Echecrates. 
 Were you with Socrates yourself, Phaedo, on the day when he drank the poison in
 prison, or did you hear about it from someone else?
 
 Phaedo. 
 I was there myself, Echecrates.
 
 Echecrates. 
 Then what did he say before his death? and how did he die? I should like to hear,
 for nowadays none of the Phliasians go to Athens at all, and no stranger has come from there for a long
 time, who could tell us anything definite
 about this matter, except that he drank poison and died, so we could learn no
 further details.

Phaedo. Did you not even hear about the trial and how it was conducted? 
 Echecrates. Yes, some one told us about that, and we wondered that although it took place a
 long time ago, he was put to death much later. Now why was that, Phaedo?
 

 Phaedo. It was a matter of chance, Echecrates. It happened that the stern of the ship
 which the Athenians send to Delos was
 crowned on the day before the trial. 
 Echecrates. What ship is this? 
 Phaedo. This is the ship, as the Athenians say, in which Theseus once went to Crete with the fourteen youths and maidens, and saved them and himself. Now the Athenians made a vow to Apollo, as the story goes, that if they were saved they
 would send a mission every year to Delos . And from that time even to the present day they send it
 annually in honor of the god. Now it is their law that after the mission begins
 the city must be pure and no one may be publicly executed until the ship has
 gone to Delos and back; and
 sometimes, when contrary winds detain it,
 this takes a long time. The beginning of the mission is when the priest of
 Apollo crowns the stern of the ship; and this took place, as I say, on the day
 before the trial. For that reason Socrates passed a long time in prison between
 his trial and his death. 
 Echecrates. What took place at his death, Phaedo? What was said and done? And which of his
 friends were with him? Or did the authorities forbid them to be present, so that
 he died without his friends? 
 
 
 Phaedo. Not at all. Some were there, in fact, a good many. 
 Echecrates. Be so good as to tell us as exactly as you can about all these things, if you are
 not too busy. 
 Phaedo. I am not busy and I will try to tell you. It is always my greatest pleasure to be
 reminded of Socrates whether by speaking of him myself or by listening to
 someone else. 
 Echecrates. Well, Phaedo, you will have hearers who feel as you do; so try to tell us
 everything as accurately as you can. 
 
 Phaedo. For my part, I had strange emotions when I was there. For I was not filled with
 pity as I might naturally be when present at the death of a friend; since he
 seemed to me to be happy, both in his bearing and his words, he was meeting
 death so fearlessly and nobly. And so I thought that even in going to the abode
 of the dead he was not going without the protection of the gods, and that when
 he arrived there it would be well with him, if it ever was well with anyone.

Phaedo. And for this reason I was not at all filled with pity, as might seem natural
 when I was present at a scene of mourning; nor on the other hand did I feel
 pleasure because we were occupied with philosophy, as was our custom—and
 our talk was of philosophy;—but a very strange feeling came over me, an
 unaccustomed mixture of pleasure and of pain together, when I thought that
 Socrates was presently to die. And all of us who were there were in much the
 same condition, sometimes laughing and sometimes weeping; especially one of us,
 Apollodorus; you know him and his
 character. 
 Echecrates. To be sure I do. 
 Phaedo. He was quite unrestrained, and I was much agitated myself, as were the
 others. 
 Echecrates. Who were these, Phaedo? 
 Phaedo. Of native Athenians there was this Apollodorus, and Critobulus and his father,
 and Hermogenes and Epiganes and Aeschines and Antisthenes; and Ctesippus the
 Paeanian was there too, and Menexenus and some other Athenians. But Plato, I
 think, was ill. 
 
 
 Echecrates. Were any foreigners there? 
 Phaedo. Yes, Simmias of Thebes and Cebes and
 Phaedonides, and from Megara Euclides and Terpsion. 
 Echecrates. What? Were Aristippus and Cleombrotus there? 
 Phaedo. No. They were said to be in Aegina . 
 Echecrates. Was anyone else there? 
 Phaedo. I think these were about all. 
 Echecrates. Well then, what was the conversation? 
 Phaedo. I will try to tell you everything from the beginning. On the previous days I and the others had always been in the
 habit of visiting Socrates. We used to meet at daybreak in the court where the
 trial took place, for it was near the prison; and every day we used to wait
 about, talking with each other, until the prison was opened, for it was not
 opened early; and when it was opened, we went in to Socrates and passed most of
 the day with him. On that day we came together earlier; for the day before,
 when we left the prison in the evening we
 heard that the ship had arrived from Delos . So we agreed to come to the usual place as early in the
 morning as possible. And we came, and the jailer who usually answered the door
 came out and told us to wait and not go in until he told us. For, 
 he said, the eleven are releasing Socrates from his fetters and giving
 directions how he is to die today.

Phaedo. So after a little delay he came and
 told us to
 go in. We went in then and found Socrates just released from his fetters and
 Xanthippe—you know her—with his little son in her arms, sitting
 beside him. Now when Xanthippe saw us, she cried out and said the kind of thing
 that women always do say: Oh Socrates, this is the last time now that
 your friends will speak to you or you to them. And Socrates glanced at
 Crito and said, Crito, let somebody take her home. 
 And some of Crito’s people took her away wailing and beating her breast. But Socrates sat
 up on his couch and bent his leg and rubbed it with his hand, and while he was
 rubbing it, he said, What a strange thing, my friends, that seems to be
 which men call pleasure! How wonderfully it is related to that which seems to be
 its opposite, pain, in that they will not both come to a man at the same time,
 and yet if he pursues the one and captures it he is generally obliged to take
 the other also, as if the two were joined together in one head. And I
 think, 
 he said, if Aesop had thought of them, he would have made a fable telling how they were at war and god
 wished to reconcile them, and when he could not do that, he fastened their heads
 together, and for that reason, when one of them comes to anyone, the other
 follows after. Just so it seems that in my case, after pain was in my leg on
 account of the fetter, pleasure appears to have come following
 after. Here Cebes interrupted and said,
 By Zeus, Socrates, I am glad you reminded me.
 
 
 Several others have asked about the poems you have composed,
 the metrical versions of Aesop’s fables and the hymn to Apollo, and Evenus asked
 me the day before yesterday why you never wrote any poetry before, composed
 these verses after you came to prison. Now, if you care that I should be able to
 answer Evenus when he asks me again—and I know he will ask me—tell
 me what to say. Then tell him,
 Cebes, said he, the truth, that I composed these verses not
 because I wished to rival him or his poems, 
 
 
 for I knew that would not be easy, but because I wished to test the meaning of
 certain dreams, and to make sure that I was neglecting no duty in case their
 repeated commands meant that I must cultivate the Muses in this way. They were
 something like this. The same dream came to me often in my past life, sometimes
 in one form and sometimes in another, but always saying the same thing:
 Socrates, it said, make music and work at it.

Phaedo. And I formerly thought it was
 urging and encouraging me 
 
 
 
 to do what I was doing already and that just as people
 encourage runners by cheering, so the dream was encouraging me to do what I was
 doing, that is, to make music, because philosophy was the greatest kind of music
 and I was working at that. But now, after the trial and while the festival of
 the god delayed my execution, I thought, in case the repeated dream really meant
 to tell me to make this which is ordinarily called music, I ought to do so and
 not to disobey. For I thought it was safer not to go hence 
 
 
 before making sure that I had done what I ought, by obeying
 the dream and composing verses. So first I composed a hymn to the god whose
 festival it was; and after the god, considering that a poet, if he is really to
 be a poet, must compose myths and not speeches, since I was not a maker of
 myths, I took the myths of Aesop, which I had at hand and knew, and turned into
 verse the first I came upon. So tell Evenus that, Cebes, and bid him farewell,
 and tell him, if he is wise, to come after me as quickly as he can. 
 
 
 I, it seems, am going today; for that is the order
 of the Athenians. And Simmias said,
 What a message that is, Socrates, for Evenus! I have met him often, and
 from what I have seen of him, I should say that he will not take your advice in
 the least if he can help it. Why
 so? said he. Is not Evenus a philosopher? 
 I think so, said Simmias. Then Evenus will take my advice, and so will every man
 who has any worthy interest in philosophy. Perhaps, however, he will not take
 his own life, for they say that is not permitted. 
 
 
 And as he spoke he put his feet down on the ground and
 remained sitting in this way through the rest of the conversation. Then Cebes asked him: What do you mean by this,
 Socrates, that it is not permitted to take one’s life, but that the philosopher
 would desire to follow after the dying? How is this, Cebes? Have you and Simmias, who are pupils of Philolaus,
 not heard about such things? Nothing
 definite, Socrates. I myself speak
 of them only from hearsay; but I have no objection to telling what I have heard.
 And indeed it is perhaps especially fitting, 
 
 
 as I am going to the other world, to tell stories about the life there and
 consider what we think about it; for what else could one do in the time between
 now and sunset? Why in the world do
 they say that it is not permitted to kill oneself, Socrates?
 I heard Philolaus,
 when he was living in our city, say the same thing you just said, and I have
 heard it from others, too, that one must not do this; but I never heard anyone
 say anything definite about it.

