MACBETH      [aside] Time, thou anticipat’st my dread exploits.

The flighty purpose never is o’ertook

Unless the deed go with it. From this moment

The very firstlings of my heart shall be

The firstlings of my hand; and even now,

To crown my thoughts with acts, be it thought and done.

The castle of Macduff I will surprise,

Seize upon Fife, give to th’ edge o’th’ sword

His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls

That trace him in his line. No boasting like a fool,

This deed I’ll do before this purpose cool.

But no more sights.—Where are these gentlemen?

Come, bring me where they are.

Exeunt(4.1.143-155)

This news of Macduff’s flight expedites what I’ve been thinking, foretells my dread exploits, the awful thing I’ve been planning. But the flighty purpose never is o’ertook unless the deed go with it. What matters is the doing, not the wishing or imagining, and it must be done fast. (If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well it were done quickly.) Don’t think, just do. From this moment the very firstlings of my heart shall be the firstlings of my hand: my intentions, my desires, will be converted immediately to actions. Act now, think (let alone ask questions) later—and, horribly, the firstlings, in their diminutive form with the -ling suffix, are like children, younglings, goslings, ducklings. Even now, to crown my thoughts with acts, be it thought and done. Just like that, acted, done as soon as wished for, contemplated, imagined. Thought (let alone said) and done, a terrible arrogation of power which is not so much monarchical as divine. And then coldly announced, with barely a trace of emotion: I’m going to kill Macduff’s family, all of them, his entire household. Macbeth describes it as a kind of military operation, a sudden assault first of all on the castle, on Macduff’s territory, Fife, and then in that perverse idiom which sounds almost sacrificial, Macbeth the ruthless killing machine once more: he will give to the edge of the sword his wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls that trace him in his line. All Macduff’s kin. The chilling anticipation of the moment is worse if—as is often the case in contemporary productions—Lady Macduff and her children have already appeared. Unfortunate as the only adjective attributes this planned massacre to fate, rather than human agency. They’ll just be unlucky, these human individuals whose lives have been so casually dismissed. And this murder will be by remote control; as with Banquo’s killing, Macbeth will pay others to undertake this slaughter, this massacre of the innocents. No boasting like a fool, this deed I’ll do before this purpose cool. No more talk, no bragging, no protestations—I’ll just do it, order it, so that it’s done. In the heat of my anger (and my fear), no going back. No thinking or feeling any more, just doing; strike while the iron’s hot. But no more sights, no more apparitions or prophetic visions. (A tiny glimpse of vulnerability.)

Macbeth pivots, returns to Lennox, the matter in hand. (Does Lennox obviously pretend not to hear or is it a conventional unheard aside? The former is the more interesting possibility. Does he even take notes of these latest orders, the cool, or cowed, enabler of atrocity?) Where are these gentlemen, the messengers? Come, bring me where they are, take me to them.

It’s quite a scene, beginning with dancing witches and a bubbling cauldron, and ending with a ruthless plan for the wholesale slaughter of civilians…