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 It was nature, not art, that made man:
 * 'Tis the tailor the exquisite made;

For you'd be an ourang-outang,
 * Were it not for the art of that trade.

Hog's bristles bedizen that face,
 * You would frighten Old Nick with those eyes;

In your nose the brown sausage we trace,
 * And there's a sweet mouth for mince pies!

Though a female of spirit, I am not inclined To go after the Devil, a husband to find,