University of Virginia Library

The Death of Socrates

[Cast of Characters

• Socrates Philosopher of Athens
• Xantippe His wife
• Plato
• Crito His students
• Phedon
• Melitus
• Lycon His accusers
• Anitus (Anytus)
• Apame Melitus's sister
• First Areopagus
• Second Areopagus Judges of Athens
• Crier Bailiff
• Gaoler Jailer
• Citizens of Athens]

[Act the 1st]

[Scene 2d]

[Melitus, Anitus]
[Melitus]
The heavenly powers no doubt entrust their secre[t]
With that vain wretch, who dared defy their godhead,
And slight their altars.

Anitus
Thus the bold Lysistratus
Won on the people by a like pretence;
He too had his Minerva to protect him,
To aid his counsels, and support his cause.
High on the shining car with him she rode;
And the gull'd commons, struck with stupid wonder,
Gaz'd on the feign'd divinity, till they
Lost their dear liberty, and hug[g]'d the chain
Of a foul tirant—Doubt not, Socrates
Hath the same view; and if the worthy Melitus,
With others that are wakeful for the state,
Use not the noble talents heaven has given them,
Their pow'rs of speech, their energy of sense,
In firm defiance 'gainst his guileful schemes,
And timely ward the fatal blow he aims,
What can ensue but slavery and ruin?

Melitus
Such slavery and such ruin as slate
Gall'd [illeg.] that villain traitor, Critias.
He lorded nobly o'er his fellow-citizens,
To death devoted ev'ry man of virtue,
And was indeed a tirant—such the ruin
The haughty son of Clinias had essay'd,
(Whose vile contemptuous usage of the god
That guards, benign, our doors still strikes our souls
With chilling terrors) had not Athens fear'd
Th'impending peril—These thy pupils, Socrates!
These are the youths that fondly listen'd to thee;
These had'st thou taught in all the secret arts
Of thy philosophy; conspicuous proofs
Of thy attachment to the publick weal!

Anitus
What wait we then? Why waste we still the hours
In vain complaint? And since our patriot hearts
Burn for the injuries our state hath suffer'd,
Why don't we rather haste to execute
What nobly we've resolv'd—th'applauded deeds
Of all the heroes that our Athens boasts,
However great, are poor, compar'd with this.
T'assert the dread divinities that guard us,
To shield their shrines, to vindicate their temples;
To free our youth from impious fallacies,
From vain illusions and destructive tenets;
Our freedom to establish on a base
That will be solid, these are godlike toils,
And, if we fall, our fate will yet be glorious,
Worthy the sons of Athens!

Melitus
And I'll dare it,
Whatever perils face me in the conflict.
But there's no peril—be we staunch and honest,
And all his subtleties and nice evasions
Can's stem the torrent that comes pouring on him.
My sister! hah!—I know her simple businesses—
Retire we for the present—Well-inform'd
Of our design, and stupidly enthral'd
In love's fond bondage, her romantick head
Thinks high of Socrates, and much she labours
To thawart my soul in her confirm'd resolves.
In vain! The cause is heav'n's, and I'll be steady.
I dearly love her, and she cou'd not ask
A second favor that I shou'd deny her.

Scene 3rd

Apame

Scene 4th

Apame, Phedon
Phedon
That pensive posture, and that tearful eye
Betray fair excellence, the ill success
Of my Apame's pleadings with her brother.

Apame
O Phedon, Melitus, I fear, is doom'd
By the just gods to force his own destruction,
His strong inveteracy 'gainst Socrates
To them is painful; and for righteous ends
Tho' that great man may suffer, still my brother
Must feel the utmost fury of their vengeance:
For well I know, their justice yet will punish
The wretch, a foe to virtues like their own,

Phedon
Then he's resolv'd?

Apame
Resolv'd? he shuns his sister;
Soon as he saw me, from my sight he fled,
Like a base murderer, conscious of his guilt,
Who dreads each whisper'd nothing that he hears,
And flies the phantom that himself hath form'd.

Phedon
Then thou must fall, my Socrates: thy soul,
Great as hath yet e'er animated man,
I know, will bear this stroke of fate undaunted:
Will smile at all the malice of her foes,
And look with calm indifference on death.
Hence spring our fears: Were he like other men,
Had he the same weak frailties to lament,
Life wou'd appear to some importance to him,
And he'd be more sollicitous about her.
For, far from this, he thinks not of his danger,
As danger; but pursues his wonted course,
Directing others in the paths of truth,
As if no foes endeavour'd his destruction,
And all without was, like his own pure soul,
Sweet harmony and peace.

Apame
This binds me to him,
Weak as I am, and of that thoughtless sex,
Who seek no further for their rule in life
Than the dull road their mothers trod before them;
Yet ever hath my heart leap'd at the name
Of Socrates; and scarce had reason dacon'd
In my young mind; but I grew fond to hear
The lessons that he taught; to learn from him
Truths, hid before in sophistry's dark guise,
And close to follow, where he led the way.
The more I knew, more was my joy athirst
For higher knowledge; and he still encreas'd,
Still as he hed me on, my love of wisdom.
But, more than all his wondrous eloquence,
His choice expression, and his flow of reason,
His practice pleads; unerring in his life,
He walks conspicuous in each godlike virtue,
And lives himself in the great good man he teaches.

Phedon
He is indeed the man thy justice speaks him.
Nor did he want a herald to his virtues,
Cou'd he employ a nobler tongue than thine;
For thou art even wanton in his praise,
And then shin'st loveliest, when his worth's thy subject.
Oh! my Apame! how unlike thy brother.
But I'll evade the contrast—he's thy brother,
And therefore to a softer theme I'll turn,
Such as demands the eloquence of gods,
Thy heav'nly beauties, thy divine perfections.

Apame
Forbear, presuming Phedon—

Phedon
Listen to me,
Nor with that frown indignant kill your Phedon.
Say rather; dearest object of my vows;
Thou first and only mistress of my heart;
Say, wilt thou now with kind relenting eye
Hear me pour forth the truest noblest passion
That ever swell'd a fond and faithful soul;
A soul that lives not but upon the hope,
The distant hope that goodness, nigh divine,
Will look with pity on the pangs she suffers.
Oh! thou art all that fancy's self can paint—
All harmony, all excellence, all beauty!
Thy form so exquisite, that wou'd the maid,
Last of the gods that left our earth reluctant,
Once more forsake her natal plains above,
And with her presence gladden thankless man;
She'd sure shine forth in all the bright effulgence,
In the divine attractions of Apame,
O stay that killing look—forgive my rapture—
Indulge my wanton tongue while she essays
A task more arduous, to display the charms,
The heavenly beauties of thy matchless mind.

Apame
Say, is this Phedon, this the strenuous friend
Of Socrates, of Socrates the sage,
Form'd by his rules, and won by his example,
Who can thus poorly waste the precious hours
In wordy compliment and vain encomiums
On the mean trifle of a woman's beauty?
Now when thy friend, thy father, thy instructor
Walks on the verge of fate, can thy low soul
Sink in the soothings of an idle passion?

Phedon
Chide not, Apame, chide not; deep I feel
The pressing dangers of that virtuous man;
And oh! if I had twice ten thousand lives,
I'd part will all, nay, almost part with thee,
To save him from the direful fate that threats him;
For much I fear the pow'r of those that hate him.
For what inures my heart amid it's sorrows,
What firms my soul, but love of thee, my charmer,
Of thee the lover and the friend of Socrates?
This ardent passion arms me 'gainst my grief,
With manly fortitude, with intrepidity.
Forgive me then, nor blame thy faithful Phedon,
If in the fullness of his love he speaks
The glorious charms of that transcendant maid,
Which thus inspires him to sustain each shock,
To dare all danger for the friend he loves.

Apame
No more; but that I know thy honest heart,
This flattery wou'd be grating to my ear,
Harsh and discordant as an ill-tun'd instrument.
'Tis not by sounds like these I can be won.
Yet still forgive me, virgin—modesty—
I own thy worth, thy virtues, and thy truth
Have made my soul a sharer in thy griefs.
But oh! I leave it to thy thought to form
The various evils that will thwart our bliss.
Still be thyself, still be the friend of Socrates;
And if the gods join with thee in thy cares,
And crown thy filial friendship with success,
Apame then with honour—spare my blushes—
What have I said?—my maiden heart condemns me—
I dare not stay to tell thee, how I'd thank thee.

Scene 5th

Phedon
Transporting sounds! O my enraptur'd soul!
Yes; I will be the friend of Socrates,
Will be myself, and will deserve Apame.
Thou shalt be mine; for sure the righteous powers
Must crown my truth, and thy consummate virtue
With ev'ry happiness this earth can yield—
But talk'd she not of evils that might bar,
Might thwart our bliss? forbid it, heav'n!—the thought,
Shou'd I dwell longer on it, wou'd distract me.
I'll strive then to forget it, and away
To my expecting friends.

Scene 6th

Plato, Crito, Phedon
Plato
Tis now the hour
That Phedon said he'd meet us.

Crito
He appears.

Phedon
Alass! My tiddings bear but slender hope:
The foes of Socrates resolve his Death:
Apame's not allow'd to see her brother;
Sullen he flies her presence, and in vain
She strives to turn him from his fatal purpose.

Plato
What frenzy hath possest the men of Athens?
Think they the gods will thank them for their hate
To that great man, whom only they allow
Sincerely wise? Have they so soon forgot
What dread Apollo from the sacred tripod
Divinely answer'd to th'enquiring Cherephon,

Chaerephon, a youthful friend of Socrates and a member of the democratic party in Athens that was now persecuring the philosopher, once asked the oracle of Apollo at Delphi if there was anyone wiser than Socrates, to which the oracle replied that there was none wiser. Plato, Apology, 20e-21a.

That Socrates was wise, and only Socrates?
And well the sage responds to the great character
The oracle bestows; for sure if wisdom
E'er dwell on earth, within his virtuous breast
The heav'n-born goddess lives, and sways the man
Sways ev'ry action, dictates all his words.
Well ye repay the pow'rs divine, Athenians,
To work his death, who forms your greatest glory,
And makes you foremost in the states of Greece
For true philosophy, for solid knowledge!
Lo! this is ample gratitude to heaven!

Crito
Such gratitude hath Athens ever shew'd
Where worth illustrious shone. In arts or arms
Whoe'er excell'd, but met the like return?
Thus Homer, thus Tirtous

The reference to Homer is unexplained in this context. Tirtous or Tyrateus was a seventh-century B.C. Spartan general and patriotic poet. Some claimed he was an Athenian schoolmaster before going to Sparta. Cradock's allusion seems to be to the Athenian belief than no Spartan could be a poet, so he had to be a former Athenian.

bore their despite;
Thus Anexagoras was once condemn'd;

Anaxagoras (c. 500-c. 428 B.C.) was probably the first philosopher to reside in Athens. He was exiled for alleged impiety during an attack on his friend Pericles, c. 450 B.C.