Phaedo. 
 You must have
 courage, said he, and perhaps you might hear something. But
 perhaps it will seem strange to you that this alone of all laws is without
 exception, and it never happens to mankind, as in other matters, that only at
 some times and for some persons it is better to die than to live; and it will
 perhaps seem strange to you that these human beings for whom it is better to die
 cannot without impiety do good to themselves, but must wait for some other
 benefactor. And Cebes, smiling gently,
 said, Gawd knows it doos, speaking in his own dialect. It would seem unreasonable, if put in this
 way, said Socrates,
 
 
 but perhaps
 there is some reason in it. Now the doctrine that is taught in secret about this
 matter, that we men are in a kind of prison and must not set ourselves free or
 run away, seems to me to be weighty and not easy to understand. But this at
 least, Cebes, I do believe is sound, that the gods are our guardians and that we
 men are one of the chattels of the gods. Do you not believe
 this? Yes, said Cebes,
 
 
 
 I do. Well then, said he, if one of your
 chattels should kill itself when you had not indicated that you wished it to
 die, would you be angry with it and punish it if you could? Certainly, he replied. Then perhaps from this point of view it is not
 unreasonable to say that a man must not kill himself until god sends some
 necessity upon him, such as has now come upon me. That, said Cebes, seems sensible. But what
 you said just now, Socrates, that philosophers ought to be ready and willing to
 die, that seems 
 
 
 strange if we were right just
 now in saying that god is our guardian and we are his possessions. For it is not
 reasonable that the wisest men should not be troubled when they leave that
 service in which the gods, who are the best overseers in the world, are watching
 over them. A wise man certainly does not think that when he is free he can take
 better care of himself than they do. A foolish man might perhaps think so, that
 he ought to run away from his master, 
 
 
 and he
 would not consider that he must not run away from a good master, but ought to
 stay with him as long as possible; and so he might thoughtlessly run away; but a
 man of sense would wish to be always with one who is better than himself. And
 yet, Socrates, if we look at it in this way, the contrary of what we just said
 seems natural; for the wise ought to be troubled at dying and the foolish to
 rejoice.

Phaedo. When Socrates heard this
 
 
 I thought
 he was pleased by Cebes’ earnestness, and glancing at us, he said, Cebes
 is always on the track of arguments and will not be easily convinced by whatever
 anyone says. And Simmias said, Well,
 Socrates, this time I think myself that Cebes is right. For why should really
 wise men run away from masters who are better than they and lightly separate
 themselves from them? And it strikes me that Cebes is aiming his argument at
 you, because you are so ready to leave us and the gods, who are, as 
 
 
 you yourself agree, good rulers. You have a right to say that, he replied;
 for I think you mean that I must defend myself against this accusation,
 as if we were in a law court. Precisely, said Simmias. Well, then, said he, I will try to make a more convincing
 defence than I did before the judges. For if I did not believe, said he,
 that I was going to other wise and good gods, and, moreover, to men who
 have died, better men than those here, I should be wrong in not grieving at
 death. But as it is, you may rest assured 
 
 
 that I expect to go to good men, though I should not care to assert this
 positively; but I would assert as positively as anything about such matters that
 I am going to gods who are good masters. And therefore, so far as that is
 concerned, I not only do not grieve, but I have great hopes that there is
 something in store for the dead, and, as has been said of old, something better
 for the good than for the wicked. Well, said Simmias, do you intend to go away, Socrates,
 
 
 
 and keep your opinion to yourself, or
 would you let us share it? It seems to me that this is a good which belongs in
 common to us also, and at the same time, if you convince us by what you say,
 that will serve as your defence. I
 will try, he replied. But first let us ask Crito there what he
 wants. He has apparently been trying to say something for a long
 time. Only, Socrates, 
 said Crito, that the man who is to administer the poison to you has been
 telling me for some time to warn you to talk as little as possible. He says
 people get warm when they talk and heat has a bad effect on the action of the
 poison; 
 
 
 so sometimes he has to make those who
 talk too much drink twice or even three times. And Socrates said: Never mind him. Just let him do his
 part and prepare to give it twice or even, if necessary, three
 times. I was pretty sure that
 was what you would say, said Crito, but he has been bothering me
 for a long time. Never mind
 him, said Socrates.

Phaedo. I wish now to explain to you, my judges, the
 reason why I think a man who has really spent his life in philosophy is
 naturally of good courage 
 
 
 
 when he is to die, and has strong hopes that when he is dead
 he will attain the greatest blessings in that other land. So I will try to tell
 you, Simmias, and Cebes, how this would be.
 Other people are likely not to be aware that those who pursue
 philosophy aright study nothing but dying and being dead. Now if this is true,
 it would be absurd to be eager for nothing but this all their lives, and then to
 be troubled when that came for which they had all along been eagerly
 practicing. And Simmias laughed and
 said, By Zeus, 
 
 
 Socrates, I don’t feel
 much like laughing just now, but you made me laugh. For I think the multitude,
 if they heard what you just said about the philosophers, would say you were
 quite right, and our people at home would agree entirely with you that
 philosophers desire death, and they would add that they know very well that the
 philosophers deserve it. And they
 would be speaking the truth, Simmias, except in the matter of knowing very well.
 For they do not know in what way the real philosophers desire death, nor in what
 way they deserve death, nor what kind of a death it is. 
 
 
 Let us then, said he, speak with one another,
 paying no further attention to them. Do we think there is such a thing as
 death? Certainly, replied
 Simmias. We believe, do we not, that
 death is the separation of the soul from the body, and that the state of being
 dead is the state in which the body is separated from the soul and exists alone
 by itself and the soul is separated from the body and exists alone by itself? Is
 death anything other than this? No,
 it is this, said he. Now, my friend,
 see if you agree with me; 
 
 
 for, if you do, I
 think we shall get more light on our subject. Do you think a philosopher would
 be likely to care much about the so-called pleasures, such as eating and
 drinking? By no means,
 Socrates, said Simmias. How about
 the pleasures of love? Certainly
 not. Well, do you think such a
 man would think much of the other cares of the body—I mean such as the
 possession of fine clothes and shoes and the other personal adornments? Do you
 think he would care about them 
 
 
 or despise
 them, except so far as it is necessary to have them? I think the true philosopher would despise them, 
 he replied. Altogether, then, you think
 that such a man would not devote himself to the body, but would, so far as he
 was able, turn away from the body and concern himself with the
 soul? 
 
 Yes.

Phaedo. 
 To begin with, then, it is clear that in such
 matters the philosopher, more than other men, separates 
 
 
 
 the soul from communion with the
 body? It is. Now certainly most people think that a man who
 takes no pleasure and has no part in such things doesn’t deserve to live, and
 that one who cares nothing for the pleasures of the body is about as good as
 dead. That is very
 true. Now, how about the
 acquirement of pure knowledge? Is the body a hindrance or not, if it is made to
 share in the search for wisdom? 
 
 
 What I mean
 is this: Have the sight and hearing of men any truth in them, or is it true, as
 the poets are always telling us, that we neither hear nor see any thing
 accurately? And yet if these two physical senses are not accurate or exact, the
 rest are not likely to be, for they are inferior to these. Do you not think
 so? Certainly I do, he
 replied. Then, said he,
 when does the soul attain to truth? For when it tries to consider
 anything in company with the body, it is evidently deceived by it. 
 
 
 
 True. In thought, then, if at all, something of the realities
 becomes clear to it? 
 Yes. But it thinks best
 when none of these things troubles it, neither hearing nor sight, nor pain nor
 any pleasure, but it is, so far as possible, alone by itself, and takes leave of
 the body, and avoiding, so far as it can, all association or contact with the
 body, reaches out toward the reality. That is true. In this
 matter also, then, 
 
 
 the soul of the
 philosopher greatly despises the body and avoids it and strives to be alone by
 itself? Evidently. 
 Now how
 about such things as this, Simmias? Do we think there is such a thing as
 absolute justice, or not? We
 certainly think there is. And
 absolute beauty and goodness. Of
 course. Well, did you ever see
 anything of that kind with your eyes? Certainly not, said he. Or
 did you ever reach them with any of the bodily senses? I am speaking of all such
 things, as size, health, strength, and in short the essence 
 
 
 or underlying quality of everything. Is their true nature
 contemplated by means of the body? Is it not rather the case that he who
 prepares himself most carefully to understand the true essence of each thing
 that he examines would come nearest to the knowledge of it? Certainly.

Phaedo. Would not that man do this most perfectly who approaches each thing, so far as possible, with the reason alone, not introducing sight into his reasoning
 nor dragging in 
 
 
 
 any of the other senses along with his thinking, but who employs pure,
 absolute reason in his attempt to search out the pure, absolute essence of
 things, and who removes himself, so far as possible, from eyes and ears, and, in
 a word, from his whole body, because he feels that its companionship disturbs
 the soul and hinders it from attaining truth and wisdom? Is not this the man,
 Simmias, if anyone, to attain to the knowledge of reality? That is true as true can be, Socrates, 
 said Simmias. 
 
 
 Then, said he,
 all this must cause good lovers of wisdom to think and say one to the
 other something like this: There seems to be a short cut which leads us and our
 argument to the conclusion in our search that so long as we have the body, and
 the soul is contaminated by such an evil, we shall never attain completely what
 we desire, that is, the truth. For the body keeps us constantly busy by reason
 of its need of sustenance; 
 
 
 and moreover, if
 diseases come upon it they hinder our pursuit of the truth. And the body fills
 us with passions and desires and fears, and all sorts of fancies and
 foolishness, so that, as they say, it really and truly makes it impossible for
 us to think at all. The body and its desires are the only cause of wars and
 factions and battles; for all wars arise for the sake of gaining money, and we
 are compelled to gain money 
 
 
 for the sake of
 the body. We are slaves to its service. And so, because of all these things, we
 have no leisure for philosophy. But the worst of all is that if we do get a bit
 of leisure and turn to philosophy, the body is constantly breaking in upon our
 studies and disturbing us with noise and confusion, so that it prevents our
 beholding the truth, and in fact we perceive that, if we are ever to know
 anything absolutely, we must be free from the body and must behold 
 
 
 the actual realities with the eye of the soul alone.
 And then, as our argument shows, when we are dead we are likely to possess the
 wisdom which we desire and claim to be enamored of, but not while we live.

