THE Jacobite Conventicle.  
A POEM.  
For Fools are Stubborn in their Way,  
As Coins are hardened by th' Alloy,  
And Obstinacy's ne'er so stiff,  
As when 'tis in a wrong belief.  Hudibras, Part 3. Canto 2. 
LONDON: Printed for R. Stafford, 1692.   

THE PREFACE.  
IN the days of Whig and Tory, when the Loyal Pulpits sounded with Harangues of Obedience and Submission, and the poor Dissenter was forced to creep by Owl-light into some private House to Worship his God in Secret, when loud Hems Echoed through the Churches, by way of Approbation, to a Clinching Period against the Cromwellians and new Anti-royallists, and the Metres dragged through the Streets by Constables and Watchmen, when that bouncing Loyalty took place of all the other Virtues, and none were to be Saved out of the Pale of the Church of England: Who would have thought to have seen such a change of Affairs? But above all, to have seen a Conventicle (that word of odious sound) composed of a few Discontented Persons, who yet call themselves the Church of England Protestant's; surely Copernicus was not much in the wrong, when he said the World went round, and the Sun stood still; but Conscience, they say, is a Sacred thing, and ought not to be Violated; but at the same time, is it not a great Riddle, that Man's Conscience should boggle at a Lawful Oath, and yet be quiet enough under an Unlawful Debauch, pretend Loyalty to Government, and yet run counter to all its commands, Fast and Revel on the days Appointed for Fasting and Humiliation, say they are of an Established Church, and yet meet in an Unlawful Conventicle; aver they Love their Country, and yet wish well to the French Dragoons? If these are not so many contradictions, let the World judge, for they whose minds can swallow such Contrarieties, are fit to believe Transubstantiation, and undoubtedly will prove as Errand Biggots to the Church of Rome, should another Revolution happen, as they are now (to what they falsely call themselves the true Members of) The Church of England.   

THE Jacobite Conventicle.  

TEdious have been our hopes, and long our Prayers,  
Within the compass of the three past Years,  
How oft in private have we met to Mourn,  
And whine and snivel for Our Lord's Return?  
Our Wishes too, how strangely were they crossed,  
When the French Fleet drew near the English Coast,  
When we expected our Deliverance near,  
From Choking Oaths and Taxes so Severe;  
A glimpse of Heaven we having then in view,  
But ah! how soon that gaudy Scene withdrew,  
Leaving a dismal Prospect in its room,  
Of thousand Miseries are yet to come;  
Must still our thoughts endure the wracking pain,  
Always to hope, and wish, but yet in vain?  
Nay, Heaven itself, to add to our Despairs,  
Seems to neglect and put by all our Prayers:  
Is there no hopes that wretched, cheated we,  
Shall Once more taste of Luscious Liberty;  
Once more be thought the Favourites of the Nation,  
And trample o'er the Men of Abdication?  
Those Rogues, who to increase their guilty score,  
Found out a word was never heard before.  
Yet there a time may come, (but when it will,  
Exceeds the reach of Learned Gadb'ry's Skill)  
When Loyalty shall meet in due regard,  
And those that dare be honest, find reward.  
The time may come— when Right will have its place,  
And lie no longer under Black Disgrace.  
To Skill in Stars, though I make no presence,  
Methinks I view it in the Present Sense;  
Methinks I see th'Approaching smiling Years,  
Roul on apace to recompense our Tears.  
Fly fast, ye Weeks, ye Months, post quickly on,  
And settle I— once more upon his Throne.  
But hold— to what strange Notions am I brought  
By the too strong Impulses of my thought?  
To Church I'll go— that word, Good Heaven, forgive,  
The Church shall be my Odium while I live:  
I hate the Priest, who has a Double Face,  
Religion's Scandal, and his Gown's Disgrace.  
Give me the Man with Conscience void of blame,  
Is in all Turns of Government the same,  
Who hates Rebellion, nor can Treason bless,  
And does not judge of Actions by Success:  
That Man should never starve while I was able,  
I'd serve him with my Purse, my Bed, my Table;  
His Doctrine I much sooner would believe,  
Than a Spruce Bishop's in his white Lawn Sleeve:  
Such Men I've heard, and hope to hear again.  
Bless me! 'tis late— the Clock has just struck ten,  
But hold— Before to Fetter. Lane I go,  
'Tis requisite the Entrance-word I know:  
Last Sunday 'twas Commandment the fifth,  
And now St. Germains is the Shibboleth:  
'Tis so— and now with eager steps I fly  
To the true Church of England's Ministry,  
To hear a sort of Men who ever knew,  
Still to be faithful, loyal, firm and true,  
Who from their Souls detest the swearing Vice,  
Eeither to get or keep a Benefice.   

