When April with his showers sweet The drought of March has pierced to the root, And rain, like virtue Made those flowers grow; When West Wind with his sweet breath has Blown through every wood and heath The tender buds, and the young sun In Aries has his half-course run; And little birds make melody, That sleep all night with open eye—So pricks them Nature in their souls—Then folks yearn to go on pilgrimages.
(from “The General Prologue,” page 3)
You may be sure that this Palamon In his fighting was an enraged lion, And as a cruel tiger was Arcita; They proceeded to smite like wild boars That froth white with foam in wild anger. Up to the ankle fought they in their blood.
(from “The Knight’s Tale,” page 89)
“You shall no more, through your flattery, Cause me to sing and close my eyes. For he who blinks when he should look, All willfully, may God not give him luck!”
(from “The Nun’s Priest’s Tale,” page 571)