Phaedo. For,
 if pure knowledge is impossible while the body is with us, one of two thing must
 follow, either it cannot be acquired at all or only when we are dead; for then
 the soul 
 
 
 
 will
 be by itself apart from the body, but not before. And while we live, we shall, I
 think, be nearest to knowledge when we avoid, so far as possible, intercourse
 and communion with the body, except what is absolutely necessary, and are not
 filled with its nature, but keep ourselves pure from it until God himself sets
 us free. And in this way, freeing ourselves from the foolishness of the body and
 being pure, we shall, I think, be with the pure and shall know of ourselves all
 that is pure,— 
 
 
 and that is, perhaps,
 the truth. For it cannot be that the impure attain the pure. Such words as
 these, I think, Simmias, all who are rightly lovers of knowledge must say to
 each other and such must be their thoughts. Do you not agree? Most assuredly, Socrates. Then, said Socrates, if this is true, my
 friend, I have great hopes that when I reach the place to which I am going, I
 shall there, if anywhere, attain fully to that which has been my chief object in
 my past life, so that the journey which is now 
 
 
 imposed upon me is begun with good hope; and the like hope exists for every
 man who thinks that his mind has been purified and made ready. Certainly, said Simmias. And does not the purification consist in this which has
 been mentioned long ago in our discourse, in separating, so far as possible, the
 soul from the body and teaching the soul the habit of collecting and bringing
 itself together from all parts of the body, and living, so far as it can, both
 now 
 
 
 and hereafter, alone by itself, freed
 from the body as from fetters? Certainly, said he. Well,
 then, this is what we call death, is it not, a release and separation from the
 body? Exactly so, said
 he. But, as we hold, the true
 philosophers and they alone are always most eager to release the soul, and just
 this—the release and separation of the soul from the body—is their
 study, is it not? Obviously. Then, as I
 said in the beginning, it would be absurd if a man who had been all his life
 fitting himself to live as nearly 
 
 
 in a state
 of death as he could, should then be disturbed when death came to him. Would it
 not be absurd? Of
 course. In fact, then,
 Simmias, said he, the true philosophers practice dying, and death
 is less terrible to them than to any other men. Consider it in this way.

Phaedo. They
 are in every way hostile to the body and they desire to have the soul apart by
 itself alone. Would it not be very foolish if they should be frightened and
 troubled when this very thing happens, and if they should not be glad to go to
 the place where there is hope of attaining 
 
 
 
 what they longed for all through
 life—and they longed for wisdom—and of escaping from the
 companionship of that which they hated? When human loves or wives or sons have
 died, many men have willingly gone to the other world led by the hope of seeing
 there those whom they longed for, and of being with them; and shall he who is
 really in love with wisdom and has a firm belief that he can find it nowhere
 else 
 
 
 than in the other world grieve when he
 dies and not be glad to go there? We cannot think that, my friend, if he is
 really a philosopher; for he will confidently believe that he will find pure
 wisdom nowhere else than in the other world. And if this is so, would it not be
 very foolish for such a man to fear death? Very foolish, certainly, said he. Then is it not, said Socrates, a sufficient indication,
 when you see a man troubled because he is going to die, that he was not a lover
 of wisdom but a lover of the body? 
 
 
 And this
 same man is also a lover of money and of honor, one or both. Certainly, said he, it is as you
 say. Then, Simmias, he
 continued, is not that which is called courage especially characteristic
 of philosophers? By all
 means, said he. And
 self-restraint—that which is commonly called self-restraint, which
 consists in not being excited by the passions and in being superior to them and
 acting in a seemly way—is not that characteristic of those alone who
 despise the body 
 
 
 and pass their lives in
 philosophy? Necessarily, 
 said he. For, said Socrates,
 if you care to consider the courage and the self-restraint of other men,
 you will see that they are absurd. How so, Socrates? You know,
 do you not, that all other men count death among the great
 evils? They certainly
 do. And do not brave men face
 death—when they do face it—through fear of greater
 evils? That is
 true. Then all except
 philosophers are brave through fear. And yet it is absurd to be brave through
 fear and cowardice. 
 
 
 Very
 true. And how about those of
 seemly conduct? Is their case not the same? They are self-restrained because of
 a kind of self-indulgence. We say, to be sure, that this is impossible,
 nevertheless their foolish self-restraint amounts to little more than this; for
 they fear that they may be deprived of certain pleasures which they desire, and
 so they refrain from some because they are under the sway of others.

Phaedo. And yet
 being ruled by pleasures 
 
 
 
 is called self-indulgence. Nevertheless they conquer
 pleasures because they are conquered by other pleasures. Now this is about what
 I said just now, that they are self-restrained by a kind of
 self-indulgence. So it
 seems. My dear Simmias, I
 suspect that this is not the right way to purchase virtue, by exchanging
 pleasures for pleasures, and pains for pains, and fear for fear, and greater for
 less, as if they were coins, but the only right coinage, for which all those
 things 
 
 
 must be exchanged and by means of and
 with which all these things are to be bought and sold, is in fact wisdom; and
 courage and self-restraint and justice and, in short, true virtue exist only
 with wisdom, whether pleasures and fears and other things of that sort are added
 or taken away. And virtue which consists in the exchange of such things for each
 other without wisdom, is but a painted imitation of virtue and is really slavish
 and has nothing healthy or true in it; but truth is in fact a purification
 
 
 
 from all these things, and self-restraint
 and justice and courage and wisdom itself are a kind of purification. And I
 fancy that those men who established the mysteries were not unenlightened, but
 in reality had a hidden meaning when they said long ago that whoever goes
 uninitiated and unsanctified to the other world will lie in the mire, but he who
 arrives there initiated and purified will dwell with the gods. For as they say
 in the mysteries, the thyrsus-bearers are many, but the mystics few ;
 
 
 
 and these mystics are, I believe, those
 who have been true philosophers. And I in my life have, so far as I could, left
 nothing undone, and have striven in every way to make myself one of them. But
 whether I have striven aright and have met with success, I believe I shall know
 clearly, when I have arrived there, very soon, if it is God’s will. This then,
 Simmias and Cebes, is the defence I offer to show that it is reasonable for me
 not to be grieved or troubled at leaving you and the rulers I have here,
 
 
 
 because I believe that there, no less
 than here, I shall find good rulers and friends. If now I am more successful in
 convincing you by my defence than I was in convincing my Athenian judges, it is
 well.

Phaedo. When Socrates had finished, Cebes
 answered and said: Socrates, I agree to 
 
 
 
 the other things you say, but in regard
 to the soul men are very prone to disbelief. They fear that when the soul leaves
 the body it no longer exists anywhere, and that on the day when the man dies it
 is destroyed and perishes, and when it leaves the body and departs from it,
 straightway it flies away and is no longer anywhere, scattering like a breath or
 smoke. If it exists anywhere by itself as a unit, freed from these evils which
 you have enumerated just now, 
 
 
 there would be
 good reason for the blessed hope, Socrates, that what you say is true. But
 perhaps no little argument and proof is required to show that when a man is dead
 the soul still exists and has any power and intelligence. What you say, Cebes, is true, said
 Socrates. Now what shall we do? Do you wish to keep on conversing about
 this to see whether it is probable or not? I do, said Cebes. I should like to hear what you think
 about it. Well, said
 Socrates, I do not believe anyone who heard us now, 
 
 
 even if he were a comic poet, would say that I am chattering
 and talking about things which do not concern me. So if you like, let us examine
 the matter to the end. Let us consider it
 by asking whether the souls of men who have died are in the nether world or not.
 There is an ancient tradition, which we remember, that they go there from here
 and come back here again and are born from the dead. Now if this is true, if the
 living are born again from the dead, our souls would exist there, 
 
 
 would they not? For they could not be born again if
 they did not exist, and this would be a sufficient proof that they exist, if it
 should really be made evident that the living are born only from the dead. But
 if this is not so then some other argument would be needed. 
 Certainly, said Cebes. Now, said he, if you wish to find this out
 easily, do not consider the question with regard to men only, but with regard to
 all animals and plants, and, in short, to all things which may be said to have
 birth. Let us see with regard to all these, whether it is true that they are all
 born or generated 
 
 
 only from their opposites,
 in case they have opposites, as for instance, the noble is the opposite of the
 disgraceful, the just of the unjust, and there are countless other similar
 pairs. Let us consider the question whether it is inevitable that everything
 which has an opposite be generated from its opposite and from it only. For
 instance, when anything becomes greater it must inevitably have been smaller and
 then have become greater. Yes.

Phaedo. And if it becomes
 smaller, 
 
 
 
 it
 must have been greater and then have become smaller? That is true, said he. And the weaker is generated from the stronger, and the
 slower from the quicker? Certainly. And the
 worse from the better and the more just from the more unjust? Of course. Then, said he, we have this fact sufficiently
 established, that all things are generated in this way, opposites from
 opposites? Certainly. Now then, is
 there between all these pairs of opposites what may be called 
 
 
 two kinds of generation, from one to the other and back
 again from the other to the first? Between a larger thing and a smaller thing
 there is increment and diminution and we call one increasing and the other
 decreasing, do we not? Yes, 
 said he. And similarly analyzing and
 combining, and cooling and heating, and all opposites in the same way. Even if
 we do not in every case have the words to express it, yet in fact is it not
 always inevitable that there is a process of generation from each to the
 other? Certainly, said
 he. 
 
