WHAN that Aprille with his shoures soteThe droghte of Marche hath perced to the rote,And bathed every veyne in swich licour,Of which vertu engendred is the flour;Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth5Inspired hath in every holt and heethThe tendre croppes, and the yonge sonneHath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne,And smale fowles maken melodye,That slepen al the night with open ye,10(So priketh hem nature in hir corages):Than longen folk to goon on pilgrimages(And palmers for to seken straunge strondes)To ferne halwes, couthe in sondry londes;And specially, from every shires ende15Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende,The holy blisful martir for to seke,That hem hath holpen, whan that they were seke.Bifel that,