Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote
The droht of March hath perced to the roote
And bathed everye veyne in swich licour
Of which engend'red is the flour,
And Zephyrus eke with his sweete brethe
inspired hath in ev'ry holt and hethe
The tendre croppes. And the sonne hath in the Ram
his half-course y-runne...