To The King, To Cure The Evil.

To find that tree of life whose fruits did feed And leaves did heal all sick of human seed: To find Bethesda and an angel there Stirring the waters, I am come; and here, At last, I find (after my much to do) The tree, Bethesda and the angel too: And all in your blest hand, which has the powers Of all those suppling-healing herbs and flowers. To that soft charm, that spell, that magic bough, That high enchantment, I betake me now, And to that hand (the branch of heaven's fair tree), I kneel for help; O! lay that hand on me, Adored C'sar! and my faith is such I shall be heal'd if that my king but touch. The evil is not yours: my sorrow sings, "Mine is the evil, but the cure the king's".