 
 Well then, said Socrates,
 is there anything that is the opposite of living, as being awake is the
 opposite of sleeping? Certainly, said Cebes. What? Being
 dead, said he. Then these two are
 generated from each other, and as they are two, so the processes between them
 are two; is it not so? Of
 course. Now, said
 Socrates, I will tell about one of the two pairs of which I just spoke to
 you and its intermediate processes; and do you tell me about the other. I say
 one term is sleeping and the other is being awake, and being awake is generated
 from sleeping, and sleeping from being awake, 
 
 
 and the processes of generation are, in the latter case, falling asleep, and
 in the former, waking up. Do you agree, or not? Certainly. Now do you, said he, tell me in this way about life and
 death. Do you not say that living is the opposite of being
 dead? I do. And that they are generated one from the
 other? Yes. Now what is it which is generated from the
 living? The dead, said
 he. And what, said Socrates,
 from the dead? I can say only
 one thing—the living. From the
 dead, then, Cebes, the living, both things and persons, 
 
 
 are generated? Evidently, said he. Then, said Socrates, our souls exist in the other
 world. So it
 seems. And of the two processes
 of generation between these two, the one is plain to be seen; for surely dying
 is plain to be seen, is it not? Certainly, said he. Well
 then, said Socrates, what shall we do next? Shall we deny the
 opposite process, and shall nature be one-sided in this instance? Or must we
 grant that there is some process of generation the opposite of
 dying? Certainly we must, 
 said he. What is this process? 
 Coming to life again.

Phaedo. Then, said Socrates, if there be such a
 thing as 
 
 
 
 coming to life again, this would be the process of generation from the dead to
 the living? Certainly. So by this
 method also we reach the conclusion that the living are generated from the dead,
 just as much as the dead from the living; and since this is the case, it seems
 to me to be a sufficient proof that the souls of the dead exist somewhere,
 whence they come back to life. I
 think, Socrates, that results necessarily from our previous
 admissions. Now here is another
 method, Cebes, to prove, as it seems to me, that we were right in making those
 admissions. 
 
 
 For if generation did not proceed
 from opposite to opposite and back again, going round, as it were in a circle,
 but always went forward in a straight line without turning back or curving,
 then, you know, in the end all things would have the same form and be acted upon
 in the same way and stop being generated at all. What do you mean? said he. It is not at all hard, said Socrates, to
 understand what I mean. For example, if the process of falling asleep existed,
 but not the opposite process of waking from sleep, 
 
 
 in the end, you know, that would make the sleeping Endymion
 mere nonsense; he would be nowhere, for everything else would be in the same
 state as he, sound asleep. Or if all thing were mixed together and never
 separated, the saying of Anaxagoras, all things are chaos, would soon come true.
 And in like manner, my dear Cebes, if all things that have life should die, and,
 when they had died, the dead should remain in that condition, is it not
 inevitable that at last all things would be dead 
 
 
 and nothing alive? For if the living were generated from any
 other things than from the dead, and the living were to die, is there any escape
 from the final result that all things would be swallowed up in
 death? I see none,
 Socrates, said Cebes. What you say seems to be perfectly
 true. I think, Cebes, 
 said he, it is absolutely so, and we are not deluded in making these
 admissions, but the return to life is an actual fact, and it is a fact that the
 living are generated from the dead and that the souls of the dead 
 
 
 exist. And besides, Cebes rejoined, if it is true, Socrates, as
 you are fond of saying, that our learning is nothing else than recollection,
 then this would be an additional argument that we must necessarily have learned
 in some previous time what we now remember.

Phaedo. But this is impossible if 
 
 
 
 our soul did not
 exist somewhere before being born in this human form; and so by this argument
 also it appears that the soul is immortal. But, Cebes, said Simmias, what were the proofs of this?
 Remind me; for I do not recollect very well just now. Briefly, said Cebes, a very good proof is
 this: When people are questioned, if you put the questions well, they answer
 correctly of themselves about everything; and yet if they had not within them
 some knowledge and right reason, they could not do this. And that this is so is
 shown most clearly if you take them 
 
 
 to mathematical diagrams or anything of that sort. And if you are not convinced in that way,
 Simmias, said Socrates, see if you don’t agree when you look at it
 in this way. You are incredulous, are you not, how that which is called learning
 can be recollection? I am not
 incredulous, said Simmias, but I want just what we are talking
 about, recollection. And from what Cebes undertook to say I already begin to
 recollect and be convinced; nevertheless, I should like to hear 
 
 
 what you were going to say. It was this, said he. We agree, I suppose,
 that if anyone is to remember anything, he must know it at some previous
 time? Certainly, said
 he. Then do we agree to this also, that
 when knowledge comes in such a way, it is recollection? What I mean is this: If
 a man, when he has heard or seen or in any other way perceived a thing, knows
 not only that thing, but also has a perception of some other thing, the
 knowledge of which is not the same, but different, are we not right in saying
 that 
 
 
 he recollects the thing of which he has
 the perception? What do you
 mean? Let me give an example.
 Knowledge of a man is different from knowledge of a lyre. Of course. Well, you know that a lover when he sees a lyre or a cloak or anything
 else which his beloved is wont to use, perceives the lyre and in his mind
 receives an image of the boy to whom the lyre belongs, do you not? But this is
 recollection, just as when one sees Simmias, one often remembers Cebes, and I
 could cite countless such examples. To be sure you could, said Simmias. Now, said he, 
 
 
 is that
 sort of thing a kind of recollection? Especially when it takes place with regard
 to things which have already been forgotten through time and
 inattention? Certainly, 
 he replied. Well, then, said
 Socrates, can a person on seeing a picture of a horse or of a lyre be
 reminded of a man, or on seeing a picture of Simmias be reminded of
 Cebes? Surely.

Phaedo. And on seeing a picture of Simmias he can be
 reminded 
 
 
 
 of
 Simmias himself? Yes, said
 he. All these examples show, then, that
 recollection is caused by like things and also by unlike things, do they
 not? Yes. And when one has a recollection of anything
 caused by like things, will he not also inevitably consider whether this
 recollection offers a perfect likeness of the thing recollected, or
 not? Inevitably, he
 replied. Now see, said he,
 if this is true. We say there is such a thing as equality. I do not mean
 one piece of wood equal to another, or one stone to another, or anything of that
 sort, but something beyond that—equality in the abstract. Shall we say
 there is such a thing, or not? 
 
 
 We shall say that there is, said Simmias, most
 decidedly. And do we know what
 it is? Certainly, said
 he. Whence did we derive the knowledge
 of it? Is it not from the things we were just speaking of? Did we not, by seeing
 equal pieces of wood or stones or other things, derive from them a knowledge of
 abstract equality, which is another thing? Or do you not think it is another
 thing? Look at the matter in this way. Do not equal stones and pieces of wood,
 though they remain the same, sometimes appear to us equal in one respect and
 unequal in another? Certainly. Well, then,
 did absolute equals ever appear to you unequal or 
 
 
 equality inequality? No, Socrates, never. Then, said he, those equals are not the same as equality
 in the abstract. Not at all, I
 should say, Socrates. But from those
 equals, said he, which are not the same as abstract equality, you
 have nevertheless conceived and acquired knowledge of it? Very true, he replied. And it is either like them or unlike
 them? Certainly. It makes no
 difference, said he. Whenever the sight of one thing 
 
 
 brings you a perception of another, whether they be
 like or unlike, that must necessarily be recollection. Surely. Now
 then, said he, do the equal pieces of wood and the equal things of
 which we were speaking just now affect us in this way: Do they seem to us to be
 equal as abstract equality is equal, or do they somehow fall short of being like
 abstract equality? They fall very
 far short of it, said he. Do we
 agree, then, that when anyone on seeing a thing thinks, This thing that I see
 aims at being like some other thing that exists, but falls short 
 
 
 and is unable to be like that thing, but is inferior
 to it , he who thinks thus must of necessity have previous knowledge of the thing
 which he says the other resembles but falls short of? 
 We must. Well then, is this just what happened to us with regard to the equal
 things and equality in the abstract? It certainly is.

Phaedo. Then we
 must have had knowledge of equality 
 
 
 
 before the time when we first saw equal things and
 thought, ‘All these things are aiming to be like equality but fall
 short.’ That is
 true. And we agree, also, that
 we have not gained knowledge of it, and that it is impossible to gain this
 knowledge, except by sight or touch or some other of the senses? I consider that
 all the senses are alike. Yes,
 Socrates, they are all alike, for the purposes of our argument. Then it is through the senses that we must learn
 
 
 
 that all sensible objects strive after
 absolute equality and fall short of it. Is that our view? Yes. Then before we began to see or hear or use the other senses we must
 somewhere have gained a knowledge of abstract or absolute equality, if we were
 to compare with it the equals which we perceive by the senses, and see that all
 such things yearn to be like abstract equality but fall short of
 it. That follows necessarily
 from what we have said before, Socrates. And we saw and heard and had the other senses as soon as we were
 born? 
 