Thus I in Temple-Cloysters walking,  
O'erheard a Man t' himself a talking:  
But if for Lie you this will Chalk;  
At least I thought he thus would talk;  
For by a Discontented Phiz,  
One sometimes reads a Thought which lies,  
Full Fifteen Fathom under Water:  
If this is false, thank Erra Pater  
For in his Book, the Fourteenth Chapter,  
About an Astrological Rapture,  
He says,— But why do I thus strive  
To tell you what you want believe?  
But I myself being somewhat curious,  
Did follow this Old Hunks Penurious,  
Through Streets, Lanes, Alleys and Byways,  
More than are found in Stow's Surveys,  
Traversing almost as much Ground,  
As on Newmarket Heath is found,  
Leading me such a dainty jaunt,  
As if one on an Errand sent,  
Missing his way, which did not hap well,  
Should go by Lambeth to White-Chappel;  
However at last, in Lane of Fetter,  
Than which, there is not many better,  
In Magpye-court, or Yard, or Alley,  
For which 'twas, Faith, I cannot tell ye,  
He stopped at Door, which stood at jar,  
And whispering softly in the Ear,  
Of one whose looks declared Suspicion,  
Received into the House Admission:  
I seeing this, with Confidence,  
whate'er might be the consequence,  
Went boldly up, and gave the Sign,  
(The Word I mean) and so got in;  
But by their jealous Looks and Eyes  
I plainly read their strange Surprise,  
To see one to their Meeting come,  
Whom they believed was none of Them;  
They Stared— and I forgot to Blush,  
But boldly to the midst I rush,  
And sat me down upon a Hassock,  
Expecting Clergyman in Cassock,  
That Holy Smith who blows the Coals  
Of Discontent, and Saves their Souls,  
By telling them that no Salvation  
Can be to Men of Abdication,  
And that a Hell is still appointed  
For those resist the Lord's Anointed.  
But he, it seems, was not come yet,  
But stayed behind to take a Whet  
Of White Wine, in a brimming Taster,  
In Memory of his Absent Master,  
Which might his Spirits better quicken;  
But now the Plot begins to Thicken,  
Folks to the Place in Clusters Trolling,  
(As Snowballs gather by their Rolling,  
So fast, although the Room was Large,  
'Twas crammed as full as Gravesend Barge,  
‛ Tho different Sexes, different Ages,  
(For some were Youths and some were Sages)  
Made up this private Congregation,  
Yet Envy, Discontent and Passion,  
In Face of every one appeared,  
Both of smooth Chin and grisly Beard,  
As plain as is the Light in Phoebus,  
When he Looks down on Mortal Rebus.  
Nor could the grinning smile conceal  
The Passions, which in Breast they feel,  
As if these People took delight,  
Only to wait on God for Spite;  
Soft buzzing Whispers fill the Room,  
And into close Committees, some  
Retire, to give their Thoughts a Vent,  
And Drevil forth their Discontent,  
Which Poison, as the one spits forth,  
The other Licks it up, in Troth.  
A Man perceiving of a Dry Nod,  
Came to a little Private Synod,  
Or Junto, which was just behind me,  
To prate they fall, and did not mind me;  
But not in words so soft and Buttered,  
But I could hear each word they Uttered;  
Quoth one, I wonder what a Devil  
Should make the Parliament so civil,  
Such Taxes on the Land to Draw,  
We must make Bricks, yet have no Straw;  
If they go on, 'tis plain and clear,  
The French, which we so idly fear,  
As soon will make Descent on Finland,  
As ere Attempt to Land in England.  
Within three years we shall become  
The Poorest State in Christendom;  
All Nations will on us be Pissing,  
And we become the Scorn and Hissing,  
Of all the Kingdoms which are known,  
'Twixt us and Land of Prester John.  
Besides, the Money which is Raised  
Pays not the English, God be Praised;  
No, poor contented Villains, they  
Must venture on, yet have no Pay,  
Except a little small Subsistance,  
