For all that he may have been my father.
NATHAN.
You joke.
TEMPLAR.
And you are captious. Boots it then
To be true-born? Does bastard wound thine ear?
The race is not to be despised: but hold,
Spare me my pedigree; I’ll spare thee thine.
Not that I doubt thy genealogic tree.
O, God forbid! You may attest it all
As far as Abraham back; and backwarder
I know it to my heart—I’ll swear to it also.
NATHAN.
Knight, you grow bitter. Do I merit this?
Have I refused you ought? I’ve but forborne
To close with you at the first word—no more.
TEMPLAR.
Indeed—no more? O then forgive—
NATHAN.