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a crowd of wretched souls
That stay his cure: their malady convinces
The great essay of art; but at his touch,
Such sanctity hath Heaven given his hand,
They presently amend,
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'tis spoken
To the succeeding royalty he leaves
The healing benediction.
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strangely visited people,
All swoln and ulcerous, pitiful to the eye,
The mere despair of surgery,
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