Complete. From Morley’s text.

  Socrates—What is the occasion of your coming here so soon, Crito? As I take it, it is very early.

  Crito—Indeed, it is.

  Socrates—What o’clock may it be then?

  Crito—A little before the break of day.

  Socrates—I wonder that the jailer permitted you to come in.

  Crito—He is one I know very well. I have been with him here frequently; and he is in some measure obliged to me.

  Socrates—Are you but just come? Or is it long since you came?

  Crito—I have been here a good while.

  Socrates—Why did you not awaken me then when you came in?

  Crito—Pray God forbid, Socrates. For my own part, I would gladly shake off the cares and anxiety that keep my eyes from shutting. But when I entered this room, I wondered to find you so sound asleep, and was loath to awaken you, that I might not deprive you of those happy minutes. Indeed, Socrates, ever since I became acquainted with you, I have been always delighted with your patience and calm temper; but in a distinguishing manner in this juncture, since, in the circumstances you are in, your eye looks so easy and unconcerned.

  Socrates—Indeed, Crito, it would be very unbecoming in one of my age to be fearful of death.

  Crito—Aye! And how many do we see every day, under the like misfortunes, whom age does not free from those dreads?

  Socrates—That is true. But after all what made you come hither so early?

  Crito—I came to tell you a perplexing piece of news, which, though it may not seem to affect you, yet it overwhelms both me and your relations and friends with insupportable grief. In short, I bring the most terrible news that ever could be brought.

  Socrates—What news? Is the ship arrived from Delos, upon whose return I am to die?

  Crito—It is not yet arrived; but doubtless it will be here this day, according to the intelligence we have from some persons that came from Sunium, and left it there. For at that rate it cannot fail of being here to-day; and to-morrow you must unavoidably die.

  Socrates—Why not, Crito? Be it so, since ’tis the will of God. However, I do not think that the vessel will arrive this day.

  Crito—What do you ground that conjecture upon?

  Socrates—I’ll tell you: I am not to die till the day after the arrival of the vessel.

  Crito—At least those who are to execute the sentence say so.

  Socrates—That vessel will not arrive till to-morrow, as I conjecture from a certain dream I had this night about a minute ago. And it seems to me a pleasure that you did not awaken me.

  Crito—Well, what is this dream?

  Socrates—I thought I saw a very gentle comely woman, dressed in white, come up to me, who, calling me by name, said: “In three days thou shalt be in the fertile Phthia.”

  Crito—That is a very remarkable dream, Socrates.

  Socrates—’Tis a very significant one, Crito.

  Crito—Yes, without doubt. But for this time, prithee, Socrates, take my advice, and make your escape. For my part, if you die, besides the irreparable loss of a friend, which I shall ever bewail, I am afraid that numbers of people, who are not well acquainted either with you or me, will believe that I have forsaken you, in not employing my interest for promoting your escape, now that it is in my power. Is there anything more base than to lie under the disrepute of being wedded to my money more than to my friend? For, in fine, the people will never believe that ’twas you who refused to go from hence, when we urged you to be gone.

  Socrates—My dear Crito, why should we be so much concerned for the opinion of the people? Is it not enough that the more sensible part, who are the only men we ought to regard, know how the case stands?

  Crito—But you see, Socrates, there’s a necessity of being concerned for the noise of the mob, for your example is sufficient instance that they are capable of doing, not only small, but the greatest of injuries, and display their passion in an outrageous manner against those who are once run down by the vulgar opinion.

  Socrates—I wish, Crito, that the people were able to do the greatest of injuries. Were it so, they would likewise be capable of doing the greatest good. That would be a great happiness. But neither the one nor the other is possible. For they cannot make men either wise men or fools.

  Crito—I grant it. But pray answer me: Is it out of tenderness to me and your other friends that you will not stir from hence? Is it fear lest upon your escape we should be troubled, and charged with carrying you off, and by that means be obliged to quit our possession, or pay a large sum of money, or else suffer something more fatal than either? If that be your fear, shake it off, Socrates, in the name of the gods. Is not it highly reasonable that we should purchase your escape at the rate of exposing ourselves to these dangers, and greater ones, if there be occasion? Once more, my dear Socrates, believe me, and go along with me.

