Why yes; a man indeed had furnished us With more occasions to be useful to him. God knows how readily we should have seized them. But then he would have nothing—wanted nothing— Was in himself wrapped up, and self-sufficient, As angels are. RECHA. And when at last he vanished— NATHAN. Vanished? How vanished? Underneath the palms Escaped your view, and has returned no more. Or have you really sought for him elsewhere? DAYA. No, that indeed we’ve not. NATHAN. Not, Daya, not? See it does harm, hard-hearted, cold enthusiasts, What if this angel on a bed of illness— RECHA. Illness? DAYA. Ill! sure he is not. RECHA. A cold shudder Creeps over me; O Daya, feel my forehead, It was so warm, ’tis now as chill as ice. NATHAN. He is a Frank, unused to this hot climate, Is young, and to the labours of his calling, To fasting, watching, quite unused— RECHA. Ill—ill! DAYA. Thy father only means ’twere possible. NATHAN. And there he lies, without a friend, or money To buy him friends— RECHA. Alas! my father. NATHAN. Lies Without advice, attendance, converse, pity, The prey of agony, of death— RECHA. Where—where? NATHAN. He, who, for one he never knew, or saw— It is enough for him he is a man— Plunged into fire. DAYA. O Nathan, Nathan, spare her. NATHAN. Who cared not to know aught of her he saved, Declined her presence to escape her thanks— DAYA. Do, spare her! NATHAN. Did not wish to see her more Unless it were a second time to save her— Enough for him he is a man— DAYA. Stop, look! NATHAN. He—he, in death, has nothing to console him, But the remembrance of this deed. DAYA. You kill her! NATHAN. And you kill him—or might have done at least— Recha ’tis medicine I give, not poison. He lives—come to thyself—may not be ill— Not even ill— RECHA. Surely not dead, not dead. NATHAN.