AN
EGLEY
UPON THE
Most Execrable MURTHER of
Mr. CLUN
On of the COMEDEANS of the THEATOR ROYAL,
Who was Rob'd and most inhumanely Kill'd on Tuseday-night, being the 2d, of
August, 1664. near Tatnam-Court, as as he was Riding to his Country-house
at Kentishtown.
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MOurn Royal Stage, your Poets pens implore,
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To cease to write, since Clun can be no more;
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Turn all your Sceans to black, and let them be,
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The Emblimes of our cares; Cluns Tragedy:
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Go hide your Tapestry, and Clothes of green,
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Act now on black, Clun will no more be seen.
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Be dumb you drolling wits, not sighing stand;
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For Comick Clun that dy'd by Tragick hand.
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Mirth learn to mourn, and banish all our Smiles,
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Since Clun has plaid the last of his Beguiles:
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How can my pen bid thy last Rights adue,
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When I want words to set thy fames forth true;
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'Tis beyond Prose, or Art of humane Verse,
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Thy taking-Humours to their worth rehearse.
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Dye all desire of seeing more the Stage,
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Now thou art dead, the Mirrour of our Age;
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For in thy Action all our joyes were seen,
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Nor wert thou less to either King or Queen.
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Thou who in polished words, and Womans dress,
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Didst Lovers passions to the height express;
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And made us weep, at seeming sorrow swell,
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To hear and see like truth a Fiction fell:
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And when we frown'd at some prodigious birth,
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Thou in a moment chang'd that Scean to mirth;
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Then Smug and Bessus, Faulstaff and the rout
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Broke from thy Lips, to make us face about:
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Merry
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Devil of
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Edmun-
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ton.
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Henry 4.
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Blind in our haste, will Bessus run away?
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Yet in the mouth of danger get the day;
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And thy Lieutenant in his Drink-mad-fight
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To gain those Trophies which was but thy right.
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O! but Iago, when we think on thee,
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Not to applaud thy vice of Flattery;
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Yet must that Part never in our thoughts dye,
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Since thou didst Act, not mean that Subtilty:
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Thou all of all, and only Actor he,
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That ere trode Stage in English Comedy.
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But Hellish Fiends, what Devil reign'd in you,
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To Rob and Murder him that fed you too?
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Could not his Money your curst spleen abate,
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Without he fell a victive to your hate?
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What Execrations shall my pen indite,
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Against such Rogues that Eclips'd Clun our Light?
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Plagues worse then Egypts be your portion here,
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And may you never mount Heavens Hyemspear:
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Could I say more, or wish you worse I would,
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Therefore ile hold, for fear I wish you good.
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But Oh, black death, something Ile say of thee,
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For thou didst act among this treachery,
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And thy hand did seal our poor Clus death,
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Who oft us pleas'd with (that you took) his breath:
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O thou unkind and mortal foe to man,
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Who still art blind, yet checks all thou can.
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The Humo-
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rous Lieu-
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tenant.
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More of
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Venice.
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