DUNSTAN. I think of kings' favours as of a marigold flower That, as long as the sun shineth openeth her leaves And with the least cloud closeth again: Or like the violets in America, that in summe yield an odoriferous smell, And in winter a most infectious savour: For at every full sea they flourish, or at every dead ebb[307] they vade. The fish palerna, being perfect white in the calm, Yet turneth black with every storm. Or like the trees in the deserts of Africa, That flourish but while the south-west wind bloweth: Even so, my lord, the favours of kings to them they favour; For as their favours give life, so their frowns yield death. KING. Well said, Dunstan: but what merits he, that dissembles with his sovereign? DUNSTAN. In my opinion, my lord, he merits death. KING. Then assure thyself, if Ethenwald dissemble, he shall die. But who comes here? Perin, what news, that thou comest in such haste? and what is he that bears thee company? [_Enter_ PERIN _and the_ FARMER.] PERIN. It is, my gracious lord, an honest man, and one, It seems, that loves your majesty; for as your grace Gave me in charge, I went about into the country, To see what sums of money I could make. Among the chiefest of the commonalty: And 'mongst the richest knights that I could find, They would lend your grace at most but twenty pound, And every squire would lend your grace but ten. Then came I, 'mongst the rest, to this plain man, And asked him what he would lend the king. He answered, sir, you see I am but poor, Not half so wealthy as a knight or squire, And yet, in sign of duty to his grace, I will lend his majesty two hundred pound. KING. Thanks, honest fellow, for thy love to us; And if I may but pleasure thee in ought, Command me to the uttermost I may. England hath too few men of thy good mind. _Enter_ HONESTY _and_ PIERS PLOWMAN. Honesty, what news? where hast thou been so long? HONESTY. Ah, my lord, I have been searching for a privy knave; One, my lord, that feeds upon the poor commons, And makes poor Piers Plowman wear a thread-bare coat. It is a farmer, my lord, which buys up all the corn in the market, And sends it away beyond seas, and thereby feeds the enemy. KING. Alas, poor Piers Plowman! what ailest thou? Why dost thou weep? Peace, man: if any have Offended thee, thou shalt be made amends Unto the most.