So deep in grain he dyed his coloúrs. Right as a serpent hides him under flow’rs, Till he may see his timë for to bite, Right so this god of lovë’s hypocrite Did so his ceremonies and obeisánces, And kept in semblance all his óbservánces, That sounden unto 3170 gentleness of love. As on a tomb is all the fair above, And under is the corpse, which that ye wot, Such was this hypocrite, both cold and hot; And in this wise he served his intent, That, save the fiend, none wistë what he meant: Till he so long had weeped and complain’d, And many a year his service to me feign’d, Till that mine heart, too piteous and too nice, 3171 All innocent of his crowned malíce, Forfeared of his death, 3172 as thoughtë me, Upon his oathës and his surëtý Granted him love, on this conditioún,