Whan that February, with his shoures soote
The droghte of January hath perced to the roote
And bathed every veyne in swich licour,
Of which vertu engendered is the flour;
And smale foweles maken melodye
That slepen al the nyght with open ye
(So priketh hem Nature 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 Canterbury they wende,
(or not)
The hooly blisful martir for to seke
That hem hath holpen, when that they were seeke.