Miltiades

Miltiades (c. 554–489 B.C.) was the Athenian general who directed the victory over the Persians at Marathon in 490 B.C. He was imprisoned by political rivals and died shortly thereafter.

thus languish'd in a prison,
And great Themistocles

Themistocles (c. 524-c. 460 B.C.) was the Athenian admiral who saved Greece from Persian domination as the result of the destruction of Xerxes' fleet off Salamis in 480 B.C. Exiled from Athens, he eventually served Xerxes' son as governor of some Greek cities in Asia Minor that were under Persian control.

was forc'd to fly
For refuge to the monarch, 'gainst whose tiranny
His prudent counsels had preserv'd his country.

Phedon
Th'unruly populace, who're ever won
By the loud rhetorick of a noisy demagogue,
Forget the noble actions of their heroes.
Their city sav'd, their pow'r maintain'd, enlarg'd,
Their wives, their daughters snatch'd from direful rape,

Line 38 was Cradock's line 400 for Act 1.

And peace and affluence to their streets restor'd;
Their youth instructed in each patriot-duty,
And form'd to virtue from their infant-years;
All these plead vainly with a boistrous rout,
Who're giddy with th'authority they bear;
And call it glorious freedom to devote
Their worthiest citizens to death or exile.

Plato
Else Socrates who bends beneath the weight
Of seventy years, years spent in noblest toils
For his dear country's safety or her glory;
Might hope to wear away the few poor minutes
That yet remain of life, amid his friends,
In honourable ease, exempt from danger.

Phedon
And might he not, did not the 'unworthy Anitus,
Whose flagrant guilt can't bear the kind rebuke
Of one who but endeavors to reclaim
His soul from ruin, urge the prosecution?
For Melitus and Lycon are but tools

Anytus is considered to have instigated the proceedings against Socrates for worthy motives. His objective wasnot to execute Socrates but rather to exile him as a threat to political stability. Anytus chose an obscure, young religious fanatic named Melitus to prosecute the case. About Lycon very little is known. See A. B. Taylor, Socrates: The Man and His Thought (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1953), pp. 102–4.

To his iniquities and mean revenge.
Base, he gives up to an unmanly passion,
Beneath the soul that is not worse than brutal,
Revenge for good intended, such a man,
As Athens, if she yields to his delusions,
Will ne'er remember but with tears of repentant penitence.

Plato
Then be't our care to save her from her shame.
O friends, O youths, that have with me imbib'd
The sacred truths, which, like Hyblean sweets,

Hyblean refers to the town of Hybla in Sicily that was celebrated for the honey produced in nearby hills. The bees of Hybla are mentioned in Vergil, Eclogues, 1.54.

Flow'd on your souls from his mellifluous tongue;
Who've often with unutterable transport
Felt the glad influence of his blest instructions;
O let us know, unanimous, resolve
To thwart the machinations of his foes;
To stay the low'ring mischiefs that impend
Over our great preceptor. Much we owe
To his directing hand. If we are virtuous,
If for our country or our friend we feel,
If our hearts glow with love of ev'ry grace,
That can exalt us 'bove the groveling crowd,
Twas he that form'd us; he the sacred spring,
From whence our souls drank deep the cordial draught
Of heaven-born truth, of knowledge that aspires
'Bove sense, bove appetites, and penetrates
Yon empyrean

Empyrean pertains to the highest heaven in the cosmology of the ancients.

heights; of rapturous wisdom,
That teaches us to scorn this lower scene
Of mean delights, beneth th'enlightened mind,
T'emerge from out the prison of the body.
And seek for our inheritance, amid
Etherial beings in the realms above.

Crito
Doubt not, my Plato, but our inmost souls
And seek for our inheritance, amid
Etherial beings in the realms above.

Crito
Doubt not, my Plato, but our inmost souls
Are link'd with his; and, if he falls, we feel
Griefs that wou'd dumb expression.—Name thou then
The means to save him, and we joy to dare them
E'en at the utmost peril of our lives.

Plato
Alass! that's only in the will of heav'n,
At least, what project can we form at present?
If he won't fly, he must submit to trial;
All therefore we can do, is to be active,
Strenuous, and resolute in his defence;
To plead with all the eloquence of tears,
To battle 'gainst his enemies, and rather
To die—

Phedon
Imortal gods! wou'd that preserve him,
I'd dare a tirant's tortures.

Crito
So wou'd I,
And bless the hand that took my life for his.

Plato
Bravely resolv'd, my friends! Methinks we are
Like a poor people, who beneath the rule
Of a just prince have long been blest and happy;
When the stern-fates the cruel mandate give
To close his precious life: the direful news
Link them in wild astonishment, they look
Aghast, and, struck with terror, deep they mourn,
Fly to their altars, with incessant prayer
Plead for his life, recount his gracious deeds,
Run o'er his gen'rous cares, his gentle reign;
Suppliant, the mercy of high heaven implore,
And, to retrieve their prince, will be themselves no more.

Line 115 is Cradock's line 486. In the subsequent acts there were no numbered lines in the manuscript.

Act 2nd

Scene 1st

Socrates

Scene 2nd

Socrates, Plato, Crito, Phedon
Socrates
What gloom is this, my worthy youths, that sits
So heavy on the visage? You're no more
Lightsome and gay, as when you us'd to crowd
Around your old philosopher, to hear
The smooth and easy dictates he unfolded.
You seem distrest, as if some sudden evil,
Some unexpected blow, had stunn'd your souls,
And wretchedness and you were grown familiar.

Plato
Alass! we're now no strangers to each other.
Ah! Socrates, canst thou demand the cause
Why all thy friends have lost their wonted glee,
Why they look sunk in thought, in deep anxiety,
When thou, who long hast been their heart's best solace
Their dear-lov'd object of esteem and reverence,
Stands't tott'ring on the precipice of fate,
The horrid precipice, nor seem'st to hear
The gulph that roars beneath thee?

Socrates
Pho! my friends;
This all your cause? I am not worth your sorrows.
Too long already have I toil'd, deprest
By this dull clayey covering, this incumbrance,
That keeps me downward; while my soul aspires
To something higher, something that she whispers
As far exceeds what we call bliss below,
As man himself excells the vilest worm,
That groveling crawls the earth. Then why for me
This needless anguish? Wou'd you please your Socrates,
Be cheerful still, be gay, as you were wont,
And listen, blithe, to those important truths,
I'll never cease to speak, while life informs
This old and tottering fabrick.

Crito
Chearful, say'st thou?
O Socrates, in vain wou'st thou instruct us
To bear serene the perils, that we fear.
While thus our big-swol[le]n hearts bleed inly for thee,
Too piercing is the anguish that we feel,
E'en to be sooth'd by thee.

Phedon
We mourn, we mourn
For thee our dear-lov'd friend, our blest instructor,
And therefore are we come once more to move thee,
To yield awhile to this thy pressing danger.
Well do we know the firmness of thy soul;
Dauntless she views the rancour of her foes,
And smiles at all the efforts of their fury.
But oh! forgive us, if we urge thy flight;
Evade at present what will else destroy thee:
The citizens will yet return to reason,
Soon will they wonder at their own mad folly,
And blush to think they e'er could hurt their Socrates.

Plato
Then to thy wishing friends mayst thou return,
With glory soon; again from thee they'll hear
The words of wisdom, nay, the words of life;
For what is life without that heavenly guide,
To lead us onward to eternal day?
Consider; Oh! reflect, if thou art lost,
We lose the hand that guides us, and again
Sink in that rayless state, wherein the world
Long time had grop'd in vain, till heaven sent thee
To drive the darkness, and illume our hearts.

Socrates
What means my Plato? how! must Socrates
Fly from his country like some villain—traytor,
Who bears within him all the guilt, for which
He fears the just resentment of his citizens?
Is life so very valuable, that he
Must give the lie to what himself had taught,
Poorly resign his yet-unsullied fame,
And bid farewel to all his peace of mind,
Meanly to save it? Never, friends, o never,
Shall your Preceptor thus condemn his Doctrines.

Plato
Sure when a desperate enemy resolves
To ruin worth, any by fallacious arts
Betray that virtue which he hates to death;
The guiltless sufferer can fear, no stain
Will soil his honest praise, if he awhile
Leaves his ungrateful country, and retires,
Till she at length recovers from her madness,
With tears calls back her dear, her injur'd patriot,
With open arms receives him to her bosome,
Owns her offence, and begs him to forgive her.

Socrates
The man, that flies the justice of his country,
Must have some inward reason for his conduct;
He wou'd not fly but that his conscious mind
Urges his flight;—he knows too well he's guilty,
And therefore he escapes; I know my innocence,
And therefore am resolv'd to stand my trial.
O friends, conceive the transport I must feel
To hear my foes with all their busy malice
Rack their poor thought to find one single circumstance,
Whereon to ground their cruel accusation.
How shall I smile, to hear the twist and torture
Each harmless word, and each indifferent action,
To mould them to their purpose, but in vain.

Plato
Alass! Thou wilt not see the fearful danger:
The people, when a noisy Orator
Pleads 'gainst exalted merit, quick enflam'd
By his insidious, his bewitching eloquence,
Lose all destinction soon 'twixt right and wrong,
And madly vote to death the man they love,
The man by whom they live, by whom they're free.

Phedon
Hast thou forgot, how those unhappy chiefs,
Who fought victorious at the Arginuse,

At the naval battle of Arginusae off Lesbos (406 B.C.), the Athenian fleet decisively defeated the Spartans, but the victors were unable to rescue the crews of some of their sinking ships. For this the Athenians arrested, tried, and executed six of their admirals.

And dyed the azure main with Spartan blood,
The blood of enemies that struck at Athens,
Fell victims to an inflam'd populace?
What was their crime? fatal necessity.
The winds, the waves, the very gods oppos'd them;
Yet still they suffer'd; nor their own high merit,
Nor even thou, tho' nobly didst thou plead
In their defense, cou'dst save them from their fate,

Socrates' defense of the six accused admirals may be found in Plato, Apology 32b-32c, and Xenophon, Hellenica 1.7.

Crito
They perish'd—so wilt thou—remember yet;
Thy Alcibiades

Rather than face trial for impiety due to the multilation of the Hermae, Alcibiades fled in 415 B.C. to Sparta. See Act 1, Scene 2, note 4. His advice to the Spartans in the Peloponnesian War contributed significantly to their eventual victory over Athens. Alcibiades, an open traitor condemned to death by Athens and cursed for sacrilege, was a supposed pupil of Socrates. This association was a critical factor in public opinion relative to Socrates' alleged corruption of the youth of the city.

cou'd boast a soul
Equal to ev'ry danger; yet he thought
It well befitted his high fortitude
To avoid his partial trial, when he knew
His judges were his foes, and stood determin'd
To satiate their resentment with his blood.

Socrates
In vain are these examples urg'd—I still
Will front the danger, be it e'er so dreadful.
But why do I say, danger? Life to me
Long time hath worn indifference. Even now
Death hath not one poor terror to appall me:
And, if such base injustice sways my country,
Meanly to yield to my causeless foes,
Tho' well ascertain'd of my innocence;
I'll meet this death, this bug-bear to mankind
E'en as a courteous friend that kindly takes me
From a base world, which knows not how to value
A patriot-citizen, devoid of guile,
Who only sought the welfare of his country.

