““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 they Speak properly, and cry, Behold a man-child born!””
