How, in this phase of the affair, show truth?
Here is the dying wife who smiles and says,
"So it was,—so it was not,—how it was,
I never knew nor ever care to know—"
Till they all weep, physician, man of law,
Even that poor old bit of battered brass
Beaten out of all shape by the world's sins,
Common utensil of the lazar-house—
Confessor Celestino groans, "'T is truth,
All truth and only truth: there 's something here,