goad him on to the consummation of his promised greatness, she
exclaims:

--Hie thee hither,
That I may pour my spirits in thine ear,
And chastise with me valour of my tongue
All that impedes thee from the golden round,
Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem
To have thee crowned withal.

This swelling exultation and keen spirit of triumph, this
uncontrollable eagerness of anticipation, which seems to dilate her
form and take possession of all her faculties, this solid,
substantial flesh-and-blood display of passion, exhibit a striking
contrast to the cold, abstracted, gratuitous, servile malignity of
the Witches, who are equally instrumental in urging Macbeth to his
fate for the mere love of mischief, and from a disinterested delight
in deformity and cruelty. They are hags of mischief, obscene panders
to iniquity, malicious from their impotence of enjoyment, enamoured
of destruction, because they are themselves unreal, abortive, half-
existences, and who become sublime from their exemption from all
human sympathies and contempt for all human affairs, as Lady Macbeth
does by the force of passion! Her fault seems to have been an excess
of that strong principle of self-interest and family aggrandizement,
not amenable to the common feelings of compassion and justice, which
is so marked a feature in barbarous nations and times. A passing
reflection of this kind, on the resemblance of the sleeping king to
her father, alone prevents her from slaying Duncan with her own
hand.