  Socrates—I own, Crito, that I have such thoughts, and several others besides in my view.

  Crito—Fear nothing, I entreat you; for, in the first place, they require no great sum to let you out. And on the other hand, you see what a pitiful condition those are in who probably might arraign us. A small sum of money will stop their mouths: my estate alone will serve for that. If you scruple to accept of my offer, here are a great many strangers who desire nothing more than to furnish you with what money you want. Simmias the Theban himself has brought up very considerable sums. Cebes is capable of doing as much, and so are several others. Let not your fears then stifle the desire of making your escape. And as for what you told me the other day, in court, that if you made your escape, you should not know how to live—pray let not that trouble you. Whithersoever you go, you’ll be beloved in all parts of the world. If you’ll go to Thessaly, I have friends there who will honor you according to your merit, and think themselves happy in supplying you with what you want, and covering you from all occasions of fear in their country. Besides, Socrates, without doubt you are guilty of a very unjust thing in delivering up yourself, while ’tis in your power to make your escape, and promoting what your enemies so passionately wish for. For you not only betray yourself, but likewise your children by abandoning them, when you might make a shift to maintain and educate them. You are not at all concerned at what may befall them, though at the same time they are like to be in as dismal a condition as ever poor orphans were. A man ought either to have no children, or else to expose himself to the care and trouble of breeding them. You seem to me to act the softest and most insensible part in the world; whereas you ought to take up a resolution worthy of a generous soul; above all, you who boast that you pursued nothing but virtue all the days of your life. I tell you, Socrates, I am ashamed upon the account of you and your relations, since the world will believe ’twas owing to our cowardliness that you did not get off. In the first place, they will charge you with standing a trial that you might have avoided; then they will censure your conduct in making your defenses; and at last, which is the most shameful of all, they will upbraid us with forsaking you through fear or cowardice, since we did not accomplish your escape. Pray consider of it, my dear Socrates; if you do not prevent the approaching evil, you’ll bear a part in the shame that will cover us all. Pray advise with yourself quickly. But now I think on it, there is not time for advising, there’s no choice left, all must be put in execution.

  Socrates—My dear Crito, your good-will is very commendable, provided it agree with right reason; but if it swerve from that, the stronger it is, the more is it blameworthy. The first thing to be considered is, whether we ought to do as you say, or not. For you know, ’tis not of yesterday that I’ve accustomed myself only to follow the reasons that appear most just after a mature examination. Though fortune frown upon me, yet I’ll never part with the principles I have all along professed. These principles appear always the same, and I esteem them equally at all times. So if your advice be not backed by the strongest reasons, assure yourself I will never comply, not if all the power of the people should arm itself against me, or offer to frighten me like a child by laying on fresh chains, and threatening to deprive me of the greatest good, and oblige me to suffer the cruellest death.

  Crito—Now, how shall we manage this inquiry justly?

  Socrates—To be sure, the fairest way is to resume what you have been saying of the vulgar opinions; that is, to inquire whether there are some reports that we ought to regard, and others that are to be slighted; or whether the saying so is only a groundless and childish proposition. I have a strong desire, upon this occasion, to try, in your presence, whether this principle will appear to me in different colors from what it did while I was in other circumstances, or whether I shall always find it the same, in order to determine me to compliance or refusal.

  If I mistake not, ’tis certain that several persons, who thought themselves men of sense, have often maintained in this place, that of all the opinions of men, some are to be regarded and others to be slighted. In the name of the gods, Crito, do not you think that was well said? In all human appearance you are in no danger of dying to-morrow; and therefore ’tis presumed that the fear of the present danger cannot work any change upon you. Wherefore, pray consider it well: do not you think they spoke justly who said that all the opinions of men are not always to be regarded, but only some of them; and those not of all men, but only of some? What do you say? Do not you think ’tis very true?

  Crito—Very true.

  Socrates—At any rate, then, ought not we to esteem the good opinions and slight the bad ones?