A very trifling small Assistance,  
Just to keep Life and Soul together,  
Against the force of Wind and Wether,  
Whilst Brandenburgers, Danes and Dutchmen,  
Sweeds, Germans, and all other such Men,  
Are duly paid off to a Penny,  
And long Arrears they have not any.  
You speak the very truth on't Neighbour,  
Replies his Friend (with Thought in Labour  
To be Delivered of some Matter,  
Which sore oppressed his Pia Mater)  
If our forefathers were complaining,  
That Rome was still their Purses Draining;  
By Peter's Pence, and such Taxation,  
How just are now the Cries o'th' Nation?  
Four Shillings first in every Pound,  
Did fine Estates most largely wound,  
(Estates as well as Bodies needing,  
For their Health's sake a timely Bleeding)  
The Double Excise, which all men reckoned,  
To hold but one year, lasts a Second,  
And it may still for aught that we know,  
Till Day of Judgement so continue;  
But that which was the topping sole Act  
Of the last Sessions, was the Poll Act,  
Where each man must, or nill, or willing,  
For's Head, pay quarterly a Shilling,  
When most men's Brains in Head which rest,  
Sir,  
Are hardly worth a single Tester;  
But 'tis much better sure in one sense  
To Pay for Head, than Pay for Conscience,  
For Faith I should be very loath  
To Pay Two pounds or take an Oath.  
The Oaths!— As soon I'd swallow Ratsbane,  
Or any other Payson that's Bane,  
(Rejoins a third) O'bomination,  
What swallow down my own Damnation;  
A Buttered Hedgehog I could better  
Digest, than of the Oaths a Letter.  
But pray what News have ye in the City?  
Sure matters there go very pretty,  
And Guineas into Guildhall go,  
As if our Land were Mexico,  
Or as each Merchant there a Dweller,  
Had found a Golden Mine in's Cellar:  
Well, if their Faith for things above,  
Like that for things below, does prove,  
'Tis Ten to One, and Two to Eleven,  
They all of them will meet in Heaven.  
They say the King and all his Allies,  
(Speaks a fourth Man amongst these fellows)  
Intent, as folk's report most true is,  
To pull down Pride of Mighty Lewis,  
And William for a Wager carries  
His Arms into the Heart of Paris,  
And of the strange Opinion some are,  
That all this must be done this Summer:  
Well, they may please their idle Fancies,  
With such like Tales and State Romances;  
But I believe they'll find more Odds,  
Than Giants did that Fought with Gods;  
Alas, their mighty Preparations,  
Made of the Scum of several Nations,  
Are not to France so Formidable,  
As are to Us a City Rabble;  
You'll find their Mighty Hopes Defeated,  
And They most miserably Cheated.  
Hold, let's forbear our idle Tales,  
Hes come,— Who is't?— Why Mr. Sh.—  
A precious Man.— Hist, silence there,  
At which all instantly forbear,  
And looking at the Ministers,— God bless you, Sir.  
His Surplice on, and then prepare  
To Join with him in Common-Prayer,  
Nor Psalms nor Prayers does he omit any,  
Till coming to that place i'th' Littany,  
Wherein obliged by Name to Pray,  
For those who bear the Sovereign Sway;  
He did in's Prayers no Name put in,  
But those of Gracious King and Queen;  
Which Prayer, no sooner did it reach the  
Ears of them all,— but— We beseech thee,  
Echoed more loud by Persons there,  
Than the response to any Prayer,  
Which in the Liturgy we read,  
From the Lord's Prayer to Nicene Creed.  
The Service done, I then expected  
T'ave heard a singing Psalm directed;  
But having got the Pious Qualms,  
Their Souls were not in tune for Psalms,  
For how can ever Captives bring  
Their Minds into a Frame to Sing?  
Tho it is plain that Fetters none  
They had, but what themselves put on;  
But if they would have tuned their throats,  
To Sternholds or to Hopkins Notes,  
It would, according as 'tis reckoned,  
Have been to Psalm called Seventy Second,   

