Groans from Newgate OR AN ELEGY On the suspension of the Famous Thief Thomas Sadler, Fifteen times Student in that Renowned College, who to the great Regret of all his Assotiates, was Translated to Tyburn, March, 16th. 1677.  
ILLustrious Muse! on thee we Call,  
That dost inspire at Pulchers Wall;  
The pious Tinkler with an Art,  
To stop with Ghostly Rhymes the Cart.  
And with his Saint's Bell full of grief,  
Ring-out the Knell of passing Thief.  
Whilst bussling Crowed for pity sobs,  
And divers Geld unguarded Fobbs.  
Assist us now with doleful Glee,  
IT Antipadize an Elegy.  
And let each drop that dares to run  
From wetshod Eyes, fill thrice three Tun;  
That so we may with Much Tears,  
(As he in Brandy) drown our Fears;  
Who does not here how every stone  
In Newgate cries, oh Hone, oh Hone.  
And every tender hearted Louse  
Belonging to that Mansionhouse,  
Does strive in sable Robes to Crawl,  
Close Mourners to his Funeral.  
When Princess German made her Hubbubs,  
And drew the whole Town to the Suburbs;  

When brisk Duval, that French Latroon  
Received reward of Pickaroon,  
And put poor Ladies in a swoon;   
Rhymesters their Goose-quills did Employ  
As fast, as Clerks in Chancery;  

And shall Sadler, Mercury's Crony,  
Be hanged like Cur, Sans Ceremony,  
'Tis base,— and if wit's to be had for money   
If Ballad men will venture on't,  
Or people Buy, when we have done't;  
we'll Sing his Name in Loftier droll  
Than Latin Pagan did Old Noll;  
He was Protector too o'th' Crew,  
Domestic Castles to Subdue;  
And by the aid of Trusty Betty,  
Can force each Door, Window, and Jetty;  
With dexetrous Crown could spring a mine,  
And Pick-lock Engines so design;  
Like second Hannibal they say,  
He always found or made a way.  
His Conduct of so brave a flight,  
Taught the Wild Arabs of the night;  
Intrigues they never would believe,  
Or wanted wit how to Achieve.  
Bilking more Plate, If fame truth saith,  
Than the old Gilt called public faith.  

And then for to complete his Race,  
Vvel-hoped, as Badges of's high place  
To bear away both Purse and Mace.    

EPITAPH.  
From making Bricks and moulding Clay,  
To Break up Walls I found a way;  
Longtyme I thrived, till by mishap,  
Atropos caught me in a Trap.  
But that's no strange or wondrous thing,  
I always loved to have my Swing.  
Let this sad Tomb advise my friends,  
Ill Lives must still expect Ill ends.   
FINIS.  

London, Printed for T. M. in the Year, 1677.