An Elegy on A—r—n W—e

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 sink his Credit in a Case 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 ever sold 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'vry Man whatever, Would take due Care to fasten down the Cover; Within his gloomy Mansion to immure him, From the World and Builders to secure him; O! he's fled, but where by Fate he's driven, To Charon's Coast or up the Road to Heaven; Is now indeed a Dark mysterious Doubt, There's only W— can find the Secret out; But of the two I'd boldly lay a Groat, His welcome Shade was wafted in the Boat; What Point that lands at few or none can tell, But some suspect it borders near to H— If on that Coast his Fortune was to fix, He's still a Dealer on the Banks of Styx; And perhaps for his Judgment Skill and Care, May be employ'd by Pluto for Surveyor. Ye Quakers all lament Friend W—e with Tears, Whose Character as black is You appears: Who murder'd Trade and lop'd off ev'ry Joint, That us'd the Rule and Compass 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.