When that Aprille with his schowres swoote The drought of March hath perced to the roote, And bathud every veyne in swich licour, Of which vertue engendred is the flour; Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth Enspirud hath in every holte and heeth The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne Hath in the Ram his halfe cours i-ronne, And smale fowles maken melodie, That slepen all the night with open yhe, So priketh hem nature in here corages: Thanne longen folk to gon on pilgrimages.