Gotthold Lessing - Nathan the Wise; a dramatic poem in five acts

I am no chap.

His nation honours him,
As if he were a prince, and yet to hear him
Called the wise Nathan by them, not the rich ,
Has often made me wonder.

To his nation
Are rich and wise perhaps of equal import.

But above all he should be called the good .
You can’t imagine how much goodness dwells
Within him. Since he has been told the service
You rendered to his Recha, there is nothing
That he would grudge you.

Aye?

Do—see him, try him.

A burst of feeling soon is at an end.

And do you think that I, were he less kind,
Less bountiful, had housed with him so long:
That I don’t feel my value as a Christian:
For ’twas not o’er my cradle said, or sung,
That I to Palestina should pursue
My husband’s steps, only to educate
A Jewess. My husband was a noble page
In Emperor Frederic’s army.

And by birth
A Switzer, who obtained the gracious honour
Of drowning in one river with his master.
Woman, how often you have told me this!
Will you ne’er leave off persecuting me?

My Jesus! persecute—

Aye, persecute.
Observe then, I henceforward will not see,
Not hear you, nor be minded of a deed
Over and over, which I did unthinking,
And which, when thought about, I wonder at.
I wish not to repent it; but, remember,
Should the like accident occur again,
’Twill be your fault if I proceed more coolly,
Ask a few questions, and let burn what’s burning.

My God forbid!

From this day forth, good woman,
Do me at least the favour not to know me:
I beg it of you; and don’t send the father.
A Jew’s a Jew, and I am rude and bearish.
The image of the maid is quite erased
Out of my soul—if it was ever there—

But yours remains with her.

Why so—what then—
Wherefore give harbour to it?—

Who knows wherefore?
Men are not always what they seem to be.

They’re seldom better than they seem to be.

Ben’t in this hurry.

Pray, forbear to make
These palm-trees odious. I have loved to walk here.

Farewell then, bear. Yet I must track the savage.

Wherefore so absent, brother? How you play!

Not well? I thought—

Yes; very well for me,
Take back that move.

Why?

Don’t you see the knight
Becomes exposed?

’Tis true: then so.

And so
I take the pawn.

That’s true again. Then, check!

That cannot help you. When my king is castled
All will be safe.

But out of my dilemma
’Tis not so easy to escape unhurt.
Well, you must have the knight.

I will not have him,
I pass him by.

In that, there’s no forbearance:
The place is better than the piece.

Maybe.

Beware you reckon not without your host:
This stroke you did not think of.

No, indeed;
I did not think you tired of your queen.

My queen?

Well, well! I find that I to-day
Shall earn a thousand dinars to an asper.

How so, my sister?

Play the ignorant—
As if it were not purposely thou losest.
I find not my account in ’t; for, besides
That such a game yields very little pastime,
When have I not, by losing, won with thee?
When hast thou not, by way of comfort to me
For my lost game, presented twice the stake?

So that it may have been on purpose, sister,
That thou hast lost at times.

At least, my brother’s
Great liberality may be one cause
Why I improve no faster.

We forget
The game before us: lot us make an end of it.

I move—so—now then—check! and check again!

This countercheck I wasn’t aware of, Sittah;
My queen must fall the sacrifice.

Let’s see—
Could it be helped?

No, no, take off the queen!
That is a piece which never thrives with me.

Only that piece?

Off with it! I shan’t miss it.
Thus I guard all again.

How civilly
We should behave to queens, my brother’s lessons
Have taught me but too well.

Take her, or not,
I stir the piece no more.

Why should I take her?
Check!

Go on.

Check!—

And check-mate?

Hold! not yet.
You may advance the knight, and ward the danger,
Or as you will—it is all one.

It is so.
You are the winner, and Al-Hafi pays.
Let him be called. Sittah, you was not wrong;
I seem to recollect I was unmindful—
A little absent. One isn’t always willing
To dwell upon some shapeless bits of wood
Coupled with no idea. Yet the Imam,
When I play with him, bends with such abstraction—
The loser seeks excuses. Sittah, ’twas not
The shapeless men, and the unmeaning squares,
That made me heedless—your dexterity,
Your calm sharp eye.