Here beginneth the Book of the Tales of Canterbury

Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote,

The drohte of March hath perced to the roote_,

And bathed every veyne in swich_ licour

Of which vertu in engendred is the flour;

Whan Zephirus eek with his swete_ breeth

Inspired hath in every Holt and heeth

The tendre_ croppes, and the young sonne

Hath in the Ram his half cours y-ronne,

And small foweles maken melodye,

That slepen al the night with open ye,

So priketh hem Nature in hir corages,

Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,

And palmeres for to seken strange 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 them hath holpen whan that they were seeke!