Whan that Aprill 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 sweete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his half cours yronne,
That slepen al the nyght with open eye,
So prikety 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 fram every shires ende
Of 'Merica to Mayberry they wende,
The hooly blisful martir for to seke,
That hem hath holpen whan thath they were seeke.