Guil. Happy in that we are not over happy;
on Fortune's cap we are not the very button.
Ham. Nor the soles of her shoe? 238
Ros. Neither, my lord.
Ham. Then you live about her waist, or in
the middle of her favours? 241
Guil. Faith, her privates we.
Ham. In the secret parts of Fortune? O!
most true; she is a strumpet. What news? 244
Ros. None, my lord, but that the world's
grown honest.
Ham. Then is doomsday near; but your news
is not true. Let me question more in particular:
what have you, my good friends, deserved at the
hands of Fortune, that she sends you to prison
hither?
Guil. Prison, my lord! 252
Ham. Denmark's a prison.
Ros. Then is the world one.
Ham. A goodly one; in which there are
many confines, wards, and dungeons, Denmark
being one o' the worst. 257
Ros. We think 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. 261
Ros. Why, then your ambition makes it one;
'tis too narrow for your mind.
Ham. O God! I could be bounded in a nut-
shell, and count myself a king of infinite space,
were it not that I have bad dreams.
Guil. Which dreams, indeed, are ambition,
