Whan
that Aprille with his shoures soote,
The
droghte of March hath perced to the
roote,
And
bathed every veyne in swich licóur
Of
which vertú engendred is the flour;
Whan
Zephirus eek with his swete breeth
Inspired
hath in every holt and heeth
The
tendre croppes,
and the yonge sonne
Hath
in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne,
And
smale foweles
maken melodye,
That
slepen al the nyght with open ye,
So
priketh hem Natúre in hir corages,
Thanne
longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,
And
palmeres for to seken straunge
strondes,
To
ferne halwes,
kowthe in sondry londes;
And
specially, from every shires ende
Of
Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende,
The
hooly blisful martir for to seke,
That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke.