AN EGLEY UPON THE Most Execrable MURDER of M r. CLUN  
On● of the COMEDEANS of the THEATRE ROYAL, Who was Robbed and most inhumanely Killed on Tuseday-night, being the 2 d, of August, 1664. near Tatnam-Court, as as he was Riding to his Countryhouse at Kentish town.  

MOurn Royal Stage, your Poets pous implore,  
To cease to write, since Clun can be no more;  
Turn all your Scenes to black, and let them be,  
The Emblimes of our cares, 〈◊〉 Tragedy:  
Go hide your Tapestry, and Clothes of green,  
Act now in black, Clun will no more be seen▪  
Be 〈…〉 nor sighing stand;  
For Comic Clun that died by Tragic hand.  
Mirth learn to mourn, and banish all our Smiles,  
Since Clun has played the last of his Beguiles:  
How can my pen bid thy last Rights adieu,  
When I want words to set thy fames forth true;  
'Tis beyond Prose, or Art of humane Verse,  
Thy taking-Humours to their worth rehearse.  
Dye all desire of seeing more the Stage,  
Now thou art dead, the Mirror of our Age;  
For in thy Action all our joys were seen,  
Nor were thou less to either King or Queen.  
Thou who by polished words, and Woman's dr●●●  
Didst Lovers passions to the height expre●●  
And made us weep, at seeming sorrow 〈◊〉  
To hear and see like truth a Fiction 〈◊〉  
And when we frowned at some pro 〈…〉 〈…〉  
Then in a moment changed that 〈…〉 
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 Henry 4.   
Then 〈◊〉 and Bessus, 〈◊〉 〈…〉  
Broke from thy Lips, to make us 〈◊〉▪  
Blind in our haste, 
The Humorous Lieutenant. More of Venice.  will Bessus run away?  
Yet in the mouth of danger get the day;  
And thy Lieutenant in his Drink-mad-fight  
To gain those Trophies which was but thy right.  
O! but jago, when we think on thee,  
Not to applaud thy vice of Flattery;  
Yet must that Part never in our thoughts die,  
Since thou didst Act, not mean that Subtlety:  
Thou all of all, and only Actor he,  
That ere trod Stage in English Comedy.  
But Hellish Fiends, what Devil reigned in you,  
To Rob and Murder him that fed you too?  
Could not his Money your cursed spleen abate,  
Without he fell, a victive to your hate?  
What Execrations shall my pen indite,  
Against such Rogues that Eclipsed Clun our Light?  
Plagues worse than Egypt's be your portion here,  
And may you never mount Heaven's Hyemspear:  
Could I say more, or wish you worse I would,  
Therefore i'll hold, for fear I wish you good.  
But Oh, black death, something I'll say of thee,  
〈◊〉 thou didst act among this treachery:  
And thy hand did seal, our poor Clus death,  
Who oft us pleased with (that you took) his breath:  
O thou unkind and mortal foe to man,  
Who still art blind, yet checks all thou can.    

London, Printed by Edward Crouch dwelling on Snow-hill.