prologue

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;

Whan Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth

Inspired hath in every holt and heeth

The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne

Hath in the Ram his halfe cours yronne,

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.