Whan that Aprille with his shoures sote The droghte of Marche hath perced to the rote, 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 fowles maken melodye, That slepen al the night with open ye, (So priketh him nature in hir corages): Than longen folke to goon on pilgrimages.
(from “The Prologue,” page 2)
Thou mightest wene that this Palamoun In his fighting were a wood leoun, And as a cruel tygre was Arcite: As wilde bores gonne they to smyte, That frothen whyte as foom for ire wood. Up to the ancle foghte they in hir blood.
(from “The Knightes Tale,” page 88)
“Thou shalt na-more, thurgh thy flaterye, Do me to singe and winke with myn ye. For he that winketh, whan he sholde see, Al wilfully, god lat him never thee!”
(from “The Nonne Preestes Tale,” page 570)