(A medieval Spanish legend slanderously setting forth the utter unreason of woman.) ROMAQUIA sat and wept her Lace mantilla full of tears. King Abit laid by his scepter, Left the Council of the Peers. 'Now what sorrow makes thee cry, mate? Queen of Seville, sobbing so?' ''Tis your Andalusian climate. Oh, I want to see the snow.' 'Speak thy wish and it is granted; Thine to bid and mine to please.' All the hills and plains he planted With a myriad almond trees. When the suns of February Made them white with blossoming, Romaquia was so merry That she kissed the happy king. 'Every ill has its panacea,' Wrote the learned King Abit, Smiling on his Romaquia, While he wondered at his wit. Romaquia sat and wept her Dainty fan into a dud. King Abit threw by his scepter With an unmajestic thud. 'What's the trouble, top of treasures?' 'See those women by the flood Kneading bricks, but I've no pleasures. I can't dabble in the mud.' Loud he called his master mason And in bower of eglantine Built a jade and jasper basin, Filled with rose-water and wine. Then for mud he poured in spices, Ginger, mace and cinnamon, Sugar, honey, syrups, ices, That the Queen might have her fun. 'Every ill has its panacea,' Wrote the learned King Abit Wondering if his Romaquia Recognized her husband's wit. Romaquia in her garden Watered all the trees with salt Till they faded, and the warden Was beheaded for the fault Of his lachrymose sultana. Oleander, citron, balm, Orange, lemon and banana, The pomegranate, myrtle, palm, All were drooping for distresses That the Queen poured out in tears, Pouting at the King's caresses Till he longed to box her ears. 'Let me be!'she snapped.''You squeeze me, Clumsy thing! You never try In the very least to please me, So of course I have to cry.' 'Every ill has its panacea,' Wrote the rueful King Abit, 'Every ill but Romaquia. Wives'caprices wear out wit.'