Full thirty times this year you've signed a will,
And every time I send you dainties rare
With scented honey fresh from Hybla's hill;
I can't go on — my purse and feelings spare!
To make so many wills is hardly fair:
Do it for good and all, and then fulfil
The promise of that guileful cough that still
Deludes all hope. Now is my pocket bare,
And common gifts, if oft repeated thus,
Would turn a Dives to a Lazarus.