Lovers of dead truth, did ye fare the worse?
Lovers of live truth, found ye false my tale?
Well, now; there 's nothing in nor out o' the world
Good except truth: yet this, the something else,
What 's this then, which proves good yet seems untrue?
This that I mixed with truth, motions of mine
That quickened, made the inertness malleolable
O' the gold was not mine,—what 's your name for this?
Are means to the end, themselves in part the end?
Is fiction which makes fact alive, fact too?