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,