Ham. Nor the Soales of her Shoo?
Rosin. Neither my Lord
Ham. Then you liue about her waste, or in the middle
of her fauour?
Guil. Faith, her priuates, we
Ham. In the secret parts of Fortune? Oh, most true:
she is a Strumpet. What's the newes?
Rosin. None my Lord; but that the World's growne
honest
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