Where reeking London's smoky cauldron simmers.
I love the language, that soft bastard Latin
Which melts like kisses from a female mouth,
And sounds as if it should be writ on satin,
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 were obliged to hiss, and spit and sputter all.
I like the women too (forgive my folly!),