A TRUE COPY OF THE EPILOGUE TO CONSTANTINE the GREAT.  
That which was first Published being false printed and surreptitious.  Written by Mr. Dryden. 
OUr Hero's happy in the Plays Conclusion,  
The holy Rogue at last has met Confusion:  
Tho' Arius all along appeared a Saint,  
The last Act showed him a true Protestant.  
Eusebius, (for you know I read Greek Authors,)  
Reports, that after all these Plots and Slaughters,  
The Court of Constantine was full of Glory,  
And every Trimmer turned Addressing Tory;  
They followed him in Herds as they were mad:  
When Clause was King, than all the World was glad.  
Whigs kept the Places they possessed before,  
And most were in a Way of getting more;  
Which was much as saying, Gentlemen,  
Here's Power and Money to be Rogues again.  
Indeed there were a sort of peaking Tools,  
Some call them Modest, but I call 'em Fools,  
Men much more Loyal, tho' not half so loud;  
But these poor Devils were cast behind the Crowd.  
For bold Knaves thrive without one grain of Sense,  
But good men starve for want of Impudence.  
Besides all these, there were a sort of Wights,  
(I think my Author calls them Teckelites;)  
Such hearty Rogues, against the King and Laws,  
They favoured even a Foreign Rebel's Cause.  
When their own damned Design was quashed and awed,  
At least they gave it their good Word abroad.  
As many a Man, who, for a quiet Life,  
Breeds out his Bastard, not to nose his Wife;  
Thus o'er their Darling Plot, these Trimmers cry;  
And tho' they cannot keep it in their Eye,  
They bind it Apprentice to Count Teckely.  
They believe not the last Plot, may I be cursed,  
If I believe they e'er believed the first;  
No wonder their own Plot, no Plot they think;  
The Man that makes it, never smells the Stink.  
And, now it comes into my Head, I'll tell  
Why these damned Trimmers loved the Turks so well.  
The Original Trimmer, tho' a Friend to no man,  
Yet in his heart adored a pretty Woman:  
He knew that Mahomet laid up for ever,  
Kind black-eyed Rogues, for every true Believer:  
And, which was more than mortal Man e'er tasted,  
One Pleasure that for threescore Twelvemonths lasted:  
To turn for this, may surely be forgiven:  
Who'd not be circumcised for such a Heaven!   

London, Printed for I. Tonson, at the Judge's Head in Chancery-lane, 1684.