Lord give thy Judgements to the King,  
Therein Instruct him well,  
And with his Son that Princely thing,  
Lord, let thy Justice dwell.   

But now the Priest was to Pulpit gone,  
At least to what might pass for one;  
After a short Prayer, not forgetting  
Of King and Queen, to mind his Knitting,  
Who with a Zeal most mighty Fervent,  
Were thought of by their suffering Servant;  
Remembering likewise most Devoutly,  
To Pray for Mother Church most stoutly,  
The Church of England, which they fancy,  
None out of their Communion can see;  
The Church, oppressed, distressed and warried,  
And in a sense Spiritually carried  
Captive away, whilst its Adorners  
Are forced to Preach and Pray in Corners.  
This done, and th' Audience composing  
Themselves for Hearing, or for Dozing;  
T● a Bible of Geneva size,  
Himself Devoutly Priest applies,  
And from a thousand various Texts,  
This part of Scripture straight Selects.   

ROME 13. 1, 2.  
Let every Soul be Subject to the Higher Powers, etc.  
Whosoever therefore Resisteth the Power, Resisteth the Ordinance of God, and they that Resist, shall receive to themselves Damnation.  

The Text (quoth he) beloved, plainly  
Holds forth, that every one should mainly  
Strive who should most Enriched be  
With the Dear Jewel Loyalty:  
I do not mean the Counterfeit,  
Which every one that Swears can get,  
To save their Purses, having a mind;  
Theirs is a Bristol Stone— no Diamond;  
But I do mean that Sacred Jewel,  
Which flattering Arts, nor open Cruelty  
of Men, e'er with all their Bluster,  
Could make it lose its sparkling Lustre;  
A Good, by Holy Writ Commended,  
With thousand Blessings still attended,  
A Virtue which the very Angels  
Practise above, or it were strange else,  
None of them daring to Rebel,  
Since Lucifer, and his Crew fell,  
A Virtue all have here I hopen;  
But now my Text begins to Open.    

Let every Soul, etc.  
Let every Soul,— Man, Woman, Child  
Be with this Holy Virtue filled,  
For there's not one in all the Nation  
Excepted in this Proclamation,  
Tho there are thousands senseless Elves,  
Who wickedly Except themselves,  
And foolishly suppose that they  
Were Born to Govern, not Obey;  
Ah! Parents, for I must be true t' ye,  
And tell you that it is your Duty,  
To let your Children hazard at all,  
Learn, as just as they can Prattle,  
The Criss-Cross-Row of Loyalty,  
Before they learn their A. B. C.  
Tell 'em the Dignity of Crowned Heads,  
And make 'em learn to hate the Roundheads;  
Tell'em, there nothing is in Nature,  
So. Monstrous as a Whiggish Creature;  
Tell 'em— Nay tell 'em anything  
T' advance the Glory of a King;  
Indeed 'tis plain without Correction,  
That Loyalty implies Subjection.   

Let every Soul be Subject, etc.  
That is, let every Soul be ready,  
With a fixed mind, resolved and steady,  
To part with Life, Estate, and all,  
When e'er it is his Prince's call;  
But never let him Hum and Haw,  
And Question if 'tis done by Law,  
His Princes Will to him should be  
The Rule of Law and Equity;  
But now Beloved let's Discourse  
Of what is meant by Higher Powers.   