  Crito—Aye, doubtless.

  Socrates—Are not the good opinions then those of wise men, and the bad ones those of fools?

  Crito—It cannot be otherwise.

  Socrates—Let us see, then, how you will answer this. When a man who makes his exercises, and comes to have his lesson, should he regard the commendation or censure of whoever comes first, or only of him that is either a physician or a master?

  Crito—Of the last, to be sure.

  Socrates—Then he ought to fear the censure and value the commendation of that man alone, and slight what comes from others.

  Crito—Without doubt.

  Socrates—For that reason this young man must neither eat nor drink, nor do anything, without the orders of that master, that man of sense, and he is not at all to govern himself by the caprices of others.

  Crito—That is true.

  Socrates—Let us fix upon that, then. But suppose he disobeys this master, and disregards his applause or censure, and suffers himself to be blinded by the caresses and applauses of the ignorant mob, will not he come to some harm by this means?

  Crito—How is it possible it should be otherwise?

  Socrates—But what will be the nature of this harm that will accrue to him thereupon? Where will it terminate? And what part of him will it affect?

  Crito—His body, without doubt; for by that means he’ll ruin himself.

  Socrates—Very well, but is not the case the same all over? Upon the point of justice or injustice, honesty or dishonesty, good or evil, which at present are the subject of our dispute, shall we rather refer ourselves to the opinion of the people than to that of an experienced wise man, who justly challenges more respect and deference from us than all the world besides? And if we do not act conformably to the opinion of this one man, is it not certain that we shall ruin ourselves, and entirely lose that which only lives and gains new strength by justice, and perishes only through injustice? Or must we take all that for a thing of no account?

  Crito—I am of your opinion.

  Socrates—Take heed, I entreat you; if, by following the opinions of the ignorant, we destroy that which is only preserved by health and wasted by sickness, can we survive the corruption of that, whether it be our body or somewhat else?

  Crito—That’s certain.

  Socrates—Can one live then after the corruption and destruction of the body?

  Crito—No, to be sure.

  Socrates—But can one survive the corruption of that which lives only by justice, and dies only through injustice? Or is this thing (whatever it be) that has justice or injustice for its object to be less valued than the body?

  Crito—Not at all.

  Socrates—What, is it much more valuable then?

  Crito—A great deal more.

  Socrates—Then, my dear Crito, we ought not to be concerned at what the people say, but what he says, who knows what is just and unjust; and that alone is nothing else but the truth. Thus you see you established false principles at first, in saying that we ought to pay a deference to the opinions of the people upon what is just, good, honest, and its contraries. Some, perhaps, will object that the people are able to put us to death.

  Crito—To be sure they will start that objection.

  Socrates—’Tis also true. But that does not alter the nature of what we were saying; that is still the same. For you must still remember that ’tis not life, but a good life, that we ought to court.

  Crito—That is a certain truth.

  Socrates—But is it not likewise certain that this good life consists in nothing else but honesty and justice?

  Crito—Yes.

  Socrates—Now, before we go further, let us examine, upon the principles you have agreed to, whether my departure from hence, without the permission of the Athenians, is just or unjust. If it be found just, we must do our utmost to bring it about; but if it be unjust, we must lay aside the design. For as to the considerations you alleged just now of money, reputation, and family, these are only the thoughts of the baser mob, who put innocent persons to death, and would afterwards bring them to life if ’twere possible. But as for us who bend our thoughts another way, all that we are to mind is whether we do a just thing in giving money, and lying under an obligation to those who promote our escape; or whether both we and they do not commit a piece of injustice in so doing. If this be an unjust thing, we need not reason much upon the point, since ’tis better to abide here and die than to undergo somewhat more terrible than death.

  Crito—You are in the right, Socrates; let us see then how it will fall.

  Socrates—We shall go hand in hand in the inquiry. If you have anything of weight to answer, pray do it when I have spoken, that so I may comply; if not, pray forbear any further to press me to go hence without the consent of the Athenians. I shall be infinitely glad if you can persuade me to do it; but I cannot do it without being first convinced. Take notice then whether my way of pursuing this inquiry satisfies you, and do your utmost to make answer to my questions.

