Tell me now in what hidden way is Lady Flora the lovely Roman? Where’s Hipparchia, and where is Thais, Neither of them the fairer woman? Where is Echo, beheld of no man, Only heard on river and mere,-- She whose beauty was more than human?... But where are the snows of yester-year? Where’s Héloïse, the learned nun, For whose sake Abeillard, I ween, Lost manhood and put priesthood on? (From Love he won such dule and teen!) And where, I pray you, is the Queen Who willed that Buridan should steer Sewed in a sack’s mouth down the Seine?... But where are the snows of yester-year? White Queen Blanche, like a queen of lilies, With a voice like any mermaiden,-- Bertha Broad-foot, Beatrice, Alice, And Ermengarde the lady of Maine,-- And that good Joan whom Englishmen At Rouen doomed and burned her there,-- Mother of God, where are they then?... But where are the snows of yester-year? _Envoi:_ Nay, never ask this week, fair lord, Where they are gone, nor yet this year, Except with this for an overword,-- But where are the snows of yester-year? _A BALLADE OF OLD TIME LADIES_ _Translated by John Payne_ Tell me, where, in what land of shade, Hides fair Flora of Rome? and where Are Thaìs and Archipiade, Cousins-german in beauty rare? And Echo, more than mortal fair, That when one calls by river flow, Or marish, answers out of the air? But what has become of last year’s snow? Where did the learn’d Héloïsa vade, For whose sake Abelard did not spare (Such dole for love on him was laid) Manhood to lose and a cowl to wear? And where is the queen who will’d whilere That Buridan, tied in a sack, should go Floating down Seine from the turret-stair? But what has become of last year’s snow? Blanche, too, the lily-white queen, that made Sweet music as if she a siren were? Broad-foot Bertha? and Joan, the maid, The good Lorrainer the English bare Captive to Rouen, and burn’d her there? Beatrix, Eremburge, Alys--lo! Where are they, virgins debonair? But what has become of last year’s snow? _Envoi_: Prince, you may question how they fare, This week, or liefer this year, I trow: Still shall the answer this burden bear-- But what has become of last year’s snow? _BALLAD OF THE WOMEN OF PARIS_ Albeit the Venice girls get praise For their sweet speech and tender air, And though the old women have wise ways Of chaffering for amorous ware, Yet at my peril dare I swear, Search Rome, where God’s grace mainly tarries, Florence and Savoy, everywhere, There’s no good girl’s lip out of Paris.