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.

First published in Morning Post, Oct. 11, 1802.

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When Surface talks of other people's worth He has the weakest memory on earth! And when his own good deeds he deigns to mention, His memory still is no whit better grown; But then he makes up for it, all will own, By a prodigious talent of invention.

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