NATHAN.
You have said it.
FRIAR.
Where is she then? She is not dead, I hope—
I would not have her dead, dear pretty creature.
If no one else know anything about it
All is yet safe.
NATHAN.
Aye all!
FRIAR.
Yes, trust me, Nathan,
This is my way of thinking—if the good
That I propose to do is somehow twined
With mischief, then I let the good alone;
For we know pretty well what mischief is,
But not what’s for the best. ’Twas natural
If you meant to bring up the Christian child
Right well, that you should rear it as your own;
And to have done this lovingly and truly,
For such a recompense—were horrible.
It might have been more prudent to have had it
Brought up at second hand by some good Christian
In her own faith. But your friend’s orphan child
You would not then have loved. Children need love,
Were it the mute affection of a brute,
More at that age than Christianity.
There’s always time enough for that—and if
The maid have but grown up before your eyes
With a sound frame and pious—she remains
Still in her maker’s eye the same. For is not
Christianity all built on Judaism?
Oh, it has often vexed me, cost me tears,
That Christians will forget so often that
Our Saviour was a Jew.
NATHAN.
You, my good brother,
Shall be my advocate, when bigot hate
And hard hypocrisy shall rise upon me—
And for a deed—a deed—thou, thou shalt know it—
But take it with thee to the tomb. As yet
Has vanity ne’er tempted me to tell it
To living soul—only to thee I tell it,
To simple piety alone; for it
Alone can feel what deeds the man who trusts
In God can gain upon himself.