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.