You see I do you kindness not by stealth.
My wife—no advocate of squandering wealth—
Vows that it would be parricide, or worse,
Should we neglect you—here’s a silken purse,
Some golden pieces through the network shine,
’Tis proffered to you from her heart and mine.
But come I no foolish delicacy, no!
We own, but cannot cancel what we owe—
This sum shall duly reach you once a year.”
Poor Allan’s furrowed face, and flowing tear,