"It is a ful trie tree," quod he, 10800 "Trewely to telle; Mercy is the more therof, The myddul stok is ruthe; The leves ben lele wordes, The lawe of holy chirche; The blosmes beth buxom speche, And benigne lokynge; Pacience hatte the pure tree, And pure symple of herte; And so, thorugh God and thorugh goode men, 10810 Groweth the fruyt charité." "I wolde travaille," quod I, "this tree to se, Twenty hundred myle; And for to have my fulle of that fruyt, {331} Forsake alle othere saulees. Lord!" quod I, "if any wight wite Whider out it groweth." "It groweth in a gardyn," quod he, "That God made hymselve, Amyddes mannes body, 10820 The more is of that stokke, Herte highte the herber That it inne groweth. And _liberum arbitrium_ Hath the lond the ferme Under Piers the Plowman, To piken it and to weden it." "Piers the Plowman!" quod I tho, And al for pure joye That I herde nempne his name, 10830 Anoon I swowned after, And lay longe in a lone dreem; And at the laste, me thoughte That Piers the Plowman Al the place me shewed, And bad me to toten on the tree, On top and on roote; With thre piles was it under-pight, I perceyved it soone. "Piers," quod I, "I preie thee, 10840 Whi stonde thise piles here?" "For wyndes, wiltow wite," quod he, To witen it fro fallyng. _Cum ceciderit justus, non collidetur, quia Dominus supponit manum suam._ And in blowyng tyme, abite the flowres, But if thise piles helpe, {332} "The world is a wikked wynd To hem that willen truthe; 10850 Coveitise comth of that wynd, And crepeth among the leves, And for-freteth neigh the fruyt Thorugh manye faire sightes; Thanne with the firste pil I palle hym down, That is _Potentia Dei_. "The flessh is a fel wynd, And in flouryng tyme Thorugh likynge and lustes So loude he gynneth blowe, 10860 That it norisseth nyce sightes, And som tyme wordes, And wikkede werkes therof, Wormes of synne, And for-biteth the blosmes Right to the bare leves. "Than sette I to the secounde pil _Sapientia Dei patris_; That is the passion and the power Of oure prince Jhesu. 10870 Thorugh preieres and thorugh penaunces, And Goddes passion in mynde, I save it til I se it ripen And som del y-fruyted.