Well! How can I help it? Quick, then--what's your wish?
Patience! nor pass with such contempt and pride One who must be your debtor evermore.
How so? I almost guess. No; are you then----
My name is Nathan, father to the maid Your generous courage rescued from the flames. I come to----
If you come to render thanks, Spare them. I have already been compelled To bear too many thanks for this small act. Besides, you owe me nothing. Could I know The maiden was your daughter? I was bound-- It is a Templar's duty--to assist All who need succour; and my life just then Was a mere burden. It was a relief To risk it for another, even though The task were to preserve a Jewess' life.
Great--great yet horrible--I understand The turn. The modest greatness will assume The hideous mask to ward off gratitude. But though he may disdain our proffer'd thanks, Is there no other tribute we can pay? Sir Knight! if you were not a stranger here, And not a pris'ner, I were not so bold. But, come, what service can I render you?
The richer Jew Was ne'er in my esteem the better Jew.
Is that a reason why you should not use The better part of him--his wealth?
Well, well, I'll not refuse it wholly, for the sake Of my poor mantle; when it is well worn, And spite of darning will not hold together, I'll come and borrow cloth or gold of you, To make a new one. Nay, Sir, do not start; The danger is not pressing--'tis not yet Quite worthless; it is sound, and strong, and good. Save in one corner, where an ugly spot Is singed, and that is from a burn it got When I bore off your daughter from the fire.
'Tis strange, indeed, that such a spot as this Should bear far better witness to the man Than his own lips. This spot! Oh, I could kiss it. Your pardon, Sir, in truth, I meant it not!
Well, 'tis no matter. 'Tis not the first. (This Jew doth puzzle me.)
Would you but send this mantle to my daughter!
That she, too, may press it to her lips; For at her benefactor's feet to fall She now may hope in vain.
But, Jew, your name? Tis Nathan, is it not? You choose your words With skill--I am confused. I did not think
Feign, Templar, and dissemble as you may, I see the truth. I see your generous heart, Too honest and too good to be polite. A grateful girl, all feeling, and her maid Swift to obey--a father far from home, You valued her fair fame, and would not see her. You scorned to tempt lest you should victor prove. For this too I must tender you my thanks.