Prologe

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.