Groanes from Newgate, or, An elegy upon Edvvard Dun, Esq. the cities common hangman, who dyed naturally in his bed the 11th of September, 1663
Person of quality.
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An Elegy upon Edward Dun Esquire, the Cities Common Hangman.

COme New-gate Muse and let's agree
To antipothize an Elegie,
And let each drop that dares to run
From barren eyes fill twice three Tun,
That so we may soon drown our fears,
And deluge grief in her own tears:
Let's think but how he did the feat,
And then conclude the loss is great.
But oh! it adds unto our dread,
He di'd untimely in his bed.
The valiant Souldier's loth to yeild
To Death, except it be in Field;
And who is he that would not die
According to his quality?
It was (oh Death!) an unjust thing.
Thou should'st deny him his own swing;
Sure, sure, thou hadst some great designe
Or else thou'adst took him under-line;
How can our griefs be unreveal'd,
When so much vertue di'd conceal'd?
Page  3 Who does not hear how every stone
In New-Gate cries. O hone, O hone,
Whilst all the Pris'ners sadly run
And cry, The Devil rides on Dun?
Nay more, each tender-hearted Louse,
Belonging to that Mansion-house,
Doe strive in Sable robes to crawl,
Like Mourners to his Funeral.
The noble Hemp its grief doth shew,
And scorch'd with sorrow cannot grow;
The Ax, the Block, the Knife, in brief,
Each Tool is rusty now with grief.
One thing I had almost forgot,
Tyburn with grief is grown a Sot;
And that which breeds her greatest harms,
Is that he di'd not in her arms:
He's gone, she cries, that often stood
More then knuckle deep in blood.
Oh with what a dextrous art
He would pull out a Traytor's heart!
Never did Musick please him well,
Except it were St. Pulchers Bell.
I was his Altar and his Spouse
To whom he often paid his vowes.
The Altars of the Heathen Gods
Were not so good as mine by ods;
Page  4 Because their Priests were not so wise
To offer Men for Sacrifice:
But my brave Priest did plenty bring,
Of such as murther'd their own King,
He'd offer them at my high Altar,
And thought no incense like the Halter:
But he is now quite void of breath,
And had no incense at his Death.


VNderneath this place doth lie
The Miracle of Crueltie;
Ile tell thee now I have begun,
Then know, kinde Reader, all's but Dun:
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