WHEN that Aprilis, with his showers swoot,
The drought of March hath pierced to the root,
And bathed every vein in such licour,
Of which virtue engender'd is the flower;
When Zephyrus eke with his swoote breath
Inspired hath in every holt and heath
The tender croppes and the younge sun
Hath in the Ram his halfe course y-run,
And smalle fowles make melody,
That sleepen all the night with open eye,
(So pricketh them nature in their corages);
Then longe folk to go on pilgrimages,
And palms for to seeke in strange strands,
And potted ferns couth in sundry lands;
And specially, from every shire's end
Of Engleland, to B&Q they wend,
The holy blissful Alan Titchmarsh for to seek,
That them hath holpen, when that their gardens were sick.