This wretched Inn, where we scarce stay to bait,We call our Dwelling-Place:We call one Step a Race:But angels in their full enlightened state,Angels, who Live, and know what ‘tis to Be,Who all the nonsense of our language see Who speak things, and our words, their ill-drawn pictures, scorn,When we, by a foolish figure, say,Behold an old man dead! then theySpeak properly, and cry, Behold a man-child born!
-Abraham Cowley
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