 
 Certainly. But, we say,
 we must have acquired a knowledge of equality before we had these
 senses? Yes. 
 Then it appears that we must have acquired it before we
 were born. It does. 
 Now if we had acquired that knowledge before we
 were born, and were born with it, we knew before we were born and at the moment
 of birth not only the equal and the greater and the less, but all such
 abstractions? For our present argument is no more concerned with the equal than
 with absolute beauty and the absolute good and the just and the holy, and, in
 short, 
 
 
 with all those things which we stamp
 with the seal of absolute in our dialectic process of questions and answers; so
 that we must necessarily have acquired knowledge of all these before our
 birth. That is
 true. And if after acquiring it
 we have not, in each case, forgotten it, we must always be born knowing these
 things, and must know them throughout our life; for to know is to have acquired
 knowledge and to have retained it without losing it, and the loss of knowledge
 is just what we mean when we speak of forgetting, is it not,
 Simmias? Certainly, 
 
 
 Socrates, said he. But, I suppose, if we acquired knowledge before we were
 born and lost it at birth, but afterwards by the use of our senses regained the
 knowledge which we had previously possessed, would not the process which we call
 learning really be recovering knowledge which is our own? And should we be right
 in calling this recollection? Assuredly.

Phaedo. For we found
 that it is possible, 
 
 
 
 on perceiving a thing by the sight or the hearing or any
 other sense, to call to mind from that perception another thing which had been
 forgotten, which was associated with the thing perceived, whether like it or
 unlike it; so that, as I said, one of two things is true, either we are all born
 knowing these things and know them all our lives, or afterwards, those who are
 said to learn merely remember, and learning would then be
 recollection. That is certainly
 true, Socrates. Which then do you
 choose, Simmias? Were we born 
 
 
 with the
 knowledge, or do we recollect afterwards things of which we had acquired
 knowledge before our birth? I cannot
 choose at this moment, Socrates. How
 about this question? You can choose and you have some opinion about it: When a
 man knows, can he give an account of what he knows or not? Certainly he can, Socrates. And do you think that everybody can give an
 account of the matters about which we have just been talking? I wish they might, said Simmias;
 but on the contrary I fear that tomorrow, at this time, there will be no
 longer any man living who is able to do so properly. 
 
 
 Then, Simmias, you do not think all men know these
 things? By no
 means. Then they recollect the
 things they once learned? Necessarily. When did
 our souls acquire the knowledge of them? Surely not after we were born as human
 beings. Certainly
 not. Then
 previously. Yes. Then, Simmias, the
 souls existed previously, before they were in human form, apart from bodies, and
 they had intelligence. Unless,
 Socrates, we acquire these ideas at the moment of birth; for that time
 
 
 
 still remains. Very well, my friend. But at what other time do we lose
 them? For we are surely not born with them, as we just now agreed. Do we lose
 them at the moment when we receive them, or have you some other time to
 suggest? None whatever,
 Socrates. I did not notice that I was talking nonsense. Then, Simmias, said he, is this the state
 of the case? If, as we are always saying, the beautiful exists, and the good,
 and every essence of that kind, and if we refer all our sensations to these,
 
 
 
 which we find existed previously and are
 now ours, and compare our sensations with these, is it not a necessary inference
 that just as these abstractions exist, so our souls existed before we were born;
 and if these abstractions do not exist, our argument is of no force? Is this the
 case, and is it equally certain that provided these things exist our souls also
 existed before we were born, and that if these do not exist, neither did our
 souls?

Phaedo. Socrates, it seems to me
 that there is absolutely the same certainty, and our argument comes to the
 excellent conclusion that 
 
 
 
 our soul existed before we were born, and that the essence
 of which you speak likewise exists. For there is nothing so clear to me as this,
 that all such things, the beautiful, the good, and all the others of which you
 were speaking just now, have a most real existence. And I think the proof is
 sufficient. But how about
 Cebes? said Socrates. For Cebes must be convinced,
 too. He is fully convinced, I
 think, said Simmias; and yet he is the most obstinately
 incredulous of mortals. Still, I believe he is quite convinced of this, that our
 soul existed 
 
 
 before we were born. However,
 that it will still exist after we die does not seem even to me to have been
 proved, Socrates, but the common fear, which Cebes mentioned just now, that when
 a man dies the soul is dispersed and this is the end of his existence, still
 remains. For assuming that the soul comes into being and is brought together
 from some source or other and exists before it enters into a human body, what
 prevents it, after it has entered into and left that body, from coming to an end
 and being destroyed itself? 
 
 
 You
 are right, Simmias, said Cebes. It seems to me that we have proved
 only half of what is required, namely, that our soul existed before our birth.
 But we must also show that it exists after we are dead as well as before our
 birth, if the proof is to be perfect. It has been shown, Simmias and Cebes, already, said Socrates,
 if you will combine this conclusion with the one we reached before, that
 every living being is born from the dead. For if the soul exists before birth,
 and, 
 
 
 when it comes into life and is born,
 cannot be born from anything else than death and a state of death, must it not
 also exist after dying, since it must be born again? So the proof you call for
 has already been given. However, I think you and Simmias would like to carry on
 this discussion still further. You have the childish fear that when the soul
 goes out from the body the wind will really blow it away and scatter it,
 especially 
 
 
 if a man happens to die in a high
 wind and not in calm weather. And Cebes
 laughed and said, Assume that we have that fear, Socrates, and try to
 convince us; or rather, do not assume that we are afraid, but perhaps there is a
 child within us, who has such fears. Let us try to persuade him not to fear
 death as if it were a hobgoblin. Ah, said Socrates, you must sing charms to him every day
 until you charm away his fear.

Phaedo. 
 
 
 
 Where then, Socrates, said he,
 shall we find a good singer of such charms, since you are leaving
 us? 
 Hellas , Cebes, he replied, is a large country, in
 which there are many good men, and there are many foreign peoples also. You
 ought to search through all of them in quest of such a charmer, sparing neither
 money nor toil, for there is no greater need for which you could spend your
 money. And you must seek among yourselves, too, for perhaps you would hardly
 find others better able to do this than you. 
 That, said Cebes, shall be done. But let us return to the
 point where we left off, 
 
 
 if you are
 willing. Oh, I am willing, of
 course. Good, said
 he. Well then, said Socrates,
 must we not ask ourselves some such question as this? What kind of thing
 naturally suffers dispersion, and for what kind of thing might we naturally fear
 it, and again what kind of thing is not liable to it? And after this must we not
 inquire to which class the soul belongs and base our hopes or fears for our
 souls upon the answers to these questions? You are quite right, he replied. Now is not that which is compounded 
 
 
 and composite naturally liable to be decomposed, in the same way in which it
 was compounded? And if anything is uncompounded is not that, if anything,
 naturally unlikely to be decomposed? I think, said Cebes, that is true. Then it is most probable that things which are
 always the same and unchanging are the uncompounded things and the things that
 are changing and never the same are the composite things? Yes, I think so. Let us then, said he, turn to what we were
 discussing before. 
 
 
 Is the absolute essence,
 which we in our dialectic process of question and answer call true being, always
 the same or is it liable to change? Absolute equality, absolute beauty, any
 absolute existence, true being—do they ever admit of any change
 whatsoever? Or does each absolute essence, since it is uniform and exists by
 itself, remain the same and never in any way admit of any
 change? It must, said
 Cebes, necessarily remain the same, 
 
 
 Socrates. But how about the
 many things, for example, men, or horses, or cloaks, or any other such things,
 which bear the same names as the absolute essences and are called beautiful or
 equal or the like? Are they always the same? Or are they, in direct opposition
 to the essences, constantly changing in themselves, unlike each other, and, so
 to speak, never the same? The
 latter, said Cebes; they are never the same.

Phaedo. 
 
 
 
 And you can
 see these and touch them and perceive them by the other senses, whereas the
 things which are always the same can be grasped only by the reason, and are
 invisible and not to be seen? Certainly, said he, that is true. Now, said he, shall we assume two kinds of
 existences, one visible, the other invisible? Let us assume them, said Cebes. And that the invisible is always the same and the
 visible constantly changing? Let us
 assume that also, said he. 
 
 
 Well
 then, said Socrates, are we not made up of two parts, body and
 soul? Yes, he
 replied. Now to which class should we
 say the body is more similar and more closely akin? To the visible, said he; that is clear to
 everyone. And the soul? Is it
 visible or invisible? Invisible, to
 man, at least, Socrates. But we call
 things visible and invisible with reference to human vision, do we
 not? Yes, we
 do. Then what do we say about
 the soul? Can it be seen or not? It
 cannot be seen. Then it is
 invisible? Yes. Then the soul is more like the invisible than the
 body is, 
 
 
 and the body more like the
 visible. Necessarily,
 Socrates. Now we have also been
 saying for a long time, have we not, that, when the soul makes use of the body
 for any inquiry, either through seeing or hearing or any of the other
 senses—for inquiry through the body means inquiry through the
 senses,—then it is dragged by the body to things which never remain the
 same, and it wanders about and is confused and dizzy like a drunken man because
 it lays hold upon such things? Certainly. But when the
 soul 
 
 
 inquires alone by itself, it departs
 into the realm of the pure, the everlasting, the immortal and the changeless,
 and being akin to these it dwells always with them whenever it is by itself and
 is not hindered, and it has rest from its wanderings and remains always the same
 and unchanging with the changeless, since it is in communion therewith. And this
 state of the soul is called wisdom. Is it not so? Socrates, said he, what you say is
 perfectly right and true. And now
 again, in view of what we said before and of what has just been said, to which
 class do you think 
 
 
 the soul has greater
 likeness and kinship? I think,
 Socrates, said he, that anyone, even the dullest, would agree,
 after this argument that the soul is infinitely more like that which is always
 the same than that which is not. And
 the body? Is more like the
 other. Consider, then, the
 matter in another way.

