Why have you come at this time, Crito? Or isn’t it still early?

Yes, very early.

About what time?

Just before dawn.

I am surprised that the watchman of the prison was willing to let you in.

He is used to me by this time, Socrates, because I come here so often, and besides I have done something for him.

Have you just come, or some time ago?

Some little time ago.

Then why did you not wake me at once, instead of sitting by me in silence?

No, no, by Zeus, Socrates, I only wish I myself were not so sleepless and sorrowful. But I have been wondering at you for some time, seeing how sweetly you sleep; and I purposely refrained from waking you, that you might pass the time as pleasantly as possible. I have often thought throughout your life hitherto that you were of a happy disposition, and I think so more than ever in this present misfortune, since you bear it so easily and calmly.

Well, Crito, it would be absurd if at my age I were disturbed because I must die now.

Other men as old, Socrates, become involved in similar misfortunes, but their age does not in the least prevent them from being disturbed by their fate.

That is true. But why have you come so early?

To bring news, Socrates, sad news, though apparently not sad to you, but sad and grievous me and all your friends, and to few of them, I think, so grievous as to me.

What is this news? Has the ship come from Delos, at the arrival of which I am to die?

It has not exactly come, but I think it will come today from the reports of some men who have come from Sunium and left it there. Now it is clear from what they say that it will come today, and so tomorrow, Socrates, your life must end.

Well, Crito, good luck be with us! If this is the will of the gods, so be it. However, I do not think it will come today.

What is your reason for not thinking so?

I will tell you. I must die on the day after the ship comes in, must I not?

So those say who have charge of these matters.

Well, I think it will not come in today, but tomorrow. And my reason for this is a dream which I had a little while ago in the course of this night. And perhaps you let me sleep just at the right time.

What was the dream?

I dreamed that a beautiful, fair woman, clothed in white raiment, came to me and called me and said, Socrates, on the third day thou wouldst come to fertile Phthia.Hom. Il. 9.363.

A strange dream, Socrates.

No, a clear one, at any rate, I think, Crito.

Too clear, apparently. But, my dear Socrates, even now listen to me and save yourself. Since, if you die, it will be no mere single misfortune to me, but I shall lose a friend such as I can never find again, and besides, many persons who do not know you and me well will think I could have saved you if I had been willing to spend money, but that I would not take the trouble. And yet what reputation could be more disgraceful than that of considering one’s money of more importance than one’s friends? For most people will not believe that we were eager to help you to go away from here, but you refused.

But, my dear Crito, why do we care so much for what most people think? For the most reasonable men, whose opinion is more worth considering, will think that things were done as they really will be done.

But you see it is necessary, Socrates, to care for the opinion of the public, for this very trouble we are in now shows that the public is able to accomplish not by any means the least, but almost the greatest of evils, if one has a bad reputation with it.

I only wish, Crito, the people could accomplish the greatest evils, that they might be able to accomplish also the greatest good things. Then all would be well. But now they can do neither of the two; for they are not able to make a man wise or foolish, but they do whatever occurs to them.

That may well be. But, Socrates, tell me this: you are not considering me and your other friends, are you, fearing that, if you escape, the informers will make trouble for us by saying that we stole you away, and we shall be forced to lose either all our property or a good deal of money, or be punished in some other way besides?

For if you are afraid of anything of that kind, let it go; since it is right for us to run this risk, and even greater risk than this, if necessary, provided we save you. Now please do as I ask.

I am considering this, Crito, and many other things.

