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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.