_King_. Never worse:--What's he?
_Dami_. One of your Highnesse Doctors.
_King_. Come, sit neare me;
Feele my pulse once again and tell me, Doctor,
Tell me in tearmes that I may understand,--
I doe not love your gibberish,--tell me honestly
Where the Cause lies, and give a Remedy,
And that with speed; or in despight of Art,
Of Nature, you and all your heavenly motions,
Ile recollect so much of life into me
As shall give space to see you tortur'd.
Some body told me that a Bath of mans blood
Would restore me. Christians shall pay for't;
Fetch the Bishop hither, he shall begin.
_Cosm_. Hee's gone for.
_King_. What's my disease?