Here begins the Book of the Tales of Canterbury When April with his showers sweet with fruit
The drought of March has pierced unto the root And bathed each vein with liquor that has power
To generate therein and sire the flower; When Zephyr also has, with his sweet breath, Quickened again, in every holt and heath, The tender shoots and buds, and the young sun Into the Ram one half his course has run, And many little birds make melody That sleep through all the night with open eye (So Nature pricks them on to ramp and rage)- Then do folk long to go on pilgrimage,
And palmers to go seeking out strange strands,To distant shrines well known in sundry lands.
And specially from every shire's end Of England they to Canterbury wend,The holy blessed martyr there to seek Who helped them when they lay so ill and weal Befell that, in that season, on a day
In Southwark, at the Tabard, as I lay Ready to start upon my pilgrimage To Canterbury, full of devout homage,There came at nightfall to that hostelry Some nine and twenty in a company Of sundry persons who had chanced to fall In fellowship, and pilgrims were they all That toward Canterbury town would ride.The rooms and stables spacious were and wide,And well we there were eased, and of the best.And briefly, when the sun had gone to rest,So had I spoken with them, every one,
That I was of their fellowship anon,And made agreement that we'd early rise To take the road, as you I will apprise.