A kind old man in Baghdad  
Gave his daughter to a cobbler.  
The cruel little man so bit her  
That blood flowed from the daughter’s lips.  
Next morning the father saw her thus  
And going to the bridegroom asked him:  
‘O mean wretch, what teeth are these?  
Chewest thou thus her lips? They are not leather.  
I do not say these words in jest,  
Leave joking off and enjoy her seriously.  
If ill humour becomes fixed in a nature  
It will not leave it till the time of death.’
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