you’re starting (starting?) to sound weird again. The Lords perhaps join in with relief, trying to end this bit of proceedings; after all, they’re hungry. Our duties and the pledge! Toast done; order restored, apparently; perhaps Macbeth’s even managed to sit down. But not for long…