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Socrates. I will tell you. I must die on the day after the ship comes in, must I not?
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Crito. So those say who have charge of these matters.
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Socrates. Well, I think it will not come in today, but tomorrow. And my reason for this is a dream which I had a little while ago in the course of this night. And perhaps you let me sleep just at the right time.
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Crito. What was the dream?
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Socrates. I dreamed that a beautiful, fair woman, clothed in white raiment, came to me and called me and said, Socrates, on the third day thou wouldst come to fertile Phthia.Hom. Il. 9.363.
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Crito. A strange dream, Socrates.
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Socrates. No, a clear one, at any rate, I think, Crito.
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Crito. Too clear, apparently. But, my dear Socrates, even now listen to me and save yourself. Since, if you die, it will be no mere single misfortune to me, but I shall lose a friend such as I can never find again, and besides, many persons who do not know you and me well will think I could have saved you if I had been willing to spend money, but that I would not take the trouble. And yet what reputation could be more disgraceful than that of considering one’s money of more importance than one’s friends? For most people will not believe that we were eager to help you to go away from here, but you refused.
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Socrates. But, my dear Crito, why do we care so much for what most people think? For the most reasonable men, whose opinion is more worth considering, will think that things were done as they really will be done.
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Crito. But you see it is necessary, Socrates, to care for the opinion of the public, for this very trouble we are in now shows that the public is able to accomplish not by any means the least, but almost the greatest of evils, if one has a bad reputation with it.
