Mi fader, ye, I am beknowe, 550 I have hem cast upon Meduse, Therof I may me noght excuse: Min herte is growen into Ston, So that my lady therupon Hath such a priente of love grave, That I can noght miselve save. What seist thou, Sone, as of thin Ere? Mi fader, I am gultyf there; For whanne I may my lady hiere, Mi wit with that hath lost his Stiere: 560 I do noght as Uluxes dede, Bot falle anon upon the stede, Wher as I se my lady stonde; And there, I do yow understonde, I am topulled in my thoght, So that of reson leveth noght, Wherof that I me mai defende. My goode Sone, god thamende: For as me thenketh be thi speche Thi wittes ben riht feer to seche. 570 As of thin Ere and of thin yhe I woll nomore specefie, Bot I woll axen overthis Of othre thing how that it is. Mi Sone, as I thee schal enforme, Ther ben yet of an other forme Of dedly vices sevene applied, Wherof the herte is ofte plied To thing which after schal him grieve. The ferste of hem thou schalt believe 580 Is Pride, which is principal, And hath with him in special Ministres five ful diverse, Of whiche, as I the schal reherse, The ferste is seid Ypocrisie. If thou art of his compaignie, Tell forth, my Sone, and schrif the clene. I wot noght, fader, what ye mene: Bot this I wolde you beseche, That ye me be som weie teche 590 What is to ben an ypocrite; And thanne if I be forto wyte, I wol beknowen, as it is. Mi Sone, an ypocrite is this,— A man which feigneth conscience, As thogh it were al innocence, Withoute, and is noght so withinne; And doth so for he wolde winne Of his desir the vein astat. And whanne he comth anon therat, 600 He scheweth thanne what he was, The corn is torned into gras, That was a Rose is thanne a thorn, And he that was a Lomb beforn Is thanne a Wolf, and thus malice Under the colour of justice Is hid; and as the poeple telleth, These ordres witen where he duelleth, As he that of here conseil is, And thilke world which thei er this 610 Forsoken, he drawth in ayein: He clotheth richesse, as men sein, Under the simplesce of poverte, And doth to seme of gret decerte Thing which is litel worth withinne: He seith in open, fy! to Sinne, And in secre ther is no vice Of which that he nis a Norrice: And evere his chiere is sobre and softe, And where he goth he blesseth ofte, 620 Wherof the blinde world he dreccheth. Bot yet al only he ne streccheth His reule upon religioun, Bot next to that condicioun In suche as clepe hem holy cherche It scheweth ek how he can werche Among tho wyde furred hodes, To geten hem the worldes goodes. And thei hemself ben thilke same That setten most the world in blame, 630 Bot yet in contraire of her lore Ther is nothing thei loven more; So that semende of liht thei werke The dedes whiche are inward derke. And thus this double Ypocrisie With his devolte apparantie A viser set upon his face, Wherof toward this worldes grace He semeth to be riht wel thewed, And yit his herte is al beschrewed. 640