I was a great king's daughter and a queen in bygone times;
My story's told in one of Mother Goose's little rhymes.
My garden grew, blood-watered, and by pretty maids well-fed,
With bells and shells along the way, the tortured soon lay dead.
My mother was a queen who, supplanted, lost her place.
My marriage was political; no love showed in his face;
He roamed far distant from my side to avoid my many flaws.
But unlike certain other queens, I died from natural cause.
Littler sister then was queen; the world knew of her fame.
Knowing of my story, can you now pronounce my name?