Everybody here is sick with fear. Everybody except me. And I –
Yes? And you?
Oh, I – I'm sick with hatred. (1.1.154-6)
You will […] murmur to yourself, "It wasn't I, it could not have been I, who did that." Yet, though you disown it time and time again, it will always be there, a dead weight holding you back. (1.1.206)
The sun is shining. Everywhere down in the plains men are looking up and saying: "It's a fine day," and they're happy. Are you so set on making yourselves wretched that you've forgotten the simple joy of the peasant who says as he walks across his fields, "It's a fine day"? No, you stand hanging your heads, moping and mumbling, more dead than alive. (2.1.81)