Plato
Yet let Xantippe, let your children plead;
Yet live for them—your little innocents
Deserve your life, as long as heaven will grant it.
Tis sure not like a father, thus to waste it,
When their young tender years demand support
From thy directing hand—O think, think of them,
Think, what they lose, when they're bereav'd of thee.

Socrates
Xantippe and my children share my heart:
Forbid it, heaven, that shou'd want for them,
That strong affection, which our common mother
Enforces to the meanest of her offspring!
Yet still there is a more coercive law,
Which the mind will obey; and, when that tells me
To stay and face the malice of my foes;
I think, I'm well absolv'd, if to that pow'r,
Who ever guards the orphan and the widow
I leave them, with a firm and holy confidence,
That he will be to them a friend, a father.

Scene 3d

Socrates, Xantippe, Plato, Phedon, Crito
Socrates
Thy looks are wild, Xantippe, and thou tremblest—

Xantippe
Ah! Socrates, have I not cause to tremble,
When thy inveterate enemies combine
To take thee from me, and will sure succeed,
Merely 'cause thou art wanting to thyself;
When thou goest on in thy old beaten track,
Like one forsaken by the gods he scorns,
To teach those doctrines whence they form thy ruin,
And art indifferent to what ill betides
Thy little ones or me.

Socrates
You wrong me much,
To think youself or them to me indifferent.
I bear about me all the tender passions,
That throb the husband's and the parent's breast;
And wou'd be all an honest man can be
For your support. But tell me, wou'dst thou have me,
Now, that I'm tott'ring on the on the verge of fate,
And death by natural means must very soon
Divorce me from thee, meanly save a life;
That can't be long of much emoulment
To them or thee? I never can, Xantippe—
Haply my enemies may not succeed,
And Athens have that great regard to justice,
Not to condemn an innocent old man,
Only because the wicked rage against him.
But if it is resolv'd that I must fall,
For thy dear sake, and for my children's sake,
I will not, must not finish with dishonour
A life, as yet unstain'd with guilt or baseness;
I must not meanly fly, but dare the danger,
And bravely suffer, as a good man ought.

Xantippe
Ridiculous! But such hath ever been
Thy life's wild conduct. Vainly dost thou boast
Thy wise philosophy, if this th'event,
Thou'lt suffer, how?—like a delirious fool,
Who in a fever's rage eludes his keepers
And plunges in the flood—the same thy madness;
Drunk with thy idle sistems, wild with notions
Of what thou can'st not know, thou hast brav'd our gods,
Derided our religion; warp'd our youth,
And made thyself obnoxious to the state;
And yet thou calmly talk'st of innocence!
They'll not condemn an innocent old man;
I'll bravely suffer, as a good man ought.
Stuff! stuff! mere stuff!—ah! Socrates, thou say'st
Thou art old; thou art so; for thou doatest Socrates;
And all thou say'st, is folly, mere, rank folly.

Socrates
Have patience, my Xantippe

Xantippe
Patience? preach it
To thy kind friends, to Melitus and Lycon;
They'll listen most attentive; yes; they'll hear thee
With most observant reverence—preach to them—
They'll be thy Platos, Phedons, Critos—all
Their passions will be sooth'd no doubt to peace,
When thou preach patience to them; they'll no more
Plot 'gainst a poor and innocent old man;
They will admire thy virtue and thy wisdom;
Thy wondrous virtue, that can leave thy wife—
Thy children—in the most severe distress—
Thy wisdom, that can bid thee not t' evade
The ills that threat thee—Heavens! can this be wisdom!
Can this be virtue?—Curse such hair-brain'd maxims—
And yet I wou'd preserve thee—I shall rave—
Say, wilt thou save thyself?

Socrates
As how?

Xantippe
Why fly,
Fly till the storm is over.

Socrates
No, Xantippe,
I cannot fly—

Xantippe
Thou can'st not? Driveling wretch!
The gods are even with thee for thy madness;
They will repay thee for thy wild contempt;
They now laugh at thee; for their high abodes
They dart their vengeance, and thou diest their victim;
Infatuated fool! thou diest their victim.
O I cou'd tear myself to atoms—Thus
To see thee—Heavens? my brain—Curse on—O Socrates!
—Dull stupid wretch! Thou art not worth my tears.

Scene 4th

Socrates, Plato, Phedon, Crito
Socrates
Strong is the virulence of female passion;
Poor woman! how her boistrous temper sways her!
And yet she loves me with sincere affection
'Mid all this tirant-madness that deforms her—
But tis beneath philosophy, to heed
A woman's idle rage.

Plato
O Socrates
Greatly she's worthy of your kind regard;
Her soul's bewilder'd in the killing fears
Of your approaching danger; and she knows not,
By nature violent, in her distress
To moderate her anguish.

Socrates
Therefore be she
No more the subject of our thoughts at present:
For you, for her, and for the tender pledges
Of our most holy loves, I will do all,
I will bear all the humane heart can bear.
But there's one rule I must constant follow;
The rule my soul imposes on herself:
I have already said, I can't transgress it.
Great are the transport of an honest conscience,
E'en in the severest trials! he that knows
That he means well; and by that inward law
Hath modell'd all his actions, stands secure,
Tho' all around is waste and desolation.
Tis this compels me to my present conduct:
Think not, tis vanity directs my heart;
I know too well our nature, to be vain.
I will be Socrates, will be the man
I've ever taught mankind; and if my foes
Prevail, and I'm unjustly doom'd to suffer,
I'll die as I have liv'd,—I will die Socrates.

Scene 5th

Apame, Melitus
Apame
At length I've found you, Brother; long you've shunn'd me,
As if Apame's presence were unwelcome;
The cause yourself best knows; but sure you need not
Fear the reproaches of a simple sister.

Melitus
I own, I fled your presence for a while,
'Cause well I know your high attachment to
The man your brother hates—I blame you not—
Phedon's pathetick eloquence hath power—
But therefore I declin'd a conversation,
Guessing the mighty purport of your errand.

Apame
An errand, Melitus, that much concerns you:
For know, your malice 'gainst the godlike Socrates,
Rebounds upon yourself—You may succeed;
But sure, unhappy youth, you only work
Your own perdition; your insidious wiles
Will in the end ensnare you in a ruin
I dread to think of.

Melitus
Then e'en spare thy terrors
For me, dear sister, I despise that ruin,
But say, what ruin? Brave, don't I defend
Our country-gods, whom this vain man insults?
Will they desert me, when in their own honour
I firmly dare? When I assert their godhead,
And strive to save their temples from contempt?
No sister; they're themselves too much concern'd
T'expose the man, who fights their cause, to ruin.

Apame
Ah! brother; vainly dost thou urge a plea;
Which can't convince one single soul that knows thee.
The worship of the gods affect thee little.
Long might they mourn their want of votaries,
Their shrines neglected, their forsaken altars,
Did not thy own resentment trail thee in
To their assistance.—Socrate's friendship
His gen'rous candour, and his honest zeal
To wean thee from thy idle, fond amusements
The stupid figments of a poet's brain,
Words without meaning; and to lure thee thence
To solid studies, such as wou'd inform thee
In life's importance, and advance thy soul
To real pleasures—this his love for thee
Hath rais'd thy spleen, and drives thee to repay him
With such ingratitude as wants a name.
Therefore thou join'st the villain Anytus,
And ideot Lycon; one, a half-learn'd fool
Fraught with his empty self; the other, Heavens!
A wretch the meanest, guiltiest, most abandon'd
Of all that plagues our Athens—worthy fellowship!

Melitus
Well sister, hast thou learn'd thy sexes talent;
Thou bandiest purely; but pray I stope

Apparently Cradock refers to the fable that Melitus was put to death by remorseful Athenians who erected a statue in Socrate's honor. Taylor, Socrates, p. 118.

no more;
My friends will laugh at all thy woman's railing;
Nor think thy modest appellations worth
A wise man's notice—still, if thou art prudent,
Thou wilt forbear, and not provoke me farther—
I may perhaps forget I am thy brother.

Apame
These threats to me, dear Melitus, are idle;
I have, as well becomes me, all the love,
Nay, all the reverence, you can claim as brother.
Yet sure there's something due unto a sister,
The rather, when her tenderness alarms her,
And she forbodes some very sad event
From her dear brother's conduct. If he's angry
Merely because she fears he may regret
The steps he's blindly following, she will pity him,
But smiles—contemptuous at his empty threats.

Melitus
Well; my pert sister, I'll for once be calm,
And hear the wondrous lesson thou wou'dst teach me,
Tho' much compliance sits but awkward on me.

Apame
Away with this derision! More important
Is the sad subject of our present converse.
You're tempting your own fate; and, like the bestial,
That heedless roves the flow'ry plain along,
That feeds securely on the verdant herbage,
Nor views the dreadful precipice before him,
Till suddenly he tumbles down it's height;
Gaily you rush into your own destruction.
The cruel prosecution you intend
'Gainst Socrates, whatever flattering dream
Deludes you on, will have most woeful issue.
Say, you succeed—oft-times the gods permit
A good man's fall, for wise and secret ends,
Which puzzle man with all his boasted wisdom.
But be assur'd the wretched instruments
Of these their sacred counsels are by them
Devoted to inevitable ruin.

Melitus
Full learnedly, Apame, hast thou pleaded;
I fancy Phedon understands his business;
He tutors well; and, I will do thee justice,—
His charming pupil hath a coming genius.

Apame
Twice you've unkindly mention'd Phedon to me;
O Melitus, wou'd you but act like him,
Your sister's aching heart wou'd be at peace;
The horrid image that now strikes her soul
With fearful horrors, strait wou'd disappear,
And leave her calm and easy.

Melitus
What Enigma
Is this that thou wou'dst fain unravel to me?

Apame
It is my brother's pale and haggard carcase,
Drag'd by a ruthless mob along the street,
Spurn'd and insulted by each scoundrel citizen,
That now applauds thee; nay, while yet thou liv'st,
Me thinks e'en now I see thee scorn'd and loath'd;
Not one will speak to thee; they shun thee, like
The most abhor'd production of wild nature;
And thou at length will thank the executioner
For the kind blow that rids thee of thy being.
Say, can thy sister think this without horror?
And yet her fancy paints it to her view
In colours still more hideous.

Melitus
Well sayst thou
Thy fancy forms this to thee.—Pray, Apame,
No more of these imaginary terrors.
I stand resolv'd; and, were th'event to prove
As thy sick mind hath imag'd, such strong hate
My soul

Note how Melitus has adopted the Socratic notion of a soul. See also Anytus's comments, scene 7, line 9.

resentful bears thy idol, Socrates,
That I wou'd dare the horrors thou hast painted.
Away!—I'll hear no more thy wild surmises—
Why, thou hast rais'd such phantoms, as e'en shock
My firmest powers—Be gone, or I shall something
That—prithee, leave me.

Apame
Yes, I will be gone;
Unhappy Melitus, thou bidst me leave thee;
And oh! forgive a sister's pious prayer,
May the tumultuous passion, which now writches thee,
End in a fair resolve to quit thy purpose,
And free Apame from her killing fears.

Scene the 6th

Melitus
Gods! how she hath unman'd me! She has drawn
A shocking pourtrait—say, shou'd it prove real?
Why, be it so;—the man, that dares a guilt,
Must have a soul like mine, which braves the gods
To thwart it's purpose.—Socrates, I hate thee;
And thou shalt pay me ample retribution.
My friends?—I thank them; they are come in time,
To firm me 'gainst the horrors she hath rais'd.

