







 
   
     
       
         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 / written by a person of quality.
         Person of quality.
      
       
         
           1663
        
      
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             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 / written by a person of quality.
             Person of quality.
          
           4 p.
           
             Printed by Edward Crowch ...,
             London :
             1663.
          
           
             "And licenced according to order"
             Reproduction of original in Huntington Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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         eng
      
       
         
           Dun, Edward, d. 1663.
           Elegiac poetry.
           Executions and executioners -- England -- Poetry.
        
      
    
     
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             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.
           
        
         
           
             Inter
             pone
             tuis
             interdum
             gaudia
             curis
             .
          
        
         
           Written
           by
           a
           Person
           of
           quality
           .
           
             And
             Liscenced
             according
             to
             Order
          
           .
        
         
           
             Cromwell
             .
             Ireton
             .
             Bradshaw
             .
          
        
         
           London
           ,
           Printed
           by
           
             Edward
             Crowch
          
           ,
           dwelling
           on
           Snowhill
           .
           1663.
           
        
      
    
     
       
         
         
           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
             ?
          
           
           
             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
             ;
          
           
           
             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
             .
          
        
         
           
             His
             EPITAPH
             .
          
           
             
               VNderneath
               this
               place
               doth
               lie
            
          
           
             
               The
               Miracle
               of
            
             Crueltie
             ;
          
           
             
               I
               le
               tell
               thee
               now
               I
               have
               begun
               ,
            
          
           
             
               Then
               know
               ,
               kinde
            
             Reader
             ,
             
               all
               's
               but
            
             Dun
             :
          
        
         
           FUNIS
           .
        
         
      
    
     
  

