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,