O what a rogue and peasant slave am I.

This threeway lower-classness is the worst that Hamlet can think of himself: to be a vagrant or homeless man; to work the fields; to be owned by somebody else. In Hamlet's psychopathology, existence at any level below aristocracy is so contemptible than oblivion is to be preferred. So deepseated a sickness, so profound a misunderstanding of the human condition. To see the whole world through a consciousness so bent out of shape, and yet to believe it an olio of wisdom: how very peculiar.