Spots in the Sun

My father confessor is strict and holy,

Mi Fili, still he cries, peccare noli.

And yet how oft I find the pious man

At Annette's door, the lovely courtesan!

Her soul's deformity the good man wins

And not her charms! he comes to hear her sins!

Good father! I would fain not do thee wrong;

But ah! I fear that they who oft and long

Stand gazing at the sun, to count each spot,

Must sometimes find the sun itself too hot.