Canterbury Tales, Prologue. Not the whole thing.

Whan that Aprill 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;
Whan Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his half cours yronne,
And smale foweles maken melodye,
That slepen al the nyght with open ye
(So priketh hem Nature in hir corages)
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,
And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes,
To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;
And specially from every shires ende
Of Engelond to Caunterbury they wende,
The hooly blisful martir for to seke,
That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke.

Geoffrey Chaucer

When that April with its showers sweet
The drought of March has pierced to the root,
And bathed every vein in such liquor
By which virtue is engendered the flower;
When Zephyrus also with his sweet breath,
Has inspired in every holt and heath,
The tender crops, and the young sun
Has in the Ram, his half course run,
And small fowls make melody,
That sleep all the night with open eye
(So Nature pricks them in their hearts),
Then long folk to go on pilgrimages,
And palmers for to seek strange strands,
To distant shrines, known in sundry lands;
And specially from every shire's end
Of England to Canterbury they wend,
The holy blissful martyr for to seek,
Who has helped them when that they were sick.

My modernization