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 heav'n 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 solicits 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: 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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