text:  In Chaucer it runs thus:-- "Whanne that April with his shoures sote The droughte of March hath perced to the rote And bathed every veine in swiche licour Of whiche vertue engendered is the flour; When Zephyrus eke with his sote brethe Enspired hath in every holt and hethe The tendre croppes and the yonge sonne Hath in the Ram his halfe cours yronne And smale foules maken melodie That slepen alle night with open eye So priketh hem nature in hire corages; Than longen folk to gon on pilgrimages And palmeres for to seken strange strondes To serve halwes couthe in sondry londes " &c