Mal.
Well; more anon.—Comes the King forth, I pray you?

Doct.
Ay, Sir; there are a crew of wretched souls,
That stay his cure; their malady convinces
The great assay of art. But, at his Touch,
Such sanctity hath heaven given his hand,
They presently amend. [Exit.

Mal.
I thank you, Doctor.

Macd.
What's the Disease he means?

Mal.
'Tis call'd the Evil;
A most miraculous work in this good King,
Which often since my here remain in England
I've seen him do. How he sollicits heav'n,
Himself best knows; but strangely-visited people,
All swoln and ulc'rous, pitiful to the eye,
The mere despair of surgery, he cures,
Hanging a golden Stamp about their necks,
Put on with holy prayers. ^{8 note}

And 'tis spoken,

To the succeeding Royalty he leaves
The healing Benediction. With this strange virtue,
He hath a heavenly gift of Prophecy;
And sundry blessings hang about his Throne,
That speak him full of Grace.

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