Scene the 7th

Melitus, Anytus, Lycon
Melitus
I've had a glorious lecture from my sister,
Why; the girl's grown a mere philosopher;
And mouths her maxims, out as well as Socrates;
Had not my soul been iron-proof against her,
I shou'd have faulter'd—

Anytus
Sure the noble Melitus
Will laugh at a weak woman's idle reasonings.
The sex will oft assume a fancied power,
And rate it shrewdly; but they're tinsel arguers;
The man, whose soul is constant to herself,
Carries with ease the pretty things they say.

Melitus
Nay; had she spoke with sevenfold eloquence,
With all the energy of Hermes,

Hermes or Mercury was the Greek messenger god and the patron of eloquence.

still
Her eloquence were fruitless—I am determin'd,
Nor all the powers of heav'n or hell can move me.
Can shake my soul, or alter her resolve.

A fane is a temple.

Lycon
Spoke like my friend, and now we soon shall see
How this sage reasoner, this intrepid Socrates,
This mighty man of wisdom will behave,
Aw'd by the solemn presence of a court,
And all his baleful schemes produc'd against him.
Tis well, if his philosophy supports him:
He'll then appear like other common mortals,
Sunk in his fears, and cover'd with confusion.

Anytus
No; Lycon, no; his philosophick pride
Will bear him up against us; we shall see him
E'en smile contempt upon us: 'Twere unworthy
Of the wise Socrates to hint a fear.
Therefore he'll summon all his hoard of maxims,
All he hath gather'd from a long experience,
To arm his haughty stubborn soul against us:
For tis the boast of madmen, like himself,
Not to confess their frenzy, but stand out
E'en Against the strongest Evidence.

Melitus
We'll prove him;
We'll work up all his patience; I'm deceiv'd,
Or we shall make him totter on the basis
Of his assum'd Integrity—Be it
Firm and immoveable, as he pretends,
We'll undermine, till like a tumbling tower
It falls at length in hideous ruins on him,
And crushes him to atoms.

Anytus
Twill be so;
He ne'er can stand th'assault—he falls—he dies.
And then, my friends, our souls will be at ease;
Our virtues too our own without a monitor;
Our youth will tread the good old path
Of their forefathers; Heaven will have it's votaries;
Our sacred fanes,

A fane is a temple.

as usual, will be throng'd
With hallow'd victims; Athens rise anew
In wonted glory; horrid war forbear
To fright her matrons and her tender maids;
O'er distant realms supreme once more she'll reign,
And hold her envied empire o'er the main.

Act 3d

Scene 1st

Phedon, Apame
Phedon
This day, this solemn day, my dear Apame,
Will stand recorded in Athenian Annals,
As the most black and dismal: Not the period,
When Heav'n sent forth the raging pestilence,
When the dank air we breath'd was big with death,
And Athens shew'd a heap of carcases,
Will wear a gloomier aspect to posterity.
Our after-race must blush to read, their fathers
Brought to an infamous, a cruel trial
The man, whose virtues made their state renown'd
Bove all the Grecian Cities; heav'n, they'll cry,
Had let the Furies loose, and given them leave
To dart their venom in each Attick

Attica was the region in Greece where Athens was located.

breast.
O Athens! O my country! how my soul
Indignant glows, that she within thy walls
First view'd yon glorious sun!

Apame
Thou art happy, Phedon,
Thou hast been a steady friend to Socrates:
Hast shewn a soul well worthy his instructions,
Nor will desert him in the day of evil;
Thou hast no brother, whose prepost'rous hate,
Whose perverse enmity, to worth, to virtue,
Can give thy heart a pang.—Too wretched I!
Long as I've lov'd that venerable sage,
And almost reverenc'd him as a divinity,
When I reflect, the man that calls me sister,
That drew his first, his infant-nourishment
From the same honour'd breast, resolves his ruin,
And joins with impious men against his life;
How I am struck with horror at the thought?
How I am lost in my excess of misery?

Phedon
Strange! that a man who in the spring of life
Promis'd a glorious harvest of brave actions,
Shou'd thus run counter to his fair beginnings,
And hate that virtue, which he once rever'd!
We then were friends; at least I call'd him mine,
And with delight I saw him close attend
The virtuous Socrates, and catch each sentiment—
As it came from him—How alass! he's chang'd!
Sure some malignant Planet sways his conduct,
And drives him head long on the guilty course,
He now with such determin'd will pursues.

Apame
Oh! he is lost, my Phedon, he is lost;
The gods have destin'd him to be the dupe
Of his remorseless folly;—Late I saw him,
And strove to win him from his dread design;
In vain—his fury rose—his form look'd madness—
Wild were his eyes—his voice grew loud and rageful,
And he in heighth of passion drove me from him.

Phedon
How I am mov'd at thy too just complainings?
O my Apame, Life is fraught with misery;
Few are our joys and many are our woes.
For me, had they denied me thy dear love,
If thou hadst not with kind compassion heard me,
Heard my fond suit, and bad me hope, that time
Might ballance all my miseries with thee,
Sure I shou'd sink beneath the pondrous load.

Apame
Ah! Phedon, cease t'indulge this weakness farther;
T'will but delude thee—Heaven forbids our loves—
Far from each other we must fly for ever;
Must bid adieu to ev'ry fond desire,
Each tender thought that knit our souls together;
I can't be thine—I must not—Nature, virtue,
The ties of blood, the rigid laws of honour,
Severly bar me from thee.

Phedon
Aweful powers!
What do I hear? Apame now forbid me
T'indulge my faithful love!—It must not be!
O thou art all to me the Gods can grant,
And, if I lose thee, Heaven hath not beneath it
A wretch more lost in misery than Phedon.

Apame
Phedon, be calm; to thy impartial reason
Will I appeal, and she'll I'm sure, acquit me.
My brother is the foe of Socrates,
Th'inveterate foe, and e'en to death pursues him.
However guilty, he is still my brother,
A Brother too, for all his wayward conduct
Something within commands me still to reverence.
Say, can I marry then the youth, whose friendship
For that illustrious, that much injur'd sage,
Must make him look on Melitus with hatred,
As on the base destroyer of his friend?
How wou'd it suit with thy Apame's virtue,
With that chaste fame she values far above
All that mistaken man calls great and splendid,
To lose herself in softnesses of love,
So to be led away by her fond folly,
As to forget that great, that innate law
Nature makes indispensable, forget
My brother is my brother, thou his enemy?
No Phedon, never can Apame's soul
Bear the reflection of so wild a conduct.

Phedon
Good heavens! Where am I? Are they all a dream,
These golden hopes, that have thus long entranc'd me?
To all the dreaded woes, that now alarm me,
Must this be added yet?—Apame lost!
Apame never mine!—Assist me, fair one,
Say something to relieve thy sinking Phedon,
Or, like the bark, that on the stormy surge
Hath long been tost, the sport of raging winds,
And sinks at length deep down to the opening gulph.
I fall victim to my love and thee.

Apame
Alass! what can I say to ease thy anguish?
That I have lov'd thee—witness, ye chaste Stars,
Witness, ye holy powers, that know our hearts,
And search the inmost passions lurking there;
Long have I lov'd thee, and to death will bear
The virtuous flame—but oh! Apame can
No more—

Phedon
How I am lost in many sorrows?
Thou lov'st me, my Apame! What avails
This fond confession, if I still must live
Unblest without thee, and must languish out
A tedious, hated life in dread despair?

Apame
Learn, Phedon, to support the awards of Heaven
With noble fortitude, with true philosophy;
And copy with more firmness thy great master.
He sets a glorious pattern—act like him.
This is unmanly whining—if he falls,
All I can promise, since I can't be thine,
Is, ne'er to be another's—if he lives,
(But oh! my heart forebodes, the god's decree,
That he must fall, and by my brother's means)
Yet, if he lives, and Melitus at length
Sees and laments his present wayward conduct,
I'll only say, that life without my Phedon
Will be a burden heavier to my soul,
Than to the chained slave, that tugs the oar,
And hourly dies beneath a tirant-lord.

Phedon
Too slender solace for my bleeding heart!
And yet I thank thee—yes; thy Phedon thanks thee.
O may high Heaven with piteous eye look down
On our transcendant loves!—But I'm all fear—
My trembling heart—forgive me, my Apame—
But when I think what I shall lose in thee,
Oh!—I will copy my great Master's firmness,
I'll copy thee—Do thou, my virtuous maid,
Support me—O I wou'd, wou'd hope, and yet
Some envious demon glooms upon my soul,
And e'en forbids my hope—O help me, Socrates,
Help me, Apame; help me all that virtue,
That I've imbib'd from Socrates and thee.

Scene 2d

Socrates, Plato, Phedon, Crito, and others his friends attending him to his trial
Socrates
No, Plato; no, my youths; it must not be.
Dear is the offer of your friendly hearts,
And Socrates will to his dying hour
Retain a kind remembrance of your love.
For me you shan't expose your precious lives
To needless dangers, to the rude resentment
Of a licentious people—I'm prepar'd
Gainst the worst fury of my mad accusers;
And can myself support my character.
Good Heaven hath not so left me; I can plead
With firmest resolution all my services,
My constant, faithful services to Athens,
And, if they will condemn me, they shall own,
Spite of their malice, that I die unjustly.

Plato
That the kind powers have blest thy sapient tongue
With all the energy of soft persuasion;
That virtues like thy own might well reject
The feeble aid of our imperfect eloquence;
That the severest trials of ill fortune
Cannot unnerve thy firm and manly soul,
We're well assur'd—But yet forgive thy friends,
If they still hope, their faithful cares may prove
Of solid service to thee 'gainst their slanders.
Mean tho' our powers of speech, we yet may urge
Something, that in the hurry of thy thoughts,
May slip thy memory, of great import—

Socrates
Alass! of what emolument to me
All you can say? my judges, if they're just,
From my own mouth will be convinc'd—However,
I'll be my own defender, and assert
My innocence of soul with honest freedom:
Firm and serene I'll meet the pouring tempest,
And smile at all the horrors they wou'd raise.

Plato
And can thy pupils, they, who've learn'd from thee
The road to wisdom, and the paths of peace
Whose tender minds thou hast form'd with pious care,
And, kind, instructed in each godlike virtue,
Silent, can they behold thee stand alone
Gainst the united malice of thy enemies,
And not reach out their helping hand? Must tears
And patient suffering only be their share,
And not one word drop from them to defend thee?
Much twill alleviate our heart-piercing sorrows,
If we're allow'd to plead thy righteous cause,
To shew Mankind that not in barren soil
Thou hast planted thy own virtues; that we know
Our heavy loss in being bereav'd of thee,
And will dare all that honour bids, to save thee.

