University of Virginia Library

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.