I love the language, that soft bastard latin,
Which melts like kisses from a female mouth,
And sounds as if it should be writ in 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 we’re obliges to hiss, and spit, and sputter all.

Byron 1818 in “Beppo”