King. I burne; My braines boyle in a Caldron: O, one drop Of water now to coole me!
Onae. Oh, let him have Physicians!
Med. Keepe her backe.
King. Physicians for my soule: I need none else.
You'll not deny me those? Oh, holy Father,
Is there no mercy hovering in a cloud
For me, a miserable King, so drench'd
In perjury and murder?
Car. Oh, Sir, great store.
King. Come downe, come quickly downe.
Car. I'll forthwith send For a grave Fryer to be your Confessor.
King. Doe, doe.
Car. And he shall cure your wounded soule: —Fetch him, good Souldier.
Bal. So good a work I'le hasten.