Story 

        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.'