Prologue to the Canterbury Tales 

    Whan the Aprill with his shoures shoot

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 heeth 

The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne

Hath in the Ram his half cours yronne,

And smale foweles maken melodye,

That slepen al the nyght with open ye

(So Priketh hem Nature in hir corages),

Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,

And palmers for to seken straunge strondes,

To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;

And specially from every shires ende

Of Engelond to Canterbury they wende,

The hooly blisful martir for to seke,

That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke.

   Bilfil that in that seson on a day,

In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay

Redy to wenden on my pilgrymage

To Caunterbury with ful devout corage,

At nyght was come into that hostelrye

Wel nyne and twenty in a compaignye

Of sondry folk, by aventure yfalle

In felaweshipe, and pilgrimes were they alle,

That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde.

The chambers and the stables weren wyde,

And wel we weren esed atte beste.

And shortly, whan the sonne was to reste,

So hadde I spoken with hem everichon

That I was of hir felawshipe anon,

And made forward erly for to ryse,

     As soon as April pierces to the root

The drought of March, and bathes each bud and shoot

Through every vein of sap with gentle showers

From whose engendering liquor spring the flowers;

When zepphyrs have breathed sofly all about

Inspiring every wood and field to sprout,

And in the zodiac the youthful sun

His journey halfway through the Ram has run;

When little birds are busy with their song

Who sleep with open eyes the whole night long

Life stirs their hearts and tingles in them so,

The people long on a pilgrimage to go,

And palmers to set out for distant strands

And foreign shrines renowned in sundry lands.

And specially in England people ride

To Cantebury from every countryside

To visit there the blessed martyred saint

Who gave them strength when they were sick and faint.

In Southwark at the Tabard one spring day

It happended, as I stopped there on my way,

Myself a pilgrim with a heart devout

Ready for Cantebury to set out,

At night came all of twenty-nine assorted

Travelers, and to the same inn resorted,

Who by a turn of fortune chanced to fall

In fellowship together, and they were all

Pilgrims who met towards Canterbury to ride.

The rooms and stables were all kept and wide

And we were all well provided with the best,

And shortly, when the sun had gone to rest,

I had so talked to each that presently

I was a member of their company

And promised to rise early the next day

To start, as I shall show, upon

 our way.