Nathan the Wise; a dramatic poem in five acts

And is it not enough then for my Recha
To owe her preservation to a man,
Whom no small miracle preserved himself.
For whoe’er heard before that Saladin
Let go a templar; that a templar wished it,
Hoped it, or for his ransom offered more
Than taunts, his leathern sword-belt, or his dagger?

RECHA

That makes for me; these are so many reasons
He was no real knight, but only seemed it.
If in Jerusalem no captive templar,
Appears alive, or freely wanders round,
How could I find one, in the night, to save me?

NATHAN

Ingenious! dextrous!  Daya, come in aid.
It was from you I learnt he was a prisoner;
Doubtless you know still more about him, speak.

DAYA

’Tis but report indeed, but it is said
That Saladin bestowed upon this youth
His gracious pardon for the strong resemblance
He bore a favourite brother—dead, I think
These twenty years—his name, I know it not—
He fell, I don’t know where—and all the story
Sounds so incredible, that very likely
The whole is mere invention, talk, romance.

NATHAN

And why incredible?  Would you reject
This story, tho’ indeed, it’s often done,
To fix on something more incredible,
And give that faith?  Why should not Saladin,
Who loves so singularly all his kindred,
Have loved in early youth with warmer fondness
A brother now no more.  Do we not see
Faces alike, and is an old impression
Therefore a lost one?  Do resembling features
Not call up like emotions.  Where’s th’ incredible?
Surely, sage Daya, this can be to thee
No miracle, or do thy wonders only
Demand—I should have said deserve belief?

DAYA

You’re on the bite.

NATHAN

Were you quite fair with me?
Yet even so, my Recha, thy escape
Remains a wonder, only possible
To Him, who of the proud pursuits of princes
Makes sport—or if not sport—at least delights
To head and manage them by slender threads.

RECHA

If I do err, it is not wilfully,
My father.

NATHAN

No, you have been always docile.
See now, a forehead vaulted thus, or thus—
A nose bow’d one way rather than another—
Eye-brows with straiter, or with sharper curve—
A line, a mole, a wrinkle, a mere nothing
I’ th’ countenance of an European savage—
And thou—art saved, in Asia, from the fire.
Ask ye for signs and wonders after that?
What need of calling angels into play?

DAYA

But Nathan, where’s the harm, if I may speak,
Of fancying one’s self by an angel saved,
Rather than by a man?  Methinks it brings us
Just so much the nearer the incomprehensive
First cause of preservation.

NATHAN

Pride, rank pride!
The iron pot would with a silver prong
Be lifted from the furnace—to imagine
Itself a silver vase.  Paha!  Where’s the harm?
Thou askest.  Where’s the good?  I might reply.
For thy it brings us nearer to the Godhead
Is nonsense, Daya, if not blasphemy.
But it does harm: yes, yes, it does indeed.
Attend now.  To the being, who preserved you,
Be he an angel or a man, you both,
And thou especially wouldst gladly show