The Canterbury Tales

When that Aprilis, with his showers swoot, The drought of March hath pierced to the root, And bathed every vein in such licóur, Of which virtúe engender’d is the flower; When Zephyrus eke with his swootë breath Inspired hath in every holt and heath The tender croppës, and the youngë sun Hath in the Ram his halfë course y-run, And smallë fowlës makë melody, That sleepen all the night with open eye, (So pricketh them natúre in their coráges); Then longë folk to go on pilgrimages, And palmers for to seekë strangë strands, To fernë hallows couth in sundry lands; And specially, from every shirë’s end Of Engleland, to Canterbury they wend, The holy blissful Martyr for to seek, That them hath holpen, when that they were sick.

Befell that, in that season on a day, In Southwark at the Tabard as I lay, Ready to wenden on my pilgrimage To Canterbury with devout coráge, At night was come into that hostelry Well nine and twenty in a company Of sundry folk, by áventure y-fall In fellowship, and pilgrims were they all, That toward Canterbury wouldë ride. The chamber, and the stables werë wide, And well we weren eased at the best. And shortly, when the sunnë was to rest, So had I spoken with them every one, That I was of their fellowship anon, And madë forword early for to rise, To take our way there as I you devise.