Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote 
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 swete breeth 
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth 
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne 
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne; 
And smale foweles maken melodye, 
That slepen al the nyght with open eye,
(So priketh hem nature in hir corages); . . . 
Bifil 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 were come into that hostelrye 
Wel nyne-and-twenty in a compaignye 
Of sondry folk, by aventure y-falle 
In felaweshipe, and pilgrimmes were they alle, 
That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde . . . . 
And shortly, whan the sonne was to reste, 
So hadde I spoken with hem everychon, 
That I was of hir felaweshipe anon, . . . . 
But . . . 
Er that I ferther in this tale pace, 
Me thynketh it accordaunt to resoun 
To telle yow al the condicioun 
Of ech of hem, . . . .
And at a knyght than wol I first bigynne.