am hurt. A plague o’ both your houses. They have made worms’ meat of me. I charge thee, Whate’er thou hear’st of this, Unless thou tell me where I may trust the flattering eye of sleep, My dreams presage some joyful news at hand. My bosom’s lord sits lightly in his throne; And all combin’d, save what thou speak’st speak not of remedy. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Benedicite! What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?