  Crito—I will.

  Socrates—Is it true that we ought not to do an unjust thing to any man? Or is it lawful in any measure to do it to one when we are forbidden to do it to another? Or is it not absolutely true that all manner of injustice is neither good nor honest, as we were saying but now? Or, in fine, are all these sentiments which we formerly entertained, vanished in a few days? And is it possible, Crito, that those of years, our most serious conferences, should resemble those of children, and we at the same time not be sensible that ’tis so? Ought not we rather to stand to what we have said, as being a certain truth, that all injustice is scandalous and fatal to the person that commits it, let men say what they will, and let our fortune be never so good or bad?

  Crito—That’s certain.

  Socrates—Then must we avoid the least measure of injustice?

  Crito—Most certainly.

  Socrates—Since we are to avoid the least degree of it, then we ought not to do it to those who are unjust to us, notwithstanding that this people think it lawful.

  Crito—So I think.

  Socrates—But what! Ought we to do evil or not?

  Crito—Without doubt we ought not.

  Socrates—But is it justice to repay evil with evil, pursuant to the opinion of the people, or is it unjust?

  Crito—’Tis highly unjust.

  Socrates—Then there’s no difference between doing evil and being unjust?

  Crito—I own it.

  Socrates—Then we ought not to do the least evil or injustice to any man, let him do by us as he will. But take heed, Crito, that by this concession you do not speak against your own sentiments. For I know very well there are few that will go this length; and ’tis impossible for those who vary in their sentiments upon this point to agree well together. Nay, on the contrary, the contempt of one another’s opinions leads them to a reciprocal contempt of one another’s persons. Consider well then if you are of the same opinion with me; and let us ground our reasonings upon this principle, that we ought not to do evil for evil, or treat those unjustly who are unjust to us. For my part, I never did, nor ever will, entertain any other principle. Tell me then if you have changed your mind; if not, give ear to what follows.

  Crito—I give ear.

  Socrates—Well: a man that has made a just promise, ought he to keep it, or to break it?

  Crito—He ought to keep it.

  Socrates—If I go hence without the consent of the Athenians, shall not I injure some people, and especially those who do not deserve it? Or shall we in this follow what we think equally just to everybody?

  Crito—I cannot answer you, for I do not understand you.

  Socrates—Pray take notice; when we put ourselves in a way of making our escape, or going hence, or how you please to call it, suppose the law and the republic should present themselves in a body before us, and accost us in this manner: “Socrates, what are you going to do? To put in execution what you now design were wholly to ruin the laws and the state. Do you think a city can subsist when justice has not only lost its force, but is likewise perverted, overturned, and trampled under foot by private persons?” What answer could we make to such and many other questions? For what is it that an orator cannot say upon the overturning of that law which provides that sentences once pronounced shall not be infringed? Shall we answer that the republic has judged amiss and passed an unjust sentence upon us? Shall that be our answer?

  Crito—Ah, without any scruple, Socrates.

