what strange air The Roman Flora dwells to-day. Where Archippiada hides, and where Beautiful Thais has passed away? Whence answers Echo, afield, astray, By mere or stream,—around, below? Lovelier she than a woman of clay; Nay, but where is the last year's snow? Where is wise Héloïse, that care Brought on Abeilard, and dismay? All for her love he found a snare, A maimed poor monk in orders grey; And where's the Queen who willed to slay Buridan, that in a sack must go Afloat down Seine,—a perilous way— Nay, but where is the last year's snow? Where's that White Queen, a lily rare, With her sweet song, the Siren's lay? Where's Bertha Broad-foot, Beatrice fair? Alys and Ermengarde, where are they? Good Joan, whom English did betray In Rouen town, and burned her? No, Maiden and Queen, no man may say; Nay, but where is the last year's snow? ENVOY. Prince, all this week thou need'st not pray, Nor yet this year the thing to know. One burden answers, ever and aye, "Nay, but where is the last year's snow?" AFTER VILLON. ENVOY VILLON'S BALLADE. GOOD COUNSEL, TO HIS FRIENDS OF EVIL LIFE. Nay be you pardoner or cheat, Or cogger keen, or mumper shy, You 'll burn your fingers at the feat, And howl like other folks that fry. All evil folks that love a lie! And where goes gain that greed amasses, By wile, and guile, and thievery? 'T is all to taverns and to lasses! Rhyme, rail, dance, play the cymbals sweet, With game, and shame, and jollity, Go jigging through the field and street, With mysfry and morality; Win gold at gleek,—and that will fly, Where all you gain at passage passes, And that's? You know as well as I, 'T is all to taverns and to lasses! Nay, forth from all such filth retreat, Go delve and ditch, in wet or dry, Turn groom, give horse and mule their meat, If you've no clerkly skill to ply; You 'll gain enough, with husbandry, But—sow hempseed and such wild grasses, And where goes all you take thereby?— 'T is all to taverns and to lasses! ENVOY. Your clothes, your hose, your broidery, Your linen that the snow surpasses, Or ere they 're worn, off, off they fly, 'T is all to taverns and to lasses! GOOD COUNSEL, TO HIS FRIENDS OF EVIL LIFE ENVOY BALLADE AMOUREUSE. AFTER FROISSART. Not Jason nor Medea wise, I crave to see, nor win much lore, Nor list to Orpheus' minstrelsies; Nor Her'cles would I see, that o'er The wide world roamed from shore to shore; Nor, by St. James, Penelope,— Nor pure Lucrece, such wrong that bore: To see my Love suffices me!
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