The Discontented CONFERENCE BETWIXT The two great ASSOCIATES, THOMAS Late Earle of STRAFFORD, AND WILLIAM Arch-bishop of CANTERBVRY.
Straff.
GOD save your Grace: How doe you doe?
Cant.
My Lord, I thanke you, well as you.
Straff.
I have not seene your Grace of late
So full of mirth, may't auspicate
Some good event, and such as wee
May by it finde our libertie;
The Proverb him unwise doth hold,
Who loves his setters, though of gold.
Cant.
Last night (my Lord) some nobler dreame
Then did to sanguine, choler, phlegme,
Or unto melancholy owe
It's birth, did on my fancy grow:
Me thought I was in
Oxford, where
Lord Chancellours name and power I beare;
What showts Saint JOHNS there to me gave,
My gladed cares yet ringing have;
I heard their labouring joyes, and throng
Of praises both in prose and song.
And as, me-thought, from thence I came
To
Lambeth, I still heard the same
So loud, that Eccho from
Whitehall
Return'd them to my
Lambeths wall.
Straff.
In such a dreame, O who would keepe
A noyse to breake your Graces sleepe!
And though dreames erre, yet may this be
To you a happy prophesie,
And such a one as may prove true,
And faire unto my selfe, as you,
For so by one compact of wit,
Our Counsels were together knit
So close, so even they did goe
To worke the Common-weale it's woe,
We cannot well our selves define
What plot was yours, or which was mine,
They were each others Inmates, twins
That vi'd which most should number sins;
Both slept, both wak'd at once, and whether
They lost or won, both play'd together.
Cant.
My Lord, you rage.
Straf. You cannot call
Truth a disease, or rage at all:
Truth neither can, nor will deceive you.
Cant.
Farewell my Lord, for I must leave you.
Straf.
Yet stay a while, and give to me
Once more your Benedicitee;
I must confesse I did begin
To chide, but now forget my spleene.
Cant.
It doth increase my joy, and sure
The joy may well your praise procure:
How thinke you? Would this Kingdome flout,
To heare wee two were falling out?
Come, be your selfe; relate at length
What arm'd Recusants, what new strength
May come from
Ireland, to relieve
Our dying faction.
Straf. Never grieve.
My setled Soule; I doe not know
That root on which one hope might grow;
But in conclusion there must be
A rope for you, an axe for me.
Cant.
Was this your well grounded guesse
Of our increasing happinesse?
Ends thus your boasting, that you could
Get money, men, or what you would,
To curbe the insolency of those
That were, or would become our foes?
False
Straffords Earle.
Straf. Stop there, your Grace
His tongue doth trot too round a pace;
Looke, looke abroad, can you now see
No Patent, no Monopolee;
Are all your projects, all your fine
Devices sick as Medium wine?
Can now no more
Lauds, lawlesse might,
The Parson from the Pulpit fright,
The Subject from the Kingdome? What
Could ruine doe which you did not?
Cant.
There's something yet undone, 'tis true,
But shortly to be done to you:
Each Guard you have (for 'tis the will
Of Fate to have you guarded still)
Shall serve the Minister of your doome,
Your Executioner, not your Groome:
Your head that masterd so much art,
Ere long shall from your shoulders part;
Your blood your scarlet must new dye,
Your Spurres fall off, your Ermines flye,
And of so great, so fear'd a Name,
Scarce left a man that loves your Fame.
Straf.
So, so, (my Lord) my heart is glad
I owne that griefe your Grace can mad;
Your Head, no doubt, is growne the lighter
Since dis-invested of the Miter;
It was too proud a weight, and knowne
To nurse bad thoughts, 'tis better gone.
The Shepheards on their Sheephooks laugh,
And doe upbraid your Crosier staffe;
No more, your now deafe Chaplaines harke
What houre shall speake you Patriarke.
Cant.
Farewell, farewell, your Time cals on,
Speake thoughts more sanctifide, or none;
'Tis you must lead the way, and I
Shall follow after by and by.
Straf.
My lifes short knarled thred doth stand,
Expecting Fates impartiall hand:
Heav'n hath my thoughts, (my Lord) yet stay,
Shall we nere meet againe?
Cant. We may.
There's roome enough in Heav'n for two
Have more transgrest then I or you:
But I what place and time forbeare
To name, 'tis GOD knowes when and where.
FINIS.
Printed in the Yeare, of our Prelates feare, 1641.