PROLOGUE - from THE CANTERBURY TALES
Geoffrey Chaucer (1340? - 1400)
Original	Modern
Whan that Aprille with his shoures sote The droghte of Marche hath pereed to the rote, And bathed every veyne in swich licour Of which vertu engendred is the flour; Whan Zephirus eck with his swete breeth Inspired hath in every holt and heeth Ale tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne, And smale fowles maken melodye That slepen al the night with open ye (So priketh hem nature in hir corages): Than longen folk to goon on pilgrimages, And palmers for to seken straunge strondes, To ferne halwes couthe in sondry londes; And specially, from every shires ende Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende The holy blisful martir for to seke That hem hath holpen, whan that they were seke.	When the sweet showers of April follow March, Piercing the dryness to the roots that parch, Bathing each vein in such a flow of power That a new strength's engendered in the flower- When. with a gentle warmth, the west-wind's breath Awakes in every wood and barren heath The tender foliage, when the vernal sun Has half his course within the Ram to run- When the small birds are making melodies, Sleeping all night (they say) with open eyes (For Nature so within their bosom rages)- Then people long to go on pilgrimages, And palmers wander to the strangest strands For famous shrines, however far the lands. Especially from every shire's end Of England's length to Canterbury they wend, Seeking the martyr, holiest and blest Who helped them, healed their ills, and gave them rest