Gave him his brandy with a liberal hand.
A way more quick and safe she did not know, 160
And brandy, though it might be sure, was slow.
But more she dared not; for she felt a dread
Of being tried, and only wish’d him dead.
Such was her restless strife of hope and fear—
He might cough on for many a weary year;
Nay, his poor mind was changing, and, when ill, }
Some foe to her may wicked thoughts instil! }
Oh! ’tis a trial sore to watch a Miser’s will! }