Elegy on A-r-n W-e
An Elegy on A—r—n W—e,
Who Flew from hence the other Night.
LET Quakers Weep and Builders now Rejoice,
Since Death at laſt has made the wiſh'd-for Choice ;
At length he did by one unerring Stroke,
Thruſt C—r W—e into a Cheſt of Oak ;
Its all the meagre Tyrant now affords,
Altho' his Captive lov'd to deal in Boards ;
Unkind he was his Wooden Trade to hinder,
And fink his Credit in a Cafe of Timber :
Blame not me, nor think that I'm Scoffing,
For on my Faith I only mean his Coffin ;
Of all the Plank he e'er fold or bought,
He has no more than makes him now a Coat :
The Workman came with Wings of joyful haſt,
To make that Suit that was to be his laſt ;
For rather than ſo good a Jobb ſhould ſtand,
Every Chip I'm ſure would lend a Hand ;
Not one of all the chearful Tribe would fail,
But each would ſtrive to clinch the foremoſt Nail :
And I'll be bound that e'ery Man whatever,
Would take due Care to faſten down the Cover ;
Within his gloomy Manſion to inmure him,
From the World and Builders to ſecure him :
O ! he's fled, but where by Fate is driven,
To Charon's Coaft or up the Road to Heaven ;
Is now indeed a Dark myſterious Doubt,
There's only W—l can find the ſecret out ;
But of the two I'd boldly lay a Groat,
His welcome Shade was waſted in the Boat ;
What Point that lands at few or none can tell,
But fome ſuſpect it boarders near on H— ;
If on that Coaſt his Fortune was to fix,
He's ſtill a Dealer on the Banks of Styx ;
And perhaps for his Judgement, Skill and Care,
May be employ'd by Pluto for Surveyor.
Ye Quakers all lament Friend W—e with Tears,
Whoſe Character as black as You appears :
Who murder'd Trade and lop't off ev'ry Joint,
That us'd the Rule and Compafs faithful Point ;
But now he's gone let injur'd Workmen have,
One joyful Day to dance upon his Grave ;
Whilſt I pay Tribute to his hateful Herſe,
And ſing his Actions in vindictive Verſe.
The E P I T A P H.
W I T H I N this Hole his Body lies,
His Soul is fled, the Lord knows where ;
See the glad Crowd with joyful Eyes,
Whilſt each let's fall a chearful Tear ;
Let ev'ry Foot tread down this Clod,
And willing Hands heap on the Clay ;
Oh ! bury deep the ſordid Sod,
And it lock till the Judgment Day.
D u B L I N : Printed in the Year, 1735.
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