Socrates
Enough, dear youths; I do believe, you love me,
And tis no moderate solace to my soul,
That I've not toil'd in vain'; that you deserve
My cares and labours.—Greatly it rejoices me,
To know, if Heaven determines I shall die,
That I shall leave in Athens worthy men,
Firm patriots like myself, sincere to friendship,
True to their country's interest and to virtue;
For such, I'm sure, are you—pursue the track
With steady resolution—but you will.
For me, you have my thanks; but know, 'twill pain me
More than my trial, to involve my friends
In the same ruin—Leave me to myself;
I shall not be dismay'd; my steady soul
Suffices 'gainst the assaults of all their fury,
And will repel their slanders—let us on;
The venerable court is set, and I
Wou'd not delay their more important business
For an old man, not worth the mighty pother,
Some wild and busy heads have made about him.

Scene the 3d

The Court of the Areopagus in the open air
The orator's
desk

Melitus, Anitus, Lycon, as accusers of Socrates, with the Athenian populace attending them: After some time enter Socrates, Plato, Crito, Phedon and numbers of the Athenian youth; he gay and cheerful, they under the greatest dejection.

Areopagus

Give out the business of the day.

Crier
reads

Melitus, son of Melitus of the people of Pythos

accuses Socrates, son of Sophroniscus of the people of Alopece.

Areopagus

Read the accusation.

Crier

Socrates is criminal, because he acknowledges not the gods, that the republick acknowledges; and because he introduces new deities; he is farther criminal, because he corrupts the youth.

Areopagus
Bid Melitus stand forth.

Crier

Melitus son of Melitus of the people of Pythos, appear and prove your accusation against Socrates son of Sophroniscus of the people of Alopece.

Melitus
ascends the Orator's desk and speaks.

Socrates
to his friends
Heavens! what a stranger am I to myself?
Say, friends, am I this wretch, this impious parricide?
If Melitus hath search'd my heart so deeply,
And found these dreadful mischiefs lurking there,
Sure never man was more unknown to man
Than Socrates to Socrates.

Melitus
To strengthen
What I've asserted 'gainst this vile deluder,
The worthy Anitus and gen'rous Lycon
Men of sincere affection to the state,
Faithful and active in their country's interest,
Are both prepar'd and willing to support me.

Areopagus
Let them attend, and speak their thoughts with freedom.

Anitus
Small is the trouble I shall give the senate;
I have not learn'd the niceties of speech,
And can but bluntly say what I've to offer.
Nay, tis with great reluctance I appear
Against the man that once I call'd my friend.
But when I see to what irreverent use
His talents are applied; when I observe,
Against those very gods that gave him all
The wondrous faculties he justly boasts,
He lavishes their blessings, and does outrage
To all that we hold sacred and divine,
When the wild listless youth of this great city
Run after him, and catch with eager gape
Each impious tenet he profanely utters;
When Heaven must soon lament it's want of votaries;
And the avenging gods, justly incens'd
At our neglect of their most holy worship,
Will curse this city with severest evils,
Will sink us deep in most deserv'd distress,
In woes more fatal than we've felt already,
Unless we timely hinder the result
Of their tremendous anger, I no more
Look on the ties of friendship to be binding:
And therefore I conjure you, rev'rend Senators,
As you are men of Athens, as you're citizens,
That have the welfare of the state at heart,
To rouse yourselves against these threatening perils,
To clear your city of these novel doctrines,
T'assert your gods, and most severely punish
The man who dares to speak against their power,
That dares deny their providence and being,

Phedon
aside
Poor tender Anitus! his righteous conscience
Can't bear the least infringement on the rites
Of his dear country. Sure his virtuous heart
Is clear from ev'ry stain of base injustice.

Lycon
It is no mean offender, ye Athenians
Today demands your cognisance; if ever
Presumptious man hath dar'd beyond forgiveness
Or of the gods or you, this vain declaimer
Against our hallow'd rites, this mighty reasoner
In speculative knowledge, this arraigner
Of our dread gods is he.—I wou'd be calm,
I wou'd be master of myself, my faculties,
While I lay forth the insolent attempts
Of his insidious heart. But when already
We feel the fatal issue of his conduct,
When even now our gods dart down their vengeance
In fearful bolts of wrath; and Athens mourns
Almost in Ashes their severe displeasure,
Say, can a citizen, can one that Loves
His dear maternal land, command his utterance,
And speak with temper?—O reflect, Athenians,
Consider coolly the successive evils
That long have ravag'd this devoted city;
Then say, if all the gods have not conspir'd
To pour destruction on us.—Why, my countrymen,
Why are we thus the objects of their wrath?
Why? 'Cause an old irreverend dotard lures you
To horrid guilt—grown desperate in impiety,
He charges you with folly in your worship,
Deprives high Heav'n of it's undoubted powers,
And quite annihilates it's blest inhabitants.
Are ye asleep, Athenians? Lo! Your youth,
Mad with his baneful dogmas, slight the temples,
No more the consecrated victim bleeds;
No more the solemn vows are paid;—nay further,
He draws them from the duties of relation;
In vain with his ungracious son the father,
In vain the mother, pleads parental cares.
Their children fly their precepts, and return
Unnatural ingratitude—Can this,
Can this be pleasing to the powers divine?
Will Athens flourish, when the holy bond
That shou'd subsist between a child and parent,
Is thus dissolv'd?—Let our experience teach us.
What an abandon'd wretch was Alcibiades?
What a remorseless savage tirant, Critias?
These left their friends to listen to his lore;
These were his pupils; these had long imbib'd
His boasted maxims; these were once his favourites,
And bore the appellation of his sons.
Awake, ye rev'rend Senators; no more
Sleep in the dangers that alarm the state;
Call forth your courage, let your country rouse you;
Be just, be earnest—Heaven and earth conjoin,
And claim your verdict 'gainst this dangerous man.
He will, I know, endeavour to amuse you;
He'll soothe you to forgive him; he'll smooth over
His base detested conduct—but beware—
He hath a winning, a bewitching eloquence;
His words are oil, but oh! there lurks within
Poison of killing force; and, if you hear him,
If to the magick of his tongue you yield,
I can but mourn the ruin of my country,
Shall weep, religion, thy deserted altars,
Shall wail, dear liberty, thy fall in Athens.

Plato
aside
O eloquence, what a pernicious bane
Thy beauties are, when basely they're adapted
To screen a villain, or defame the good.

Areopagus
Who speaks for the defendant?

Socrates
Even he
That best knows how to answer his accurers

(Plato attempts to mount the desk)
Plato, forbear; thou dost me great injustice
To think I want assistance 'gainst a heap
Of falsehood so absurd; if Athens boasts
An honest senate, I've no cause to fear.
E'en their own hearts will plead with them for Socrates,
And safely guard him 'gainst such frontless malice.

1 Areopagus
Gods! he e'en braves the senate.

2 Areopagus
Let him on
He'll say enough to make him guilty.

Socrates
Whence comes it, ye Athenians, that I am charg'd
With a denial of our country-Gods?
Have I not always worship'd in their temples?
Have I not always bow'd before their altars?
What festal days hath Athens e'er ordain'd
That I have not kept holy? Many are there
Can prove my presence, there, and Melitus,
Had he so will'd, might have observ'd me too.
They say, I introduce new deities:
What are they, Senators? inform me, do.
I own I'm ignorant, unless to say,
The voice of God directs me, is, to assert
Some novel deity you have not known.
They who divine by thunder, they that mark
The notes of birds, the priestess on her tripod,
Are they not guided by the voice divine?
What difference, tell me? only this, that I,
Pious as well as wise, ascribe to Heav'n,
What only they ascribe to second causes,
to mediate powers, whence they derive their Omens.
Alass! no base design, no wicked purpose
Hath ever swayed my heart: if heav'n declares
That I am wise, I sent not Cherephon

See above, act 1, scene 6, line 13.

To Delphos to enquire; and yet the God
Pronounc'd me more than wise,—both just and free.
But why am I not so? No slave to sense,
Above temptation, faithful to my poverty,
Still searching after knowledge, teaching others
What have I learn'd myself; Is this not wisdom,
Is this not justice, freedom, all that's right,
All that is grateful in the eyes of men,
Nay, I'll go farther, in the eye of Heaven?
Thus many of our citizens have thought,
Thus all the virtuous in the states of Greece
To me they've travell'd; and from me, well-pleas'd,
Imbib'd the maxims of philosophy.
But I corrupt your youth;—What youth corrupted?
Name even one, who with a mind sincere
Ador'd the gods, that I have made an infidel;
Name one remark'd for chaste and modest bearing,
That I have render'd impudent and leud;
Name any sober, frugal, hardy, brave,
That have become debauch'd, or profligate,
Or coward, or effeminate, from pursuing
The rigid path I've pointed to their steps.

Melitus
Many there are, unthinking, heedless youth,
Who, tho' regardless of a parent's will,
Bear most submissive reverence to thee,
And pay thee the submission that they owe
To them alone or Heaven.

Socrates
They have obey'd me
In following virtue; I was their preceptor;
Their parents knew not how to teach them wisdom,
And therefore they applied themselves to me.
Who heeds relation in a dangerous fever?
Is it their parent's counsel that they take
Or the Physician's? In the trade of war,
The general's skill, and not his friends are weigh'd.
Instruction is my province; therefore justly
Submissive reverence from them is my due.
Is this a cause, why I shou'd suffer death?
Is this so dread an evil to the state,
That nothing but my life can recompence
The mischiefs I have done?—Speak, Anitus;
Speak, Lycon, Melitus—but, O my judges,
Let them succeed; they hurt not Socrates
Death bears to me no terrors.—who can say,
Whether he is an happiness or evil?
But he that dreads him, for that very reason
Can not be wise—however he may palliate
His servile fears—his soul's estrang'd from wisdom.

The Areopagus consult for some time, and by their Suffrages bring him in guilty.
Areopagus
The justice of the senate, Socrates.
Hath found thee guilty; and thy punishment
By law is death—However, if thou'lt
Pay the fine awarded, thou'rt allow'd to live.

Socrates
A fine? for what Athenians? I a fine?
Yours is uncommon justice—Innocence
Hath ever sway'd my conduct; and no guilt
Cleaves to my soul; and she shall ne'er upbraid me,
That, dastard-like, I'd meanly save a life
I ever held indifferent at the forfeit
Of what I hold most dear, my fame and virtue.

Plato
O Socrates, have pity on your friends,
Your relatives, your country—curb a little
This grandeur of thy soul; impartial men
Will ne'er conceive thee guilty, and thy life
May yet be long a blessing to the world.

Socrates
No, Plato; were the wealth of Athens mine,
I wou'd not buy my life so basely from them.
But since they're in suspence, myself will rate
My services—be this my punishment.
As I've been ever faithful to my country:
Have frelly shed my blood in her defence,
And sav'd her noblest citizens from death,
Have taught her yout the road to solid glory,
To real virtue, and immortal happiness,
The publick shall maintain me, while I live,
A cheap reward for what I've done for them.

The Areopagus shew marks of high resentment, and after some consultation give the final sentence.
Areopagus
Thy haughty soul, thou son of Sophroniscus,
Compels us to condemn thee; therefore be it
As thy high crimes deserve—the poison'd bowl
Thy portion;—when arrives the sacred ship
From Delos' hallow'd Isle, that day's they last.
Be on thyself thy blood—dismiss the court.