  Socrates—What will the laws say then? “Socrates, is it not true that you agreed with us to submit yourself to a public trial?” And if we should seem to be surprised at such language, they’ll continue, perhaps, “Be not surprised, Socrates, but make an answer, for you yourself used to insist upon question and answer. Tell then what occasion you have to complain of the republic and of us, that you are so eager upon destroying it? Are not we the authors of your birth? Is it not by our means that your father married her who brought you forth? What fault can you find with the laws we have established as to marriage?” “Nothing at all,” should I answer. “As to the nourishing and bringing up of children, and the manner of your education, are not the laws just that we enacted upon that head, by which we obliged your father to bring you up to music and the exercises?” “Very just,” I’d say. “Since you were born, brought up, and educated under our influence, durst you maintain that you are not our nursed child and subject as well as your father? And if you are, do you think to have equal power with us, as if it were lawful for you to inflict upon us all we enjoin you to undergo? But since you cannot lay claim to any such right against your father or your master, so as to repay evil for evil, injury for injury, how can you think to obtain that privilege against your country and the laws, insomuch that if we endeavor to put you to death, you’ll counteract us by endeavoring to prevent us and to ruin your country and its laws? Can you call such an action just, you that are an inseparable follower of true virtue? Are you ignorant that your country is more considerable, and more worthy of respect and veneration before God and man than your father, mother, and all your relations together? That you ought to honor your country, yield to it, and humor it more than an angry father? That you must either reclaim it by your counsel, or obey its injunctions, and suffer without grumbling all that it imposes upon you? If it orders you to be whipped, or laid in irons, if it sends you to the wars, there to spend your blood, you ought to do it without demurring; you must not shake off the yoke, or flinch or quit your post; but in the army, in prison, and everywhere else, ought equally to obey the orders of your country, or else assist it with wholesome counsel. For if offering violence to a father or mother be a piece of grand impiety, to put force upon one’s country is a much greater.” What shall we answer to all this, Crito? Shall we acknowledge the truth of what the laws advance?

  Crito—How can we avoid it?

  Socrates—“Do you see, then, Socrates,” continue they, “what reason we have to brand your enterprise against us as unjust? Of us you hold your birth, your maintenance, your education; in fine, we have done you all the good we are capable of, as well as the other citizens. Indeed, we do not fail to make public proclamation, that ’tis lawful for every private man, if he does not find his account in the laws and customs of our republic, after a mature examination, to retire with all his effects whither he pleases. And if any of you cannot comply with our customs, and desires to remove and live elsewhere, not one of us shall hinder him, he may go where he pleases. But on the other hand, if any one of you continues to live here, after he has considered our way of administering justice, and the policy observed in the state, then we say he is in effect obliged to obey all our commands, and we maintain that his disobedience is unjust on a threefold account: for not obeying those to whom he owes his birth; for trampling under foot those that educated him; and for violating his faith after he engaged to obey us, and not taking the pains to make remonstrances to us, if we happen to do any unjust thing. For notwithstanding that we only propose things without using any violence to procure obedience, and give every man his choice whether to obey us, or reclaim us by his counsel or remonstrances, yet he does neither the one nor the other. And we maintain, Socrates, that if you execute what you are now about, you will stand charged with all these crimes, and that in a much higher degree than if another private man had committed the same injustice.” If I asked them the reason, without doubt they would stop my mouth by telling me that I submitted myself in a distinguishing manner to all these conditions. “And we,” continue they, “have great evidence that you were always pleased with us and the republic; for if this city had not been more agreeable to you than any other, you had never continued in it, no more than the other Athenians. None of the shows could ever tempt you to go out of the city, except once, that you went to see the games at the Isthmus; you never went anywhere else, excepting your military expeditions, and never undertook a voyage, as others are wont to do. You never had the curiosity to visit other cities, or inquire after other laws, as being contented with us and our republic. You always made a distinguishing choice of us, and on all occasions testified that you submitted with all your heart to live according to our maxims. Besides, your having had children in this city is an infallible evidence that you like it. In fine, in this very last juncture you might have been sentenced to banishment if you would, and might then have done, with the consent of the republic, what you now attempt without their permission. But you were so stately, so unconcerned at death, that in your own terms you preferred death to banishment. But now you have no regard to these fine words, you are no further concerned for the laws, since you are going to overturn them. You do just what a pitiful slave would offer to do, by endeavoring to make your escape contrary to the laws of the treaty you have signed, by which you obliged yourself to live according to our rules. Pray answer us: Did not we say right in affirming that you agreed to this treaty, and submitted yourself to these terms, not only in words, but in deeds?” What shall we say to all this, Crito? And what can we do else but acknowledge that ’tis so?

  Crito—How can we avoid it, Socrates?