Phaedo. 
 When the soul 
 
 
 
 and the body are joined together, nature directs the
 one to serve and be ruled, and the other to rule and be master. Now this being
 the case, which seems to you like the divine, and which like the mortal? Or do
 you not think that the divine is by nature fitted to rule and lead, and the
 mortal to obey and serve? Yes, I
 think so. Which, then, does the soul
 resemble? Clearly, Socrates, the
 soul is like the divine and the body like the mortal. Then see, Cebes, if this is not the conclusion from all
 that we have said, 
 
 
 that the soul is most like
 the divine and immortal and intellectual and uniform and indissoluble and ever
 unchanging, and the body, on the contrary, most like the human and mortal and
 multiform and unintellectual and dissoluble and ever changing. Can we say
 anything, my dear Cebes, to show that this is not so? No, we cannot. Well then, since this is the case, is it not natural for the body to
 meet with speedy dissolution and for the soul, on the contrary, to be entirely
 indissoluble, or nearly so? 
 
 
 Of
 course. Observe, he went
 on, that when a man dies, the visible part of him, the body, which lies
 in the visible world and which we call the corpse, which is naturally subject to
 dissolution and decomposition, does not undergo these processes at once, but
 remains for a considerable time, and even for a very long time, if death takes
 place when the body is in good condition, and at a favorable time of the year.
 For when the body is shrunk and embalmed, as is done in Egypt , it remains almost entire for an
 incalculable time. And even if the body decay, 
 
 
 some parts of it, such as the bones and sinews and all that, are, so to speak,
 indestructible. Is not that true? Yes. But the soul, the
 invisible, which departs into another place which is, like itself, noble and
 pure and invisible, to the realm of the god of the other world in truth, to the
 good and wise god, whither, if God will, my soul is soon to go,—is this
 soul, which has such qualities and such a nature, straightway scattered and
 destroyed when it departs from the body, as most men say? 
 
 
 Far from it, dear Cebes and Simmias, but the truth is much
 rather this—if it departs pure, dragging with it nothing of the body,
 because it never willingly associated with the body in life, but avoided it and
 gathered itself into itself alone, since this has always been its constant
 study—but this means nothing else than that it pursued philosophy rightly
 and 
 
 
 
 really
 practiced being in a state of death: or is not this the practice of
 death?

Phaedo. By all
 means. Then if it is in such a
 condition, it goes away into that which is like itself, into the invisible,
 divine, immortal, and wise, and when it arrives there it is happy, freed from
 error and folly and fear and fierce loves and all the other human ills, and as
 the initiated say, lives in truth through all after time with the gods. Is this
 our belief, Cebes, or not? Assuredly, said Cebes. But,
 I think, 
 
 
 if when it departs from the body it
 is defiled and impure, because it was always with the body and cared for it and
 loved it and was fascinated by it and its desires and pleasures, so that it
 thought nothing was true except the corporeal, which one can touch and see and
 drink and eat and employ in the pleasures of love, and if it is accustomed to
 hate and fear and avoid that which is shadowy and invisible to the eyes but is
 intelligible and tangible to philosophy—do you think a soul in this
 condition 
 
 
 will depart pure and
 uncontaminated? By no
 means, said he. But it will be
 interpenetrated, I suppose, with the corporeal which intercourse and communion
 with the body have made a part of its nature because the body has been its
 constant companion and the object of its care? Certainly. And, my friend, we must believe that the corporeal is burdensome and
 heavy and earthly and visible. And such a soul is weighed down by this and is
 dragged back into the visible world, through fear of the invisible and of the
 other world, and so, 
 
 
 as they say, it flits
 about the monuments and the tombs, where shadowy shapes of souls have been seen,
 figures of those souls which were not set free in purity but retain something of
 the visible; and this is why they are seen. That is likely, Socrates. It is likely, Cebes. And it is likely that those are not the souls of
 the good, but those of the base, which are compelled to flit about such places
 as a punishment for their former evil mode of life. And they flit about
 
 
 
 until through the desire of the corporeal
 which clings to them they are again imprisoned in a body. And they are likely to
 be imprisoned in natures which correspond to the practices of their former
 life. What natures do you mean,
 Socrates? I mean, for example,
 that those who have indulged in gluttony and violence and drunkenness, and have
 taken no pains to avoid them, are likely to pass into the bodies of asses and
 other beasts of that sort.

Phaedo. 
 
 
 
 Do you not think so? Certainly that is very likely. And those who have chosen injustice and tyranny and robbery pass into
 the bodies of wolves and hawks and kites. Where else can we imagine that they
 go? Beyond a doubt, said
 Cebes, they pass into such creatures. Then, said he, it is clear where all the others go, each
 in accordance with its own habits? Yes, said Cebes, of course. Then, said he, the happiest of those, and
 those who go to the best place, are those who have practiced, 
 
 
 by nature and habit, without philosophy or reason, the
 social and civil virtues which are called moderation and
 justice? How are these
 happiest? Don’t you see? Is it
 not likely that they pass again into some such social and gentle species as that
 of bees or of wasps or ants, or into the human race again, and that worthy men
 spring from them? Yes. And no one who has
 not been a philosopher and who is not wholly pure when he departs, is allowed to
 enter into the communion of the gods, 
 
 
 but
 only the lover of knowledge. It is for this reason, dear Simmias and Cebes, that
 those who truly love wisdom refrain from all bodily desires and resist them
 firmly and do not give themselves up to them, not because they fear poverty or
 loss of property, as most men, in their love of money, do; nor is it because
 they fear the dishonor or disgrace of wickedness, like the lovers of honor and
 power, that they refrain from them. No, that would not be seemly for them, Socrates, said
 Cebes. Most assuredly not, 
 
 
 
 said he. And therefore those who
 care for their own souls, and do not live in service to the body, turn their
 backs upon all these men and do not walk in their ways, for they feel that they
 know not whither they are going. They themselves believe that philosophy, with
 its deliverance and purification, must not be resisted, and so they turn and
 follow it whithersoever it leads. How do they do this, Socrates? I will tell you, he replied. The lovers of
 knowledge, said he, perceive that when philosophy first takes
 possession of their soul it is entirely 
 
 
 fastened and welded to the body and is compelled to regard realities through
 the body as through prison bars, not with its own unhindered vision, and is
 wallowing in utter ignorance. And philosophy sees that the most dreadful thing
 about the imprisonment is the fact that it is caused by the lusts of the flesh,
 so that the prisoner is the 
 
 chief assistant in his own imprisonment.

Phaedo. 
 The lovers of
 knowledge, then, I say, perceive that philosophy, taking possession of the soul
 when it is in this state, encourages it gently and tries to set it free,
 pointing out that the eyes and the ears and the other senses are full of deceit,
 and urging it to withdraw from these, except in so far as their use is
 unavoidable, and exhorting it to collect and concentrate itself within itself,
 and to trust nothing except 
 
 
 itself and its
 own abstract thought of abstract existence; and to believe that there is no
 truth in that which it sees by other means and which varies with the various
 objects in which it appears, since everything of that kind is visible and
 apprehended by the senses, whereas the soul itself sees that which is invisible
 and apprehended by the mind. Now the soul of the true philosopher believes that
 it must not resist this deliverance, and therefore it stands aloof from
 pleasures and lusts and griefs and fears, so far as it can, considering that
 when anyone has violent pleasures or fears or griefs or lusts he suffers from
 them not merely what one might think—for example, illness or loss of money
 spent 
 
 
 for his lusts—but he suffers the
 greatest and most extreme evil and does not take it into
 account. What is this evil,
 Socrates? said Cebes. The evil is
 that the soul of every man, when it is greatly pleased or pained by anything, is
 compelled to believe that the object which caused the emotion is very distinct
 and very true; but it is not. These objects are mostly the visible ones, are
 they not? 
 
 
 Certainly. And when
 this occurs, is not the soul most completely put in bondage by the
 body? How so? Because each pleasure or pain nails it as with a
 nail to the body and rivets it on and makes it corporeal, so that it fancies the
 things are true which the body says are true. For because it has the same
 beliefs and pleasures as the body it is compelled to adopt also the same habits
 and mode of life, and can never depart in purity to the other world, but must
 always go away contaminated with the body; and so it sinks quickly into another
 body again and grows into it, 
 
 
 like seed that
 is sown. Therefore it has no part in the communion with the divine and pure and
 absolute. What you say,
 Socrates, is very true, said Cebes. This, Cebes, is the reason why the true lovers of knowledge are
 temperate and brave; not the world’s reason. Or do you disagree?

Phaedo. 
 
 Certainly not. No, for the soul of the philosopher would not reason as
 others do, and would not think it right that philosophy should set it free, and
 that then when set free it should give itself again into bondage to pleasure and
 pain and engage in futile toil, like Penelope unweaving the web she wove. No,
 his soul believes that it must gain peace from these emotions, must follow
 reason and abide always in it, beholding that which is true and divine and not a
 matter of opinion, and making that its only food; 
 
 
 and in this way it believes it must live, while life
 endures, and then at death pass on to that which is akin to itself and of like
 nature, and be free from human ills. A soul which has been nurtured in this way,
 Simmias and Cebes, is not likely to fear that it will be torn asunder at its
 departure from the body and will vanish into nothingness, blown apart by the
 winds, and be no longer anywhere. When
 Socrates had said this there was silence 
 
 
 for
 a long time, and Socrates himself was apparently absorbed in what had been said,
 as were also most of us. But Simmias and Cebes conversed a little with each
 other; and Socrates saw them and said: Do you think there is any
 incompleteness in what has been said? There are still many subjects for doubt
 and many points open to attack, if anyone cares to discuss the matter
 thoroughly. If you are considering anything else, I have nothing to say; but if
 you are in any difficulty about these matters, do not hesitate 
 
 
 to speak and discuss them yourselves, if you think
 anything better could be said on the subject, and to take me along with you in
 the discussion, if you think you can get on better in my
 company. And Simmias said:
 Socrates, I will tell you the truth. For some time each of us has been in
 doubt and has been egging the other on and urging him to ask a question, because
 we wish to hear your answer, but hesitate to trouble you, for fear that it may
 be disagreeable to you in your present misfortune. And when he heard is, he laughed gently and said: Ah,
 
 
 
 Simmias! I should have hard work to
 persuade other people that I do not regard my present situation as a misfortune,
 when I cannot even make you believe it, but you are afraid I am more churlish
 now than I used to be. And you seem to think I am inferior in prophetic power to
 the swans who sing at other times also, but when they feel that they are to die,
 
 sing most and best in their joy that they are to go to the god whose servants they are.

