When that Aprilis, with his showers swoot, *sweet The drought of March hath pierced to the root, And bathed every vein in such licour, Of which virtue engender'd is the flower; When Zephyrus eke with his swoote breath Inspired hath in every holt and heath The tender croppes and the younge sun Hath in the Ram his halfe course y-run, And smalle fowles make melody, That sleepen all the night with open eye, So pricketh them nature in their corages; Then longe folk to go on pilgrimages, And palmers for to seeke strange strands, To ferne hallows couth in sundry lands; And specially, from every shire's end Of Engleland, to Canterbury they wend, The holy blissful Martyr for to seek, That them hath holpen, when that they were sick.