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.’
