Queen Anne puts on her meadow lace as summer dries beneath an august company of courtly clouds that flirt but will not rain. Dusty grow her hardened palace floors but the cream of her finery she keeps in perfect richness. So few these days feel the weight of her authority; so few believe in her divine right. Yet splendid she stands, regal and defiant against the mobbish change eating away her kingdom. No matter how strong the heat, how loud the complaints, blood like hers, truly blue, never boils.