WHAN that Aprille with his shoures soote
The shyne hath washen off of eyther boote,
And maken of my hat a sory wrekke,
While smalen droppes sliden down my nekke,
I walk the straet with right a mery chere,
Nor greve at skies of swiche a dull manere,
By-cause in yelow slicker fetisly
Biseyde me walketh yonge Cicely!

I look into hir eyen greye as glas,
And bump ageyn the sondry folk that pas;
I seigh hir mouth ful smale and softe and reed,
And al my brains are ginglen in my heed!
Al-thogh the harder droppes now biginne,
And to my skin, I trow, have soken inne,
Me thinketh nowher wolde I sooner be,
Than goon benythe the rain with Cicely!