Whan that Aprille....

with his shoures soote

The droghte of Marche 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 

Quince blossoms blown away by Zephyr

Inspired hath in every holt and heeth

Tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne 

Hath in the ram his halve cours yronne, 

And smale foweles maken melodye,

Smale fowle too wet and windswept to make melodye

That slepen al the nyght with open ye 
 (so priketh hem nature in hir corages);
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages, 

I'm not actually longing to go on a pilgrimage. I'm not even keen to go outside to get a bay leaf for the fish stew I'm planning for supper. I think 'shoures soote' and the 'sweete breeth' of Zephirus are something of an understatement Mr Chaucer.

For a translation of Chaucer's Prologue to The Canterbury Tales look here.