And hate her hate,—death, hell is no such price
To pay for these,—lovers and haters hold."
But there 's another parry for the thrust.
"Confession," cry folks—"a confession, think!
Confession of the moribund is true!"
Which of them, my wise friends? This public one,
Or the private other we shall never know?
The private may contain—your casuists teach—
The acknowledgment of, and the penitence for,
That other public one, so people say.