THE Prologue and Epilogue, TO THE LAST NEW PLAY; Constantine the Great.  

PROLOGUE. Spoken by Mr. Goodman.  
WHat think ye meant Wise Providence, when first  
POETS were made? I'd tell you if I durst.  
That 'twas in Contradiction to Heaven's Word,  
That when its Spirit o'er the Waters stirred,  
When it saw All, and said that All was good,  
The Creature POET was not understood.  
For were it worth the pains of Six long Days,  
To Mould Retailers of dull Third-Day-Plays,  
That starve out Threescore Years in Hopes of Bays.  
'Tis plain they ne'er were of the First Creation,  
But came by mere Equiv'cal Generation.  
Like Rats in Ships, without Coition bred;  
As hated too, as they are, and unfed.  
Nature their Species sure must needs disown,  
Scarce knowing POETS, less by POETS known.  
Yet this Poor Thing so scorned, and set at nought,  
Ye all pretend to, and would fain be thought.  
Disabled wasting Whoremasters, are not  
Prouder to own the Brats they never got;  
Then Fumbling Itching Rhimers of the Town,  
T' Adopt some base Born Song that's not their own.  
Spite of his State, my Lord sometimes Descends,  
To please the Importunity of Friends.  
The dullest He thought most for business fit,  
'Twill Venture his bought Place, to Aim at Wit.  
And though He sinks with His Employs of State,  
Till Common Sense forsake Him, He'll Translate.  
The POET and the WHORE, alike Complains  
Of Trading Quality, that spoils their Gains;  
The Lords will Write, and Ladies will have Swains.  
Therefore all you, who have Male Issue born,  
Under the Starving Sign of CAPRICORN;  
Prevent the Malice of their Stars in Time,  
And warn them Early from the Sin of Rhyme.  
Tell 'em how Spencer starved, how Cowley mourned,  
How Butler's Faith and Service was returned;  
And if such Warning they refuse to take,  
This last Experiment, O Parents make!  
With Hands behind them see the Offender tied,  
The Parish Whip, and Beadle by his Side.  
Then lead him to some Stall that does Expose  
The Authors he loves most, there rub his Nose.  
Till like a Spannel lashed, to know Command,  
He by the due Correction understand,  
To keep his Brains clean, and not foul the Land.  
Till he against his Nature learn to strive,  
And get the Knack of Dulness how to Thrive.   

EPILOGUE.  
Spoken by Mrs. COOK,  
OUR Hero's Happy in the Plays Conclusion,  
The Holy Rogue at last has met Confusion;  
Tho' Arrius 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 CAUSE was King then all the World was Glad:  
whigs kept the Places they Possessed before,  
And most were in a Way of Getting more;  
Which was as much as to say— Gentlemen,  
Here's Power and Money to be ROGUES again.  
Indeed there were a sort of peaking Tools,  
(Some call 'em Modest, but I call 'em Fools,  
Men much more Loyal, though 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 'em 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 last they gave it their Good Word abroad;  
As many a Man, who for a quiet life,  
Sends out his Bastard, not to Nose his Wife:  
Thus o'er their Darling Treason Trimmers Cry,  
And though they dare not Her, it wants Supply,  
They Bind it Apprentice to Count TECKELEY.  
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 Mind, I'll tell,  
Why those Damned Trimmers love the TURK so well;  
Th' 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?    

Printed for C. Tebroc, 1683.