A discovery of the Jesuits Trumpery, newly packed out of England.  

Pack of Popish Trinkets   

IF any man shall question what this sack  
Contains, I'll tell him; 'tis a Popish pack,  
A truss of Trinkets, holy Crosses, beads,  
Religious relics, Ave-Maries, creeds;  
Our Lady's Image, Images of Saints,  
That waxen Lamb, that the shaved Priest depaints  
By th'name of Agnus Dei, Indulgences,  
Pardons, for venial, and for foul offences:  
y''ave here Tradition from a subtle pate,  
And Copies, teaching to equivocate:  
Her's supererogation, so much merit  
Stocked up by one, that many may inherit,  
By his good deeds, those everlasting joys,  
That few friars come to, and a thousand Toys.  
For him has coin to buy 'em, here be Coules,  
And the sheepes-cloathing, they that weary souls  
Do sometimes walk in, for the man that strips  
Himself, himself to punish; Here be whips,  
And right ones, I can tell you: And to quell,  
The pampered body into lust would swell,  
(Instead of Hemp or flaxen shirts to wear)  
(To scrub the●r itches) here be shirts of hair.  
Her's holy water, Ashes, holy-oil,  
Palm, Holy-Tapers, spital, and a coil  
With Holy-Salt, and Holy bells, I hope,  
Holy-Hemp twisted; so much for the Pope,  
With his blind guides: And last (to stuff it full)  
here's a nun's Barstard▪ and a roaring Bul.   

So much for the Pack, now to the pedlar.  
BE trudging with your Crosses, in the loss  
Of your pretences; if you love the cross,  
there's cross enough, I think, to make you fret  
Your Crosses now, have with cross-carding met.  
Your beads, and numbered Ave-Maries take,  
And trudge to Rome, there's Room enough, to make  
Some use and practice of them; here you see,  
We have no room for such vain things to be.  
And as for Images, yourselves now go  
Like Images made up of Mess-line Dowe;  
(For dows your C●ke in England, England knows,  
The substance from the shadow: such poor shows  
Please fools and madmen: then 'tis fit we part,  
You pray byth' Eye, we by the soul and Heart.  
Pack, with your Agnus Dei, (goodly Knacks)  
Balm, Holy-Water, and pure virgin's wax.  
They say 'tis made of: pretty things indeed)  
Prick your fine Lamb, see if your Lamb will bleed  
Ours bled for us: That blood, our soul's purgation  
Without the purge of your imagination:  
You know my mind, & whence th'invention can,  
Good Wolus be packing with your waxen Lamb  
Indulgences, from your indulgent Father,  
Do not extol so much, be thankful rather:  
To England's pity, who (but that his will  
Is more to pardon, then to punish (still)  
Might quickly send you (wisely think upon it)  
To Doctor Stories old three cornered Bonnet.  
I marry Sir, Equivocation! fie,  
What fools are they to think we cannot lie,  
Without their wit to help us? But to swear,  
And break that Oath, yet have the conscience clear.  
Ay, there's the Trick: for so Equivocation  
Leads men to hell in a more stately fashion.  
This, says a man, goodness enough may do,  
To save's own soul, and half his neighbours too,  
'Tis wondrous strange, yet let no man deride it,  
For we have friars have been at Heaven and tried it,  
But striving thus to set these baubles forth,  
I lose more time than all the Bundle's worth.  
O'er-view the Pack at leisure. I forgot  
Dags, Daggers, Pistol, poison, powder-plot:  
I know not well where these are in or no,  
I hope they are, and ready packed to go  
Back to that spotted bosom did invent them,  
And 'gainst a pair of spot less bosoms sent them,  
Stuffed full with their worst mischief; for that whore  
That Kings and Princes humbly must adore:  
(That rides upon that many headed Beast,  
At Kings and kingdoms levels, at the least.  
Her workmen too, she'll bless, maintain and nurse 'em,  
And they that dare not (being sworn to't) curse 'em,  
A holy Mother still. Beside these Lurches,  
(To show her spite) she'll make 'em fire our Churches,  
Then is't not time they pack? pack up, away,  
Back devils to your Saints: for some men say,  
In many places you have many, One  
That helps sore eyes; Another for the Bone  
Touched with the Morbe of Naples: one for youth  
Troubled with Scabs; one for an aching tooth:  
Nay you have Saints for horses, and for Swine,  
For Dogs, for Oxen, for your goat, and Kine;  
For Lambs and Geese; so get you gone, your back,  
Prepare, good pedlar, for your Popish pack.  
Our land, they know it flows with milk and honey,  
Therefore I do suspect there are too many.  
Trusting to shifts, by corners and disguises,  
Dare venture still to play their Popish Prizes:  
They soon shall know that we have hounds to scent 'em,  
Find out their skulking, strip 'em and present 'em,  
To'th eye of Justice; then they know what follows,  
Up Newgate first, than after to the Gallows.   
FINIS.   

London Printed for Henry Gosson; dwelling on London-Bridge.