XLIV.

I love the language, that soft bastard Latin,[215] Which melts like kisses from a female mouth, And sounds as if it should be writ on satin,[216] With syllables which breathe of the sweet South, And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in, That not a single accent seems uncouth, Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural, Which we're obliged to hiss, and spit, and sputter all.