Scene 4th

Socrates and his friends returning from the trial. Guards attending.
Socrates
Tis then determin'd, and I die, Athenians;
Why then I leave a base ungrateful world,
And hie me to those calm, those blessed regions
Where misery is no more, and all is peace.
Forbear, my friends; these unavailing tears
Betray unmanly weakness; tis beneath
Philosophy, to weep and grieve like women.
Compose your hearts; and bear my loss with firmness,
Like men that have not learn'd in vain my lessons.

Crito
O Socrates, th'injustice of thy country!
That thou so wise, so good, so innocent,
Shou'dst thus be sacrific'd?

Socrates
What means my Crito?
Tis better thus, than die an abject wretch,
Condemn'd by by own heart, my friend's disgrace.
My foes may take my life, but can't deprive me
Of what is more than life and all it's joys,
Unsullied innocence and firm integrity;
They are above their reach, above their malice;
Therefore they hurt not me—Cheer up, my youths—
Come, lead me to the prison—I can die.
The man who walks the path of life sincere,
Nor deviates from the truth, disdains to fear:
Tho' Death each horrid, ghastly form assume,
My hopes are fixed on better world to come:
Long, long ago the arduous task I learn'd
And view his fancied terrors unconcern'd.

Act 4th

Scene 1st

Xantippe, Plato
Xantippe
Ye gods! what hath Xantippe done, to feel
This deep excess of misery?—Life! What art thou?
—A Curse—at least I've found thee so—the brute,
That knows no care but happily enjoys
The present hour, boasts nobler bliss than man.
He roves along the fields in joyous plight,
Selects his food, drinks free the christal stream,
And to the moment of his fate is happy.
But we, that vaunt ourselves superior beings,
That proudly talk of reason and her powers,
What bliss have we? incessant fears alarm us;
Incessant ills o'ertake us; and our joys
So thinly scatter'd, that they fleet unfelt,
Like empty bubbles on a watry mirror.

Plato
This springs from Heaven's peculiar love to man;
Too well he knows, how fond our hearts wou'd grow
Of mundane bliss; and therefore wisely mixes
The cup of life with gall. Sublimer joys,
Than what this life can furnish, he intends
In future, brighter Worlds; but, if our souls
Met here the full completion of their wishes,
They'd grow unfit for more exalted pleasures,
And cling to earth as to their only stay.

Xantippe
These are the idle rants of Socrates,
And he hath madden'd thee with his delusions.
Whence springs this knowledge or to him or thee?
Or why to you alone is given to know
The after-state of men? Tis all mere Rhapsody,
And he, inebriated with his whimsies,
Hath quite cast off all thought of what I feel,
Of what his harmless, helpless children feel,
Knows not the anguish of parental tenderness,
Forgets the love he owes to his Xantippe,
And wraps himself in his ideal prospects
Of something, but of what he does not know:
While I, distracted with my sore distress,
Rave to the Gods in fruitless exclamation,
And have no glympse of hope t'allay my sorrows.

Plato
Yet may'st thou hope, that that Omniscient Power,
Whose will he hath ever sought, and taught to others,
Tho' in his boundless wisdom he ordain,
That Socrates must fall, may yet to you
And to your little ones extend his mercy.
He may have glorious reasons for his sufferings,
Beyond our ken; and wou'd exhibit forth
His chosen favourite, as a blest example
To shew to others, how the man of virtue,
The man of wisdom, like to his shou'd act.
You therefore he'll forsake not in affliction,
But still will raise you friends, to heal your griefs,
To aid your wants, and drive away despair.

Xantippe
Alass! thou talkest wildly, Plato; How!
Must Socrates, who boasts that he hath serv'd
This unknown Deity with strict sincerity,
Be given a victim up unto his foes,
And feel the vengeance of their villain-malice;
Yet I, who never had a thought about him,
But worshipped merely as our father worshipp'd,
Regardless how, or whom, I must forsooth!
Be the peculiar object of his favour?
Gods! this is worse that womanish reasoning,
And shews us, how absurdly man will argue,
When he pretends to fathom what he knows not.

Plato
'Twere vain, Xantippe, now to plead submission
To Heaven's high will, to bid thee arm with patience,
Thy soul, too much opprest with sore calamity.
But sure afflictions are not always evils,
And Socrates, me thinks, in future times
Will shine the brighter from his noble conduct
Under the pressure of his present woes.
Like yon gay sun that glads the world with day;
Sometimes a black invidious cloud conceals him,
When he emerging with redoubled vigour,
Darts all his beams with more resplendent glory.

Xantippe
No more of this—to me he's ever lost—
By Socrates, thou'rt gone—thou diest, my Socrates;
But a few hours, and death's unpitying hand
Gives the dread final stroke—O hear me, Heaven!
Hear a lorn widow's prayer—shower down, shower down
Thy deadliest curses on those villain-wretches,
That have bereav'd me of my Socrates:
O let them feel the pangs I suffer now;
Heap all thy vengeance on them, till they groan
In deepest anguish, till they're curs'd like me.

Plato
Restrain, thou consort of my god-like friend,
This mad disorder; yet, if thou'lt be calm,
And bear submissive what the Gods ordain,
Yet may some unexpected change disperse
Thy present woes, and thou again be happy.

Xantippe
Happy? I happy? No; I've long shook hands
With happiness; tis writ in heaven, that I
Must be the most unhappy of my kind.
O I am all affliction—Socrates!
Thou hast brought this misery on me—I forgive thee,
Yet hadst thou listen'd to me, hadst thou yielded
To my persuasions—but tis vain t'upbraid thee
Thou art lost, and I am—O support me, Heav'n!

Scene 2d

Plato
Her killing griefs have so possest her soul,
That 'twere a needless task to speak to her.
I wou'd have told her of our friendly scheme—
To free her Socrates; but, shou'd it fail,
Shou'd he himself (as much I fear) obstruct
The honest mean we've taken to preserve him,
And, obstinate, resolve to die, her grief
Wou'd have return'd with double weight upon her,
And sunk her soul to utter desolation.
But why delay my friends? tis now the hour
They promis'd here to meet me with the gaoler.
If he is firm, and Socrates will hear us,
He'll yet escape, and triumph o'er the malice
Of his invet'rate foes—grant Heaven, he may!

Scene 3d

Plato, Phedon, Crito, Apame, Gaoler
Plato
Welcome, my mournful friends; tis then resolv'd
And you're unanimous t'attempt his rescue?

Phedon
Unanimous? Who wou'd not dare their fate,
To save the man who e'en the gods behold,
With rapturous wonder, from so base a death?

Crito
Yes, Plato, we're resolv'd; and Heaven in pity
To Athens, to relieve her from her shame,
Inspires this generous man to aid our purpose.
He blushes for his country, and determines
To share with us, the brave attempt, or die.

Gaoler
Who, that beholds his great, his god like patience,
His nobleness of suffering, but wou'd join
With earnest resolution, to preserve him?
I am a stranger to philosophy,
Nor know her influence on the sons of men;
But this man's more than humane; his demeanour
Hath in it something of divinity.
Calm and serene he smiles at my compassion,
And bids me not to be concern'd for him;
That life and death he hath weigh'd in equal ballance,
And finds himself indifferent to either.
Oft, when I speak th'inveteracy of those
That work'd his cruel sufferings, strait he pities them,
And begs of Heaven that they may be forgiven.
I heard him with amaze; he won my soul;
And O, were I the humble mean to save him,
Methinks I cou'd forgive the gods, shou'd they
Ordain my death the moment he escap'd.

Plato
Thy honest heart! But doubt not but the gods
Will shower their blessings on thee. Thy regard
For virtue in affliction, claims their goodness,
And they will pay thee worthy recompence.
Why, my good friends, this looks as if the Powers
Above took care of him—let's seize th'occasion,
Spite of himself preserve him, and become
Th'asserters of exalted worth in Athens.

Apame
Yes, ye Athenians, dare the utmost perils,
Bid brave defiance to severest tortures,
Rather than he shou'd fall; the world hath not
In it's extended regions one that mates
With him in virtue. Hapless that I am,
To have my nearest relative his foe,
I'd dare for him above my feeble sex.

Plato
O sweet Apame, worthiest, matchless maid!
How shall I praise thee, as thy worth deserves?
Thy dear esteem for Socrates demands
Our highest gratitude, and makes us almost
Forget, thy cruel brother sought his death.
O thou transcendant excellence! had he
But half thy virtue—O forgive the thought!
I see how it transports thy gentle soul.

Phedon
Gods! how she's mov'd! O Plato, thou hast rais'd
Tumultuous war within her—heavenly fair One,
Summon thy own great virtues to thy aid,
Calm thy afflicted soul—thy Phedon asks thee
Speak solace to thyself—support the conflict—
What can I say to ease thy strugling heart?

Apame
O the severe distress that hangs upon me!
You're all the friends of Socrates—be mine.
Ye know, how I revere him, how I love him;
And oh! if ye succeed (and grant, ye Gods,
They may succeed) have pity on Apame,
And give her back, if possible, her brother.

Scene 4th

Plato, Phedon, Crito, Gaoler
Plato
Her soul is deeply wounded—may the gods
Prosper our righteous scheme, and give her peace.

Crito
We must succeed; he cannot long withstand
Our earnest prayers and tears; do you, my friends
Be ready to admit us; when escap'd
From out the loathsome prison, I'll convey him,
Ere dawn beams forth, beyond the reach of malice.
A gen'rous band of youths, who mourn his fate,
Await our coming at the gate, that leads
To Thebes; They'll there receive the sage with transport,
And safe conduct him to the destin'd place
Of his concealment.

Gaoler
Hence an hour exact,
The prison-doors are open—you be there,
And I'll attend you to him.

Plato
You've our thanks
But that's but poor; you'll have the thanks of Athens.
Believe me, when their present madness leaves them,
And they reflect th'injustice of their conduct
To you illustrious prisoner, much 'twill please them
He hath escap'd their sentence; they will then
Heap with caresses, with assur'd applause,
All that have bravely ventur'd for his safety.

Gaoler
That as they list; the goodness of the deed
Weighs more than me, than e'en a world's applause.

Scene 5th

Anitus, Melitus, Lycon
Lycon
The sacred ship is then return'd from Crete?

Melitus
She is; and now yon cool philosopher
Must yield to fate; few are the hours he numbers,
Ere he is reckon'd with the dead.

Lycon
My soul
Longs for th'important moment, much I fear'd,
His friends wou'd try their utmost power to save him.

Anitus
No doubt they have, and will; but won't succeed;
Their greatest obstacle will be himself;
The senate wou'd have wink'd at his escape;
And had been glad he had evaded punishment.
But here my anchor held; I knew his temper;
I knew he wou'd not fly; he laughs at dying,
And calls the apprehensions mortals form
Of death, the brain's delirium—how? he fly?
What inconsistence? No; that king of terrors
Affrights not him, he'll brave him to the last,
Or rather meet him as a friend.

Melitus
Absurd!
To spurn our gods, and so insult their powers,
And yet presume that, when he goes from hence,
Eternal wretchedness is not his lot!
Fine reasoning this! but so are fools deluded.
Had he, content with what his fathers knew
Liv'd as we liv'd, and, when his country call'd,
Fought, like ourselves, her battles, and been silent,
Nor sought presumptuous things above his sphere,
Of woful issue to the publick weal,
He might have liv'd for Melitus

Lycon
Or me.