Well, do not fear this! for it is not even a large sum of money which we should pay to some men who are willing to save you and get you away from here. Besides, don’t you see how cheap these informers are, and that not much money would be needed to silence them? And you have my money at your command, which is enough, I fancy; and moreover, if because you care for me you think you ought not to spend my money, there are foreigners here willing to spend theirs; and one of them, Simmias of Thebes, has brought for this especial purpose sufficient funds; and Cebes also and very many others are ready. So, as I say, do not give up saving yourself through fear of this. And do not be troubled by what you said in the court, that if you went away you would not know what to do with yourself. For in many other places, wherever you go, they will welcome you; and if you wish to go to Thessaly, I have friends there who will make much of you and will protect you, so that no one in Thessaly shall annoy you. And besides, Socrates, it seems to me the thing you are undertaking to do is not even right—betraying yourself when you might save yourself. And you are eager to bring upon yourself just what your enemies would wish and just what those were eager for who wished to destroy you. And moreover, I think you are abandoning your children, too, for when you might bring them up and educate them, you are going to desert them and go away, and, so far as you are concerned, their fortunes in life will be whatever they happen to meet with, and they will probably meet with such treatment as generally comes to orphans in their destitution. No. Either one ought not to beget children, or one ought to stay by them and bring them up and educate them. But you seem to me to be choosing the laziest way; and you ought to choose as a good and brave man would choose, you who have been saying all your life that you cared for virtue. So I am shamed both for you and for us, your friends, and I am afraid people will think that this whole affair of yours has been conducted with a sort of cowardice on our part—both the fact that the case came before the court, when it might have been avoided, and the way in which the trial itself was carried on, and finally they will think, as the crowning absurdity of the whole affair, that this opportunity has escaped us through some base cowardice on our part, since we did not save you, and you did not save yourself, though it was quite possible if we had been of any use whatever.

Take care, Socrates, that these things be not disgraceful, as well as evil, both to you and to us. Just consider, or rather it is time not to consider any longer, but to have finished considering. And there is just one possible plan; for all this must be done in the coming night. And if we delay it can no longer be done. But I beg you, Socrates, do as I say and don’t refuse.

My dear Crito, your eagerness is worth a great deal, if it should prove to be rightly directed; but otherwise, the greater it is, the more hard to bear. So we must examine the question whether we ought to do this or not; for I am not only now but always a man who follows nothing but the reasoning which on consideration seems to me best. Aud I cannot, now that this has happened to us, discard the arguments I used to advance, but they seem to me much the same as ever, and I revere and honor the same ones as before. And unless we can bring forward better ones in our present situation, be assured that I shall not give way to you, not even if the power of the multitude frighten us with even more terrors than at present, as children are frightened with goblins, threatening us with imprisonments and deaths and confiscations of property. Now how could we examine the matter most reasonably? By taking up first what you say about opinions and asking whether we were right when we always used to say that we ought to pay attention to some opinions and not to others? Or were we right before I was condemned to death, whereas it has how been made clear that we were talking merely for the sake of argument and it was really mere play and nonsense? And I wish to investigate, Crito, in common with you, and see whether our former argument seems different to me under our present conditions, or the same, and whether we shall give it up or be guided by it. But it used to be said, I think, by those who thought they were speaking sensibly, just as I was saying now, that of the opinions held by men some ought to be highly esteemed and others not. In God’s name, Crito, do you not think this is correct?

For you, humanly speaking, are not involved in the necessity of dying tomorrow, and therefore present conditions would not lead your judgment astray. Now say, do you not think we were correct in saying that we ought not to esteem all the opinions of men, but some and not others, and not those of all men, but only of some? What do you think? Is not this true?

It is.

Then we ought to esteem the good opinions and not the bad ones?

Yes.

And the good ones are those of the wise and the bad ones those of the foolish?

Of course.

Come then, what used we to say about this? If a man is an athlete and makes that his business, does he pay attention to every man’s praise and blame and opinion or to those of one man only who is a physician or a trainer?

To those of one man only.

Then he ought to fear the blame and welcome the praise of that one man and not of the multitude.

Obviously.

And he must act and exercise and eat and drink as the one man who is his director and who knows the business thinks best rather than as all the others think.

That is true.

Well then; if he disobeys the one man and disregards his opinion and his praise, but regards words of the many who have no special knowledge, will he not come to harm?

Of course he will.

And what is this harm? In what direction and upon what part of the one who disobeys does it act?

Evidently upon his body; for that is what it ruins.

Right. Then in other matters, not to enumerate them all, in questions of right and wrong and disgraceful and noble and good and bad, which we are now considering, ought we to follow and fear the opinion of the many or that of the one, if there is anyone who knows about them, whom we ought to revere and fear more than all the others? And if we do not follow him, we shall injure and cripple that which we used to say is benefited by the right and is ruined by the wrong. Or is there nothing in this?

I think it is true, Socrates.

Well then, if through yielding to the opinion of the ignorant we ruin that which is benefited by health and injured by disease, is life worth living for us when that is ruined? And that is the body, is it not?

Yes.

Then is life worth living when the body is worthless and ruined?

Certainly not.

But is it worth living when that is ruined which is injured by the wrong and improved by the right? Or do we think that part of us, whatever it is, which is concerned with right and wrong, is less important than the body?