Classic Poem

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.