"Oh, but the heavenly grammar did I hold Of that high speech which angels' tongues turn gold! So should her deathless beauty take no wrong, Praised in her own great kindred's fit and cognate tongue, Or if that language yet with us abode Which Adam in the garden talked with God! But our untempered speech descends—poor heirs! Grimy and rough-cast still from Babel's brick layers: Curse on the brutish jargon we inherit, Strong but to damn, not memorise, a spirit! A cheek, a lip, a limb, a bosom, they Move with light ease in speech of working-day; And women we do use to praise even so."