Groans from Newgate; OR, AN ELEGY UPON Edward Dun Esq: The Cities Common Hangman, who Died 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 Crouch, dwelling on Snowhill. 1663.   

An Elegy upon Edward Dun Esquire, the City's Common Hangman.  

COme Newgate Muse and let's agree  
To antipothize an Elegy,  
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 died untimely in his bed.  
The valiant Soldiers loath to yield  
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 shouldst deny him his own swing;  
Sure, sure, thou hadst some great design  
Or else thou'adst took him under-line;  
How can our griefs be unrevealed,  
When so much virtue died concealed?  
Who does not hear how every stone  
In Newgate cries. O hone, O hone,  
Whilst all the Prisoners sadly run  
And cry, The Devil rides on Dun?  
Nay more, each tenderhearted Louse,  
Belonging to that Mansion-house,  
Do strive in Sable robes to crawl,  
Like Mourners to his Funeral.  
The noble Hemp its grief doth show,  
And scorched with sorrow cannot grow;  
The Axe, 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 died not in her arms:  
He's gone, she cries, that often stood  
More than knuckle deep in blood.  
Oh with what a dextrous art  
He would pull out a Traitor's heart!  
Never did Music please him well,  
Except it were St. Pulchers Bell.  
I was his Altar and his Spouse  
To whom he often paid his vows.   

The Altars of the Heathen Gods  
Were not so good as mine by odds;  
Because their Priests were not so wise  
To offer Men for Sacrifice:  
But my brave Priest did plenty bring,  
Of such as murdered 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.  
Underneath this place doth lie  
The Miracle of Cruelty;  
I'll tell thee now I have begun,  
Then know, kind Reader, all's but Dun:   
FUNIS.