Ham. Then is Doomesday neere: But your newes is
not true. Let me question more in particular: what haue
you my good friends, deserued at the hands of Fortune,
that she sends you to Prison hither?
Guil. Prison, my Lord?
Ham. Denmark's a Prison
Rosin. Then is the World one
Ham. A goodly one, in which there are many Confines, Wards, and Dungeons; Denmarke being one o'th' worst
Rosin. We thinke not so my Lord
Ham. Why then 'tis none to you; for there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so: to me it is a prison
Rosin. Why then your Ambition makes it one: 'tis too narrow for your minde
Ham. O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count my selfe a King of infinite space; were it not that I haue bad dreames
Guil. Which dreames indeed are Ambition: for the very substance of the Ambitious, is meerely the shadow of a Dreame
Ham. A dreame it selfe is but a shadow
Rosin. Truely, and I hold Ambition of so ayry and
light a quality, that it is but a shadowes shadow