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 Substantial services in just requital. Now to an angel what great services Have ye the power to do? To sing his praise— Melt in transporting contemplation o’er him— Fast on his holiday—and squander alms— What nothingness of use! To me at least It seems your neighbour gains much more than he By all this pious glow. Not by your fasting Is he made fat; not by your squandering, rich; Nor by your transports is his glory exalted; Nor by your faith his might. But to a man— DAYA.