This week I'm showing off a Queen Anne tea cup and saucer. It was super sunny, when I did the pictures, so anything resembling a chip, is just the sun gleaming off the china.
Yellow is one of my favorite colors. It's so cheerful and it really makes me happy.
I like the grayish-green of the other flowers, too. The gold trim is in excellent condition on the cup and the saucer.
The bottom is marked Queen Anne, with the number C 57 9, made in England.
I had some yellow flowers that I thought would look nice in the tea cup.
Here is a poem from one of my favorite poets, Alexander Pope.
Epistle to Miss Blount, On Her Leaving the Town, After the Coronation
As some fond virgin, whom her
mother’s care
Drags from the town to
wholesome country air,
Just when she learns to roll a
melting eye,
And hear a spark, yet think no
danger nigh;
From the dear man unwillingly
she must sever,
Yet takes one kiss before she
parts for ever:
Thus from the world fair
Zephalinda flew,
Saw others happy, and with
sighs withdrew;
Not that their pleasures
caused her discontent,
She sighed not that They
stayed, but that She went.
She went, to plain-work,
and to purling brooks,
Old-fashioned halls, dull
aunts, and croaking rooks,
She went from Opera, park,
assembly, play,
To morning walks, and prayers
three hours a day;
To pass her time ‘twixt
reading and Bohea,
To muse, and spill her
solitary tea,
Or o’er cold coffee trifle
with the spoon,
Count the slow clock, and dine
exact at noon;
Divert her eyes with pictures
in the fire,
Hum half a tune, tell stories
to the squire;
Up to her godly garret after
seven,
There starve and pray, for
that’s the way to heaven.
Some Squire, perhaps, you
take a delight to rack;
Whose game is Whisk, whose
treat a toast in sack,
Who visits with a gun,
presents you birds,
Then gives a smacking buss,
and cries – No words!
Or with his hound comes
hollowing from the stable,
Makes love with nods, and
knees beneath a table;
Whose laughs are hearty, tho’
his jests are coarse,
And loves you best of all
things – but his horse.
In some fair evening, on
your elbow laid,
Your dream of triumphs in the
rural shade;
In pensive thought recall the
fancied scene,
See Coronations rise on every
green;
Before you pass th’ imaginary
sights
Of Lords, and Earls, and
Dukes, and gartered Knights;
While the spread fan
o’ershades your closing eyes;
Then give one flirt, and all
the vision flies.
Thus vanish scepters,
coronets, and balls,
And leave you in lone woods,
or empty walls.
So when your slave, at
some dear, idle time,
(Not plagued with headaches,
or the want of rhyme)
Stands in the streets,
abstracted from the crew,
And while he seems to study,
thinks of you:
Just when his fancy points
your sprightly eyes,
Or sees the blush of soft
Parthenia rise,
Gay pats my shoulder, and you
vanish quite;
Streets, chairs, and coxcombs
rush upon my sight;
Vexed to be still in town, I
knit my brow,
Look sour, and hum a tune – as
you may now.
Thank you for visiting today!
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