Phaedo. 
 But men, because of their own fear of death, misrepresent the swans and say that
 they sing for sorrow, in mourning for their own death. They do not consider that
 no bird sings when it is hungry or cold or has any other trouble; no, not even
 the nightingale or the swallow or the hoopoe which are said to sing in
 lamentation. I do not believe they sing for grief, nor do the swans; 
 
 
 but since they are Apollo’s birds, I believe they
 have prophetic vision, and because they have foreknowledge of the blessings in
 the other world they sing and rejoice on that day more than ever before. And I
 think that I am myself a fellow-servant of the swans; and am consecrated to the
 same God and have received from our master a gift of prophecy no whit inferior
 to theirs, and that I go out from life with as little sorrow as they. So far as
 this is concerned, then, speak and ask what ever questions you please, so long
 as the eleven of the Athenians permit. Good, said Simmias. 
 
 
 I
 will tell you my difficulty, and then Cebes in turn will say why he does not
 agree to all you have said. I think, Socrates, as perhaps you do yourself, that
 it is either impossible or very difficult to acquire clear knowledge about these
 matters in this life. And yet he is a weakling who does not test in every way
 what is said about them and persevere until he is worn out by studying them on
 every side. For he must do one of two things; either he must learn or discover
 the truth about these matters, or if that is impossible, he must take whatever
 human doctrine is best 
 
 
 and hardest to
 disprove and, embarking upon it as upon a raft, sail upon it through life in the
 midst of dangers, unless he can sail upon some stronger vessel, some divine
 revelation, and make his voyage more safely and securely. And so now I am not
 ashamed to ask questions, since you encourage me to do so, and I shall not have
 to blame myself hereafter for not saying now what I think. For, Socrates, when I
 examine what has been said, either alone or with Cebes, it does not seem quite
 satisfactory. 
 
 
 And Socrates replied:
 Perhaps, my friend, you are right. But tell me in what respect it is not
 satisfactory.

Phaedo. 
 In this, 
 said he, that one might use the same argument about harmony and a lyre
 with its strings.One might say that the harmony is invisible and incorporeal,
 and very beautiful and 
 
 
 
 divine in the well attuned lyre, but the lyre itself and its
 strings are bodies, and corporeal and composite and earthy and akin to that
 which is mortal. Now if someone shatters the lyre or cuts and breaks the
 strings, what if he should maintain by the same argument you employed, that the
 harmony could not have perished and must still exist? For there would be no
 possibility that the lyre and its strings, which are of mortal nature, still
 exist after the strings are broken, and the harmony, 
 
 
 which is related and akin to the divine and the immortal,
 perish before that which is mortal. He would say that the harmony must still
 exist somewhere, and that the wood and the strings must rot away before anything
 could happen to it. And I fancy, Socrates, that it must have occurred to your
 own mind that we believe the soul to be something after this fashion; that our
 body is strung and held together by heat, cold, moisture, dryness, and the like,
 
 
 
 and the soul is a mixture and a harmony
 of these same elements, when they are well and properly mixed. Now if the soul
 is a harmony, it is clear that when the body is too much relaxed or is too
 tightly strung by diseases or other ills, the soul must of necessity perish, no
 matter how divine it is, like other harmonies in sounds and in all the works of
 artists, and the remains of each body will endure 
 
 
 a long time until they are burnt or decayed. Now what shall
 we say to this argument, if anyone claims that the soul, being a mixture of the
 elements of the body, is the first to perish in what is called
 death? Then Socrates, looking keenly at
 us, as he often used to do, smiled and said: Simmias raises a fair
 objection. Now if any of you is readier than I, why does he not reply to him?
 For he seems to score a good point. However, I think 
 
 
 before replying to him we ought to hear what fault our
 friend Cebes finds with our argument, that we may take time to consider what to
 say, and then when we have heard them, we can either agree with them, if they
 seem to strike the proper note, or, if they do not, we can proceed to argue in
 defence of our reasoning. Come, Cebes, said he, tell us what it
 was that troubled you. Well, I will
 tell you, said Cebes.

Phaedo. The argument seems to me to be just where it was, and to be still open to the objection I made before.
 For I do not deny that it has
 been very cleverly, and, if I may say so, conclusively shown that the soul
 existed before it entered into this bodily form, but it does not seem to me
 proved that it will still exist when we are dead. I do not agree with Simmias’
 objection, that the soul is not stronger and more lasting than the body, for I
 think it is far superior in all such respects. Why then, the argument might
 say, do you still disbelieve, when you see that after a man dies 
 
 
 the weaker part still exists? Do you not think the
 stronger part must necessarily be preserved during the same length of time? Now
 see if my reply to this has any sense. I think I may, like Simmias, best express
 myself in a figure. It seems to me that it is much as if one should say about an
 old weaver who had died, that the man had not perished but was safe and sound
 somewhere, and should offer as a proof of this the fact that the cloak which the
 man had woven and used to wear was still whole and had not perished. Then if
 anyone did not believe him, he would ask 
 
 
 which lasts longer, a man or a cloak that is in use and wear, and when the
 answer was given that a man lasts much longer, he would think it had been proved
 beyond a doubt that the man was safe, because that which was less lasting had
 not perished. But I do not think he is
 right, Simmias, and I ask you especially to notice what I say. Anyone can
 understand that a man who says this is talking nonsense. For the weaver in
 question wove and wore out many such cloaks and 
 
 
 lasted longer than they, though they were many, but
 perished, I suppose, before the last one. Yet a man is not feebler or weaker
 than a cloak on that account at all. And I think the same figure would apply to
 the soul and the body and it would be quite appropriate to say in like manner
 about them, that the soul lasts a long time, but the body lasts a shorter time
 and is weaker. And, one might go on to say that each soul wears out many bodies,
 especially if the man lives many years. For if the body is constantly changing
 and being destroyed while the man still lives, 
 
 
 and the soul is always weaving anew that which wears out, then when the soul
 perishes it must necessarily have on its last garment, and this only will
 survive it, and when the soul has perished, then the body will at once show its
 natural weakness and will quickly disappear in decay.

Phaedo. And so we are not yet
 justified in feeling sure, on the strength of this argument, 
 
 
 
 that our souls will
 still exist somewhere after we are dead. For if one were to grant even more to a
 man who uses your argument, Socrates, and allow not only that our souls existed
 before we were born, but also that there is nothing to prevent some of them from
 continuing to exist and from being born and dying again many times after we are
 dead, because the soul is naturally so strong that it can endure repeated
 births,—even allowing this, one might not grant that it does not suffer by
 its many births and does not finally perish altogether in one of its deaths.
 
 
 
 But he might say that no one knows
 beforehand the particular death and the particular dissolution of the body which
 brings destruction to the soul, for none of us can perceive that. Now if this is
 the case, anyone who feels confident about death has a foolish confidence,
 unless he can show that the soul is altogether immortal and imperishable.
 Otherwise a man who is about to die must always fear that his soul will perish
 utterly in the impending dissolution of the body. 
 Now all of us, as we remarked to one another afterwards,
 
 
 
 were very uncomfortable when we heard
 what they said; for we had been thoroughly convinced by the previous argument,
 and now they seemed to be throwing us again into confusion and distrust, not
 only in respect to the past discussion but also with regard to any future one.
 They made us fear that our judgment was worthless or that no certainty could be
 attained in these matters. 
 
 Echecrates. By the gods, Phaedo, I sympathize with you; for I myself after listening to you am inclined to ask myself:
 
 
 What
 argument shall we believe henceforth? For the argument of Socrates was perfectly
 convincing, and now it has fallen into discredit. For the doctrine that
 the soul is a kind of harmony has always had (and has now) a wonderful hold upon
 me, and your mention of it reminded me that I had myself believed in it before.
 Now I must begin over again and find another argument to convince me that when a
 man dies his soul does not perish with him. So, for heaven’s sake, tell how
 Socrates 
 
 
 continued the discourse, and whether
 he also, as you say the rest of you did, showed any uneasiness, or calmly
 defended his argument. And did he defend it successfully? Tell us everything as
 accurately as you can.

Phaedo. Echecrates, I have often wondered at Socrates, but never did I admire him more
 
 than then. That he had an answer ready was perhaps to be expected; but what astonished me
 more about him was, first, the pleasant, gentle, and respectful manner in which
 he listened to the young men’s criticisms, secondly, his quick sense of the
 effect their words had upon us, and lastly, the skill with which he cured us
 and, as it were, recalled us from our flight and defeat and made us face about
 and follow him and join in his examination of the argument. 
 Echecrates. How did he do it? 
 Phaedo. I will tell you. I was sitting at his right hand on a low stool 
 
 
 beside his couch, and his seat was a good deal
 higher than mine. He stroked my head and gathered the hair on the back of my
 neck into his hand—he had a habit of playing with my hair on
 occasion—and said, Tomorrow, perhaps, Phaedo, you will cut off this
 beautiful hair. I suppose so,
 Socrates, said I. Not if you take my
 advice. What shall I do
 then? I asked. You will cut it off
 today, and I will cut mine, if our argument dies and we cannot bring it to life
 again. 
 
