Such welcome and unwelcome things at once ’Tis hard to reconcile.

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.

’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, Himself best knows: but strangely-visited people, All swoln and ulcerous, 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.