  Socrates—“What else then,” continue they, “is this action of yours but a violation of that treaty, and all its terms? That treaty that you were not made to sign either by force or surprise, not without time to think on it: for you had the whole course of seventy years to have removed in, if you had been dissatisfied with us, or unconvinced of the justice of our proposals. You neither pitched upon Lacedæmon nor Crete, notwithstanding that you always cried up their laws; nor any of the other Grecian cities, or strange countries. You have been less out of Athens than the lame and the blind; which is an invincible proof that the city pleased you in a distinguishing manner, and consequently that we did, since a city never can be agreeable if its laws are not such. And yet at this time you counteract the treaty. But, if you will take our advice, Socrates, we would have you to stand to your treaty, and not expose yourself to be ridiculed by the citizens, by stealing out from hence. Pray consider what advantage can redound either to you or your friends by persisting in that goodly design. Your friends will infallibly be either exposed to danger or banished their country, or have their estates forfeited. And as for yourself, if you retire to any neighboring city, such as Thebes or Megara, which are admirably well governed, you’ll there be looked upon as an enemy. All that have any love for their country will look upon you as a corrupter of the laws. Besides, you’ll fortify in them the good opinion they have of your judges, and move them to approve the sentence given against you; for a corrupter of the law will at any time pass for a debaucher of the youth, and of the vulgar people. What, will you keep out of these well-governed cities, and these assemblies of just men? But pray will you have enough to live upon in that condition? Or will you have the face to go and live with them? And pray what will you say to them, Socrates? Will you preach to them, as you did here, that virtue, justice, the laws and ordinances ought to be reverenced by men? Do you not think that this will sound very ridiculous in their ears? You ought to think so. But perhaps you’ll quickly leave those well-governed cities, and go to Thessaly, to Crito’s friends, where there is less order, and more licentiousness; and doubtless in that country they’ll take a singular pleasure in hearing you relate in what equipage you made your escape from this prison, that is, covered with some old rags, or a beast’s skin, or disguised some other way, as fugitives are wont to be. Everybody will say, ‘This old fellow, that has scarce any time to live, had such a strong passion for living, that he did not stand to purchase his life by trampling under foot the most sacred laws.’ Such stories will be bandied about of you at a time when you offend no man; but upon the least occasion of complaint, they’ll tease you with a thousand other reproaches unworthy of you. You’ll spend your time in sneaking and insinuating yourself into the favor of all men, one after another, and owning an equal subjection to them all. For what can you do? Will you feast perpetually in Thessaly, as if the good cheer had drawn you thither? But what will become then of all your fine discourses upon justice and virtue? Besides, if you design to preserve your life for the sake of your children, that cannot be in order to bring them up in Thessaly, as if you could do them no other service but make them strangers. Or if you design to leave them here, do you imagine that during your life they’ll be better brought up here, in your absence, under the care of your friends? But will not your friends take the same care of them after your death that they would do in your absence? You ought to be persuaded that all those who call themselves your friends will at all times do them all the service they can. To conclude, Socrates, submit yourself to our reasons, follow the advice of those who brought you up, and do not put your children, your life, or anything whatsoever, in the balance with justice; to the end that when you come before the tribunal of Pluto, you may be able to clear yourself before your judges. For do not deceive yourself: if you perform what you now design, you will neither better your own cause, nor that of your party; you will neither enlarge its justice nor sanctity either here or in the regions below. But if you die bravely, you owe your death to the injustice, not of the laws, but of men; whereas if you make your escape by repulsing so shamefully the injustice of your enemies, by violating at once both your own faith and our treaty, and injuring so many innocent persons as yourself, your friends, and your country, together with us, we will still be your enemies as long as you live; and when you are dead, our sisters, the laws in the other world, will certainly afford you no joyful reception, as knowing that you endeavored to ruin us. Wherefore do not prefer Crito’s counsel to ours.”

  I think, my dear Crito, I hear what I have now spoken, just as the priests of Cybele imagine they hear the cornets and flutes; and the sound of these words makes so strong an impression in my ears, that it stops me from hearing anything else. These are the sentiments I like; and all you can say to take me off them will be in vain. However, if you think to succeed, I do not prevent you from speaking.

  Crito—I have nothing to say, Socrates.

  Socrates—Then be quiet, and let us courageously run this course, since God calls and guides us to it.