Anitus
O say not, had he fought his country's battles;
For righteous cause tho' I've pursued his death,
Yet still I'll do his virtues ample justice.
Myself have seen him—on that fatal day,
When fierce Beotia's sons in Delium's plain
Pour'd their victorious thousands on our troops,
And we, like timerous flocks, when wolves pursue,
Fled from them daunted; Socrates alone
Bravely maintain'd his post, or, if receded,
Twas as a lion, that disdains his hunters;
He turn'd and fac'd them, and repell'd their fury;
Till by his bold resistance he gave time
To the dishearten'd soldier to retreat,
And hide their shame in safety. Brave he stood;
Not Ajax nor Achilles match'd his force;
He dar'd them to the battle—they beheld him,
As a divinity that fought for Athens,
And, struck with reverence, check'd their full pursuit.

Melitus
Well; be his virtues what they will; no matter,
Fate has him now, and, thank the gracious powers,
Athens and we shall fear our foe no longer.
But I will curb my joy—my worthy Lycon,
My noble Anitus, good night to both,
And let our hearts be blithe—he dies tomorrow.

Socrates is credited with exceptional bravery in covering the retreat of the Athenian forces after the disaster at Delium (424 B.C.), where the Attic forces were routed by the Boetians. See Plato, Apology, 28e, Symposium, 219e, Laches, 181b. Cradock misspelled Boetia.

Scene 6th

The Prison
Socrates discovered asleep; to him enter Plato, Phedon, Crito, and Gaoler
Gaoler
See, there he sleeps; thus ever hath he slept
When nature call'd; his troubles seem not his;
He feels them not; thus calm and thus resign'd,
He lays him down and takes his sweet repose,
As fate fear'd him, and he, her sovereign Lord,
Cou'd stay her progress, and controul her power.

Phedon
Who, that views him, wou'd envy Persia's monarch?
Surrounded by his guard, yet still embitter'd
Are all his hours, some sudden plot he fears,
And starts amid his slumbers, well aware
Of might mischiefs, brooding o'er his head,
And breaking quick upon him.

Plato
Tis not thus
With virtuous men; our great preceptor shews us,
E'en by that smile that now englads his face,
That in his sleep he's happy—O ye Gods!
Who wou'd not be that glorious man of virtue?
Tomorrow comes, and he is then a corse,
And yet—but see, he wakes—ye guardian powers,
Inspire us with your own blest energy,
To win him to our purpose, and to save him.

Socrates
awaking
Thanks to that gracious Being, that now supports me:
O this is heavenly rapture! Have I then
E'en now a foretaste, what I soon shall be?
Dear Melitus, I thank thee; thou wilt send me
Strait to the region of immortal Spirts
There to enjoy—my friends, what calls you forth
In this inclement season of the night,
To visit this dank dungeon? tis your love;—
But sure tomorrow is our own—the laws
Of Athens are not chang'd, that I must die,
Ere I cou'd take or give a last farewel.

Plato
No, Socrates, tomorrow yet is yours;
Spite of your cruel foes;—a noble cause
Now calls us hither; fate's a length propitious
And ere tomorrow dawns, are you secure
From all the villain-efforts of your foes.

Socrates
What means my friend?

Crito
Oh! he hath glorious meaning;
And wou'd the man, on whom our all depends,
The dearest solace of our lives on earth,
The nobler prospect of our joys hereafter,
But listen to his pleadings, Athens yet
May boast the blessing of her Socrates,
For years to come; and he may long continue
The pattern of all virtues of his Country.

Socrates
Unfold yourselves.

Phedon
The vessel is arriv'd

Socrates
I know it, and that I'm to die tomorrow.

Crito
aside
O how I fear that steadiness of look,
That firm demeanour—all our hopes are vain.

Plato
That you must die tomorrow? No, my father,
Good Heaven reserves you still for nobler purpose;
To make you yet his substitute below.
This earth is still too rank to lose her Socrates;
His lessons are too needful to her peace;
She must not want you; and in kind compassion
To erring mortals, he that wakes o'er all,
That gracious providence you've long ador'd,
Inspires this honest man to aid our counsels,
To free you from your fate, and ope the way
To your deliv'rance.—Some selected youths,
The pupils long of your divine instructions,
Are ready to convey you far from Athens,
From the ungrateful citizens, to life
To peace, to safety. O regard your friends,
Your family, mankind—fly hence, and give
Your future lessons to th'applauding world.

Socrates
How, Plato; this from you; from you, to whom
I've long unfolded all my inmost soul?
Is Socrates so little known by those,
Who from their infant-years have learn'd his lore,
That they shou'd think him meanly fond of life;
Shou'd think he'd fly the death his country dooms him?
My Country hath condemn'd me, her's the blame,
If causeless she condemn'd—for me, I glory,
That, innocent, I quit a thankless world,
And spring to regions of immortal joy;
To regions—cou'd my tongue express the rapture,
My soul conceives at her desir'd release,
My friends no more wou'd strive to stop her progress,
But kindly aid her in her flight to Heaven.

Plato
Full well we know that life hath lost it's relish,
That all it's glitter, all it's tinsel joys,
Have not one charm, to win you from that Heaven.
And yet—forgive the yearning of our souls—
We still wou'd keep you, still wou'd we be blest
With that divine, that more than heavenly sapience
That flows so strongly from you, and leads on
By inpersceptible degrees, our hearts
To love of ev'ry virtue. Without thee
Darkling bewilder'd we shall madly wander
In life's vain errors, like the simple traveller,
Lost in the mazes of a devious wood,
Who knows no path to lead him on his way.

Socrates
Have then my precepts had so poor effect?
What say'st thou, Plato? have I toil'd so long
To guide you to your bliss, and toil'd in vain?
O no, my friends; you're rich in ev'ry virtue;
Form'd by my hand, you know each step is wisdom;
Charm'd with her beauty, you will ne'er desert her.
Tho' the world frowns, tho' wicked men exclaim,
Tho' tirants threaten, you will ne'er desert her.
And my glad soul presages, future times
Will learn the lessons you have heard from me,
Will copy from your page the fair example.
There's no occasion I shou'd violate
My country's laws by which I stand condemn'd,
Nor stain my soul by acting 'gainst their verdict.
Believe me, this would give me greater pangs,
Than e'en a thousand deaths, such as I'm doom'd to.

Phedon
Yet wou'd we save thee—

Crito
O forgive our love,
And yield thee to our prayers.

Plato,
pointing to the gaoler
View this good man;
Behold his honest eyes suffus'd with tears;
He speaks not, for his heart's too full to speak,
And yet his ev'ry gesture pleads thy pity,
On him, on us, on all. Apame too,
Her heart now bleeding for her brothers cruelty,
Is wearying heaven—in vain? Must she in vain
Plead to heaven for thee?—And need I say
How thy Xantippe, how thy children—Oh!
Will nothing move thee? bend thy soul a little,
Be still a man, or soar above thy nature;
Struggle with thy perfection for a while,
And want thy happiness a little longer,
To sooth the sorrowing hearts of those that love thee.

Socrates
Indeed, my friends, you love grows painful to me;
The more, 'cause all your pleadings will be fruitless.
I stand resolv'd—tis sure the will divine
Which thus resolves me—I must die, my Plato,
Tomorrow I must die; and oh! might life
Be mine for yet a long, long round of years,
And spritely youth and vigour wou'd return,
New—string my nerves, and make me as I have been;
I wou'd not quit the hopes of what my soul
Assures herself that she shall be tomorrow.
Leave me—I thank you for your pious friendship,
But leave me—nature still demands repose,
She will claim her debt out—When the morn
Wakes to fresh life the tenants of the worlds,
Again I'll see you, give one kind embrace,
The last on earth—indeed I wou'd not grieve you,
But part we now—I find, whilst I am mortal,
I've all the weakness of a man about me—
I must submit—farewel—my eyes grow heavy.

Goes to his couch, and composes himself to rest; they continue fix'd for some time in amaze & sorrow, when at length
Plato
Tis vain to urge him farther—he's a determin'd:
His righteous soul won't in her own defence
Act 'gainst the hallow'd statutes of his country.
Good heavens! The godlike virtue of this man!
O let us have him ever in our eye;
Make him our precedent, like him support
The World's despite, in conscious worth secure:
And the like peace to our last hour ensure.

Act 5th

Scene 1st

Melitus
What means this dreadful vision of the night?
Ha! Sure it was not fancy? fancy breeds
A thousand megrims in the brain, and loves
To tease her e'en to madness.—No; twas real;
I saw it plain, and horrid was it's figure;
It glar'd upon me with the eye of death;
And spoke too—sure it spoke—it mention'd Socrates,
And told me, heav'n was pouring down it's vengeance
On my accursed head—It was no dream;
My slumbers left me soon, and long I lay,
Stretch'd on the rack of conscience, when it came.
It came—I saw it stalk into my chamber.
How I'm distracted? Gods, was it for this,
That I maintain'd your godhead 'gainst the wretch
That wou'd have rob'd your temples of their worship?
O for that peace I once enjoy'd—tis gone,
And now I feel such tortures—I will feel them—
My sister, ha! I wou'd not see her now.

Scene 2d

Melitus, Apame
Apame
Alass! my brother, what uncommon terror
Speaks in your countenance? you look so wild,
So sternly sad; that you alarm your sister.

Melitus
Apame, you've succeeded in your wishes;
Your brother's lost; you pray'd the foes of Socrates
Might feel the pangs of fell remorse—I feel them,
And fall the victim of my own resentment.

Apame
Does Melitus relent? O heavely powers!
The venerable sage will yet find mercy;
My brother will retract the wrongs he did him,
And haste to save him from the fatal potion.

Melitus
No; by the gods, I'll have my dear revenge;
Save him? I save him? Were it possible
To have my tortures doubled, (and I feel
All that the most distracted mind can form)
So strong the hate I hear him, he shou'd suffer,
Shou'd die the death my vengeance draws upon him.

Apame
What horrid resolution? Are there gods?
You say, there are, and have yourself asserted
Their dread divinity. Say, will not they
(They must be just) inflict severest torture
On guilt like yours? O hear me, dearest brother;
Give to your soul her peace, implore their mercy,
To aid you in the justice you shou'd act;
To make you gentle, humble, mild, forgiving,
That you may yet—

Melitus
Ha! sayst thou? I implore
The gods?—they'll hear not me, or, if they wou'd,
I'll not implore them, for I'll not retract
All that my injur'd soul hath urg'd against him.
He merited my vengeance—I implore them?
No; I'll not ask the mercy they'll not grant me.
—Avaunt, foul spectre! What is Socrates
To thee? art thou his wife, his child, his friend,
That thus thou haunt'st me?—Well, I will be wretched;
Away! I tell thee, that I will be wretched—
O my pain'd heart!—Ha! hath he suffer'd, say you?
Thank heaven for that the dotard then is gone
To his reward—to what reward? Ay; there,
There lies the question—If he shou'd be right—
What's that to me? I'm sure, I must be wrong—
Apame—sister! how dar'st thou intrude
Upon thy brother's privacies? Phedon sent thee;
I know him—he's the friend of Socrates,
And he has sent thee to behold thy brother
Curst e'en beyond redemption—hold, my brain!
—Gods?—what Gods?—there are none—or if there are,
They are the gods of Socrates, not mine—
I'll have no Gods—Yes, roar, ye changeling crowd,
Drag, tear me e'en to atoms, if you will;
You're true Athenians, and I'm—horror, horror!

