Mal. Well; more anon. Comes the king forth, I pray you? 140
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, 144
They presently amend.
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 have seen him do. How he solicits heaven, 149
Himself best knows; but strangely-visited people,
All swoln and ulcerous, pitiful to the eye,
The mere despair of surgery, he cures; 152
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, 156
He hath a heavenly gift of prophecy,
And sundry blessings hang about his throne
That speak him full of grace.
Enter Ross.
Macd. See, who comes here?
Mal. My countryman; but yet I know him not. 160
Macd. My ever-gentle cousin, welcome hither.
Mal. I know him now. Good God, betimes remove
The means that make us strangers!
142 stay his cure: wait for him to cure them; cf. n.
143 assay of art: efforts of medical science
150 strangely-visited: strangely-afflicted
153 stamp: coin
