WHAN that Aprille with his shoures soote
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour
Of which vertu 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 eye,
— So priketh hem Nature in hir corages,
— Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,
And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes,
To feme 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.

Bifil that in that seson on a day,
In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay,
Redy to wenden on my pilgrymage
To Caunterbury with ful devout corage,
At nyght were come into that hostelrye
Wei nyne-and-twenty in a compaignye,
Of sondry folk, by aventure y-falle
In falaweshipe, and pilgrimes were they alle,
That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde.

From: G. Beaumont, A  book of English Poetry,  Jack, London 1915.

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