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; . . . . And smale fowles maken melodye, That slepen all the night with open ye (So priketh hem nature in hir corages); Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages, .... Geoffrey Chaucer