Let every Soul be Subject to the Higher Powers.  
That is, that every Soul should be  
Subject alone to Monarchy;  
A Government which you and I know,  
Most certainly is jur' Divino,  
Above all other Governments,  
Which are in Earth's most wide Extents:  
Alas! what man a live is able.  
T'endure the Ruling of a Rabble,  
But Commonwealths why should we rob,  
Of th' Glory of a Ruling Mob;  
Distinctions, they know no other,  
Than well met Friend, and hale well Brother;  
But amongst all the Ruling Powers  
Of Monarchy, there's none like ours;  
Isay, not as 'tis now— alas!  
My meaning is, as once it was,  
When Good King— but I'll leave the rest  
By your Good Judgements to be guest,  
Whilst in few words I shall Rehearse  
The Meaning of the Second Verse:   

Whosoever therefore Resisteth, etc.  

Beloved, 'tis a dreadful Curse,  
But good enough, were't ten times worse,  
For those who meddle in State-matters,  
And will be Kings and Monarch-haters;  
Tho most Men make a Recreation  
Of that so common word Damnation,  
But they will all to Hell be Carried,  
As sure as Judas called Iscariot,  
Who in the smallest point or thing,  
Or thought, Rebel against their King,  
To whom the Title still we give  
Of God's true Representative;  
No wonder then that God is Jealous,  
When against his Vice Roy they're Rebellious;  
What mighty havoc have ye done,  
Ye wicked Men of Forty One;  
Nay, I might farther here rejoin,  
Ye Belial's Sons of Eighty Nine;  
Nay Laugh not, for, for all your Jeering,  
There's not one Barrel better Herring:  
Fight against your King!— How my Blood Curdles?  
Have you a mind to lay on Hurdles?  
And whether you are Low or High born,  
With a Psalm end your Days at Tyburn;  
But my Beloved, 'tis plain and clear  
That there are no such Persons here,  
We are all—   

Here a sudden noise,  
To silence put the Preachers Voice,  
When instantly without much Rabble,  
An Officer that's called Constable,  
Attended by some Musqueteers,  
Entered the Room and spoiled their Jeers:   

Genteels (quoth he) without much Preface,  
You all my Prisoners are in the place;  
None Answering him upon that Score,  
Obedience Passive were all o'er;  
Some few escaped, but those he guest,  
Were but blind Biggots to the rest;  
The Priest too, having slipped off Habit,  
Soon got away like Cased Rabbit,  
The now Detected Conventiclers,  
Who are for Loyalty such Sticklers,  
Were carried 'fore a Magistrate,  
Where little 'twould avail to prate;  
The Oaths were Tendered, and none willing  
To take 'em, each pay Forty Shilling;  
Patient in Suffering with applause,  
Not for the Old, but good New Cause.    
FIIS.   

Postscript.  
AH me! How great a Cordial's Hope,  
When saucy Fear done't interlope?  
How sweetly at the Tett we tipple,  
Till Fear puts Wormwood on the Nipple?  
How hot was t'other day's Discourse,  
That mighty Force of Foot and Horse,  
Headed by ever Valiant I— s,  
Were come almost to mouth of Thames;  
Nay, some to carry on the Joke,  
Swore he would Land at Puddle-dock;  
But Expectation is a Blessing,  
Surmounts the pleasure of Possessing;  
Yet 'tis a question worth Solution,  
Who'd gain by such a Revolution?  
Unless we think Ropes, Fire and Axes,  
Are milder things than Modern Taxes;  
Or when from Pockets Rome takes Toll,  
Is better than a Quarter Poll,  
And think the Levies of Commission,  
More cruel than the Inquisition;  
If words, of mind, the true Intent is,  
These men are sure Non compos mentis,  
And Bedlam must be sure Enlarged,  
When 'tis with such State-blockheads charged,  
Where they themselves may hourly tickle,  
And keep each day a Conventicle.   

ADVERTISEMENT.  
Choose which you will, Liberty or Slavery; or, an Impartial Representation of the Danger of being again Subjected to a Popish Prince.