University of Virginia Library

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.