Scene the 3d

Apame
Unhappy Melitus! I mourn thy crimes,
I mourn thy punishment—alass! thou'st rack'd
With the most cruel torture, conscious guilt.
How wondrous sad thy fate? thou feel'st the pangs,
Without the blest result, of dear repentance.
Thou wou'dst be sorry for thy fault, but can'st not,
So harden'd is thy heart! In what strong chain,
The sinner's soul is bound? he wou'd be free;
Vain is his wish; stern fate's inexorable,
And holds him fast enfetter'd in his wretchedness.
Oh! poor ill fated brother! I will pray for thee;
Spite of my reverent love for Socrates,
—Tis nature's dictate—I will pray for thee—
With thee compar'd, he's happy, whilst thy soul
Feels even now the measure of it's woes.

Scene 4th

Apame, Phedon
Apame
Alass! I've heard your kind attempt was fruitless;
That all your eloquence, your prayers, your tears
Mov'd not the god-like sage. He'll not escape;
And Athens must receive a stain, which all
The tears of her repenting citizens
(For sure I am they will regret his death[)]
Will ne'er wash out.

Phedon
No, my Apame, no;
He will not hear us; he hath weigh'd it well,
And on the ballance finds it best for virtue
To quit at once a base and sordid world,
A world unworthy of the Good she offers.
We sued, as pious children to a parent,
On whose dear life hung all their future welfare;
In vain; he answer'd all our pleaded reasons,
Said, he must die; that it was Heaven's high will;
And he'd obey it: then with that authority
That firm, commanding, yet endearing aspect,
He wonted to instruct us, bad us leave him;
His seem'd the voice of Heaven; in wonder lost,
Sunk in our grief's distraction, we submitted.

Apame
O Phedon, what a day is this to Athens!
How will she rue—yet she deserves it all—
The dire result of her inhumane cruelty?
Indeed I pity her—she demands my pity—
Yes, O my country, I will pity thee.
But for the virtuous man she hath condemn'd,
Condemn'd unjustly; by his godlike firmness,
He shews he has made his peace with those above,
And only waits the destin'd hour for happiness;
Therefore, an object only now of wonder,
Rather, of envy, he's above our pity.

Phedon
I joy, my dear Apame's soul regains
Her wonted calm; you look resign'd, my charmer,
And quit your Socrates with that tranquillity,
As suits his great philosophy.

Apame
Ah, Phedon!
My soul is stunn'd;—it is indeed a calm—
But what th' event?—that we must leave to Heaven.
The death of Socrates, my brother's madness,
For oh! he hath lost—

Phedon
Your brother? say, Apame
What of your brother?

Apame
Now he left me, frantick,
Mad with his guilt, and sunk in desolation

Phedon
Good Heaven! how you surprise me!—but, no wonder—
When guilt like his recoils upon the soul
Tis then a dreary waste, a dreadful gloom,
And not one ray of comfort darts upon her
But I forbear—O pardon me, Apame.

Apame
Yes; I will pardon thee; thou say's no more,
Than what becomes the friend of Socrates;
Myself condemns him, tho' I am his sister;
A sister, that much loves and pities him.
O Heavens! What means my heart?—it seems too easy;
These two great evils, that shou'd sink her down
To deepest woe—

Phedon
Oh! add a third, my charmer,
A third, that, spite of all I feel for Socrates
Gives me more cruel pangs, our hapless loves.

Apame
Yes; Phedon: I must own, I once indulg'd
A fruitless hope, that thou and I were form'd
By Heaven's blest power, to give each other happiness,
But tis determin'd, tis above determin'd
That we must meet.

Phedon
Thus mortals oft
Plan to themselves their flattering schemes of bliss,
And, spite of all their vaunted art and forsight,
Drop from their airy hopes to dire despair.
What must I say? at this tremendous moment
What can I say? And yet I wou'd say something.
Alass! O can't—My soul distrest, desponding,
Wants e'en conception to describe the pangs,
That rack her now, and makes her more than wretched.

Apame
Say this; that thou art still Apame's friend
That thou wilt ever bear within thy breast
Her dear Idea

In Platonic philosophy, an idea is an archetype of which all real things are but imperfect imitations.

, as she will do thine;
That thou wilt still pursue the glorious track
Thy great Preceptor led thee; and endeavour
T'improve in ev'ry grace, in ev'ry virtue;
Say this; and thy Apame yet will promise
To love thee still, t'indulge the holy friendship
That flames her soul for thee, to weary Heaven
With prayers for Phedon, and to her last hour
Think on thee with affection and with rapture.

Phedon
Say this! O Heavens! My feeble tongue wants utterance
To tell thee—this is more than I durst hope;
To be subject of Apame's prayers,
The constant object of her tender thought,
The sole delight of her remaining hours!
What can't I promise thee? divinest maid!
Oh! I'll be all that thou wou'dst have me be;
And, if not here, yet sure in future worlds,
Transporting thought! our gentle souls shall meet,
Where no impetuous storms of fate shall part us.

Apame
Be that our hope; tis time we now retire,
You to the prison, to perform the last
Kind, filial service to your dying master.
Tell him, Apame never will forget
Th'important lessons that she learn'd from him;
Tell him she deeply mourns her loss, not his,
Much will she want him—but she hopes to see him
In better worlds, where she and thou and all
That lov'd him here, and listen'd to his lore,
Will yet attend him in an endless state
Of peace, of happiness.—farewel—my soul
Sinks to her heaviness—farewel, my Phedon.

Phedon
One kind embarce—Sure modesty forbids not
This last—forgive me; but my soul hangs on thee,
As o'er the body it's departing spirit,
Unwilling to forsake her long-lov'd mansion.
Do not refuse me—tis the last sad favour
Thy Phedon asks—
She inclines to him
O Heavens! and I must lose thee?
Farewel;—sure, sure, it will not be—for ever.

Scene 5th

The Prison
Socrates
Today I am to die—What art thou, death?
Some say, a dread, a formidable tirant,
That mak'st mankind thy quarry, and devourst them,
Till they're no more than what they were, ere first
The great Eternal call'd them into being.
Thou art not so; and such I shall not find thee.
I've noblest prospects far; and to my soul
So mild thy aspect, that I'll call thee friend.
Thou'lt lead me, where at least my better part
Will meet with perfect virtue, certain knowledge,
With all th'improvements that she sought in vain
In this low scene.—Her state is sure progressive,
She still went on each day acquiring something,
Yet still dissatisfied, met not completion,
And wanted something farther still to be.
Nay more; her innocence, her constant bent
To sweet philanthropy, to doing good,
Was given by that dread power for noblest ends.
Are those ends answer'd? No. I feel, I am not
Contented with the little I have done,
And wou'd do farther—but I must not here;
My judges have forbad me—Therefore, therefore,
I go from hence to where no vile incumbrance,
No base abuse of power, no impious malice
Will hinder me from doing all I can:
Where I shall still be virtuous; nay be all
What wisdom tells me, I have not been yet;
And feel each ardent faculty within me
Fully employ'd, and blest in it's attainments.

Scene 6th

Socrates, Plato, Phedon, Crito and others
Socrates
Socrates
Welcome, my faithful pupils; you are come
To bid your Socrates a last farewel.
A last? No sure; we yet shall meet again.
I've been debating with myself, my friends,
And find upon the upshot, I have gain'd.
Tis true, I might have liv'd a little longer;
But oh! that little longer I had liv'd
Had rob'd me just so much of happiness.

Plato
Thou peerless man! how I adore thy virtues!
Now on the confines of eternity,
Thy looks, thy words, thy gestures are so calm,
So full of inward peace, my soul admires thee.

Socrates
For what, my Plato? He that acts aright,
At such a time as this is ever easy.
It may be hard to know we act aright;
Yet, if no conscious thought within disturb us,
No nauseous bitter mingles with our sweet,
But all is peace and pleasantness, sure then
Death's a mere phantom, and must lose his terrors.

Phedon
Alass! so wretched is the state of man,
We know not what we must be; thou art right;
My soul assures me, Socrates is right;
And yet—forgive me—still my darken'd mind
[Is] lost in her surmises, and she knows not
How to unriddle these thy causeless sufferings.

Socrates
Phedon, I can't inform thee more than what
I know myself; I've yet no full conception
Of how it will be; but my soul forebodes
Joy 'bove expression: Heaven for noblest ends
May yet delay to great enquiring man
The knowledge of his future fate above.

Crito
That's our distress; we've view'd the constant tenor
Of thy applauded life; and to reflect
The vile indignities thou hast endur'd
The base, insidious villain schemes against thee,
The woful death that thou must die today,
Fills us with vain incertitude; we wonder—
What mean the powers above, that they shou'd yield thee
Thus to thy impious foes.

Socrates
You quite surprise me,
How, Crito, don't I tell thee I'm ascertain'd
Of being something nobler than I am
While I am here—but what—that lies beyond
The ken of present knowledge—God is good,
Is gracious ever—In some future time,
When man's prepar'd to hear the happy tidings,
Some blessed sage will rise t'instruct him, whither
He goes from hence, to teach the certain road
He must pursue to reach his destin'd goal.
Meanwhile tis but our duty to await
That glorious period; we not know it yet;
[But] if I bode aright, our after-race
Won't be bewilder'd in a fruitless search
Of this important question.

Plato
Be it so!
Be heaven thus gracious to his creature, man;
And let all those, who've learnt from thee the rule,
I had almost said, th'unerring rule to live,
Await that welcome instant—Ah! my Socrates,
Xantippe comes; she comes to bid forever
Adieu to her dear Socrates; look on her
With eyes of tenderness; she's deeply wounded,
And merits all the pity thou canst shew her.

Socrates
She is my best-belov'd; heaven only knows
The true esteem that warms my heart for her.

Scene 7th

Socrates, Xantippe, Plato, Phedon, Crito & c.
Xantippe
runs to him and embraces him
O Socrates!

Socrates
My dear, my best Xantippe.

Xantippe
And art thou going? have thy foes prevail'd
And must I lose thee? On this fatal day
Fore'er lose thee? O my bleeding heart!
My Socrates, do we now part for ever?

Socrates
So heaven ordains; and tho my soul reflects
[OMITTED]fondness all the happy hours
And yet—

[end of manuscript]

On The two Miss ---'--- as they Sat before me, hearing of Mr. Whitefield—

An Extempore Epigram.

Plac'd as I was, such charms within my view,
Say, Whitefield, what could all thy Rhet'ric do?
In vain the nonsense trickl'd from thy tongue,
In vain with canting harmony you Sung;
Their blooming beauties more perswasive prov'd,
My heart with greater energy they mov'd,
Their Swan-like necks my ravish'd eyes did bliss,
Courted the touch, and tempted me to kiss.—

“The name given under the Emperor by flatt'rers & dependents to their Patrons”

“This is translated to shew that Poets are not always prophets”