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Whan that April with his shoures soote The droughte of March hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
When Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tender new leaves, and the young sun Has run half its course in Aries
Those that sleep all night with eyes open So nature incites them in their hearts
Then folk long to go on pilgrimages, And professional pilgrims to seek foreign lands
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