Oh tell me where, in lands or seas,

Flora, that Roman belle, has strayed,

Thais, or Archipiades,

Who put each other in the shade,

Or Echo, who by bank and glade

Gave back the crying of the hound,

And whose sheer beauty could not fade.

Where too is learned Heloise,

For whom shorn Abelard was made

A tonsured monk upon his knees?

Such tribute his devotion paid.

And where’s that queen who, having played

With Buridan, had him bagged and bound

To swim the Seine thus ill-arrayed?

Queen Blanche the fair, whose voice could please

As does the siren’s serenade, Big Bertha, Beatrice, Alice—these,

And Arembourg whom Maine obeyed,

And Joan whom Burgundy betrayed,

And England burned, and Heaven crowned:

Where are they, Mary, Sovereign Maid?

Not next week, Prince, nor next decade,

Ask me these questions I propound.

I shall but say again, dismayed,