When April with his showers sweet with fruitThe drought of March has pierced unto the rootAnd bathed each vein with liquor that has powerTo generate therein and sire the flowerWhen Zephyr also has, with his sweet breath.Quickened again, in every holt and heath.The tender shoots and buds, and the young sun Into the Ram one half his course has run.And many little birds make melodyThat sleep through all the night with open eye (So Nature pricks them on to ramp and rage)- Then do folk long to go on pilgrimage.