The Wolves and the Sick Ass

There were certain hungry carrion-hunting Wolves, who, in a qualm of wonderful charity, paid a visit to a fat old Ass, who lay ill of a bean-surfeit, and was like to die.

“Pray, my good friend,” said they, after many protestations of regard, “whereabouts is your greatest pain?”

“Oh, gently! gently!” replied the Ass, as they proceeded to feel his pulse, “for it pricks me just there, where you lay your fingers.”

Moral.

The kindness of a legacy-hunter is apt to be killing.