The Prologue
Here beginneth the book of the Tales of Canterbury.
WHEN April with his sweet showers hath pierced to the root the drought of March and bathed every vine in liquid the virtue of which maketh the flowers to start, when eke Zephirus with his sweet breath hath quickened the tender shoots in every heath and holt, and the young sun hath sped his half course in the Ram, and the little birds make their melodies and all the night sleep with open eye, so nature pricketh them in their hearts, then folk long to go on pilgrimages—and palmers to seek strange shores—to the far shrines of saints known in sundry lands; and especially from every shire's end of England they journey to Canterbury to visit the holy blessed Martyr, that hath helped them when they were sick.
It befell on a day in that season, as I rested at the Tabard in Southwark, ready to wend on my pilgrimage to Canterbury, with heart full devout, that at night there was come into that hostel a company of sundry folk, full nine and twenty, by chance fallen in fellowship, and all were pilgrims that would ride toward Canterbury. The chambers and stables were spacious, and fairly were we entertained; and in brief, when the sun was at rest, I had so spoken with every one of them that anon I was of their fellowship, and made agreement to rise early and take our way whither I told you.
Natheless, while I have time and space, ere I pass farther in this tale, methinketh it reasonable to tell you all the character