 
 If I were you and the argument escaped
 me, I would take an oath, like the Argives, not to let my hair grow until I had
 renewed the fight and won a victory over the argument of Simmias and
 Cebes. But, I replied,
 they say that even Heracles is not a match for two. Well, said he, call me to help you,
 as your Iolaus, while there is still light. I call you to help, then, said I, not as Heracles calling
 Iolaus, but as Iolaus calling Heracles. That is all one, said he. But first let us guard against
 a danger. Of what sort? I
 asked. 
 
 
 The danger of becoming
 misologists or haters of argument, said he, as people become
 misanthropists or haters of man; for no worse evil can happen to a man than to
 hate argument. Misology and misanthropy arise from similar causes. For
 misanthropy arises from trusting someone implicitly without sufficient
 knowledge. You think the man is perfectly true and sound and trustworthy, and
 afterwards you find him base and false. Then you have the same experience with
 another person. By the time this has happened to a man a good many times,
 especially if it happens among those whom he might regard as his nearest
 
 
 
 and dearest friends, he ends by being in
 continual quarrels and by hating everybody and thinking there is nothing sound
 in anyone at all. Have you not noticed this? Certainly, said I. Well, he went on, is it not disgraceful, and is it not
 plain that such a man undertakes to consort with men when he has no knowledge of
 human nature?

Phaedo. For if he had knowledge when he dealt with them, he would think
 that the good 
 
 
 
 and the bad are both very few and those between the two are very many, for
 that is the case. What do you
 mean? I mean just what I might
 say about the large and small. Do you think there is anything more unusual than
 to find a very large or a very small man, or dog, or other creature, or again,
 one that is very quick or slow, very ugly or beautiful, very black or white?
 Have you not noticed that the extremes in all these instances are rare and few,
 and the examples between the extremes are very many? To be sure, said I. And don’t you think, 
 
 
 said he,
 that if there were to be a competition in rascality, those who excelled
 would be very few in that also? Very
 likely, I replied. Yes, very
 likely, he said, But it is not in that respect that arguments are
 like men; I was merely following your lead in discussing that. The similarity
 lies in this: when a man without proper knowledge concerning arguments has
 confidence in the truth of an argument and afterwards thinks that it is false,
 whether it really is so or not, and this happens again and again; then you know,
 those men especially who 
 
 
 have spent their
 time in disputation come to believe that they are the wisest of men and that
 they alone have discovered that there is nothing sound or sure in anything,
 whether argument or anything else, but all things go up and down, like the tide
 in the Euripus, and nothing is stable for any length of time. Certainly, I said, that is very
 true. Then, Phaedo, he
 said, if there is any system of argument which is true and sure and can
 be learned, it would be a sad thing if a man, 
 
 
 because he has met with some of those arguments which seem to be sometimes
 true and sometimes false, should then not blame himself or his own lack of
 skill, but should end, in his vexation, by throwing the blame gladly upon the
 arguments and should hate and revile them all the rest of his life, and be
 deprived of the truth and knowledge of reality. Yes, by Zeus, I said, it would be
 sad. First, then, said
 he, let us be on our guard against this, 
 
 
 and let us not admit into our souls the notion that there is
 no soundness in arguments at all. Let us far rather assume that we ourselves are
 not yet in sound condition and that we must strive manfully and eagerly to
 become so, you and the others for the sake of all your future life, 
 
 
 and I because of my
 impending death; for I fear that I am not just now in a philosophical frame of
 mind as regards this particular question, but am contentious, like quite
 uncultured persons.

Phaedo. For when they argue about anything, they do not care what
 the truth is in the matters they are discussing, but are eager only to make
 their own views seem true to their hearers. And I fancy I differ from them just
 now only to this extent: I shall not be eager to make what I say seem true to my
 hearers, except as a secondary matter, but shall be very eager 
 
 
 to make myself believe it. For see, my friend, how
 selfish my attitude is. If what I say is true, I am the gainer by believing it;
 and if there be nothing for me after death, at any rate I shall not be
 burdensome to my friends by my lamentations in these last moments. And this
 ignorance of mine will not last, for that would be an evil, but will soon end.
 So, he said, Simmias and Cebes, I approach the argument with my
 mind thus prepared. But you, 
 
 
 if you do as I
 ask, will give little thought to Socrates and much more to the truth; and if you
 think what I say is true, agree to it, and if not, oppose me with every argument
 you can muster, that I may not in my eagerness deceive myself and you alike and
 go away, like a bee, leaving my sting sticking in you. But we must get to work, he said. First
 refresh my memory, if I seem to have forgotten anything. Simmias, I think, has
 doubts and fears that the soul, though more divine and 
 
 
 excellent than the body, may perish first, being of the
 nature of a harmony. And, Cebes, I believe, granted that the soul is more
 lasting than the body, but said that no one could know that the soul, after
 wearing out many bodies, did not at last perish itself upon leaving the body;
 and that this was death—the destruction of the soul, since the body is
 continually being destroyed. Are those the points, Simmias and Cebes, which we
 must consider? 
 
 
 They both agreed that
 these were the points. Now, said he,
 do you reject all of our previous arguments, or only some of
 them? Only some of them, 
 they replied.

Phaedo. What you think, he
 asked, about the argument in which we said that learning is recollection
 and that, since this is so, our soul must necessarily have been somewhere
 
 
 
 
 before it
 was imprisoned in the body? I, said Cebes, was wonderfully convinced by it at the
 time and I still believe it more firmly than any other
 argument. And I too, said
 Simmias, feel just as he does, and I should be much surprised if I should
 ever think differently on this point. And
 Socrates said: You must, my Theban friend, think differently, if you
 persist in your opinion that a harmony is a compound and that the soul is a
 harmony made up of the elements that are strung like harpstrings in the body.
 
 
 
 For surely you will not accept your own
 statement that a composite harmony existed before those things from which it had
 to be composed, will you? Certainly
 not, Socrates. Then do you
 see, said he, that this is just what you say when you assert that
 the soul exists before it enters into the form and body of a man, and that it is
 composed of things that do not yet exist? For harmony is not what your
 comparison assumes it to be. The lyre and the strings and the sounds 
 
 
 come into being in a tuneless condition, and the
 harmony is the last of all to be composed and the first to perish. So how can
 you bring this theory into harmony with the other? I cannot at all, said Simmias. And yet, said Socrates, there ought to be
 harmony between it and the theory about harmony above all
 others. Yes, there ought, 
 said Simmias. Well, said he,
 there is no harmony between the two theories. Now which do you prefer,
 that knowledge is recollection or that the soul is a harmony? The former, decidedly, Socrates, he
 replied. For this other came to me without demonstration; it merely
 seemed probable 
 
 
 and attractive, which is the
 reason why many men hold it. I am conscious that those arguments which base
 their demonstrations on mere probability are deceptive, and if we are not on our
 guard against them they deceive us greatly, in geometry and in all other things.
 But the theory of recollection and knowledge has been established by a sound
 course of argument. For we agreed that our soul before it entered into the body
 existed just as the very essence which is called the absolute exists. 
 
 
 Now I am persuaded that I have accepted this essence
 on sufficient and right grounds. I cannot therefore accept from myself or anyone
 else the statement that the soul is a harmony. Here is another way of looking at it, Simmias, 
 said he.

Phaedo. Do you think a harmony or any other composite thing can be in
 any other state 
 
 
 
 than that in which the elements are of which it is composed? Certainly not. And it can neither do nor suffer anything other than
 they do or suffer? He agreed. Then a harmony cannot be expected to lead the
 elements of which it is composed, but to follow them. He assented. A harmony,
 then, is quite unable to move or make a sound or do anything else that is
 opposed to its component parts. Quite unable, said he. Well
 then, is not every harmony by nature a harmony according as it is
 harmonized? I do not
 understand, said Simmias. Would it
 not, said Socrates, be more completely a harmony 
 
 
 and a greater harmony if it were harmonized more
 fully and to a greater extent, assuming that to be possible, and less completely
 a harmony and a lesser harmony if less completely harmonized and to a less
 extent? Certainly. Is this true
 of the soul? Is one soul even in the slightest degree more completely and to a
 greater extent a soul than another, or less completely and to a less
 extent? Not in the least, 
 said he. Well now, said he,
 one soul is said to possess sense and virtue and to be good, and another
 to possess folly and wickedness and to be bad; and is this true? 
 
 
 
 Yes, it is true. Now what will those who assume that the soul is a
 harmony say that these things—the virtue and the wickedness—in the
 soul are? Will they say that this is another kind of harmony and a discord, and
 that the soul, which is itself a harmony, has within it another harmony and that
 the other soul is discordant and has no other harmony within
 it? I cannot tell, 
 replied Simmias, but evidently those who make that assumption would say
 some thing of that sort. But we
 agreed, said Socrates, 
 
 
 that one
 soul is no more or less a soul than another; and that is equivalent to an
 agreement that one is no more and to no greater extent, and no less and to no
 less extent, a harmony than another, is it not? 
 Certainly. And that which
 is no more or less a harmony, is no more or less harmonized. Is that so? 
 Yes. But has that which
 is no more and no less harmonized any greater or any less amount of harmony, or
 an equal amount? An equal amount. Then a soul, since it is neither more nor less
 
 
 
 a soul than another, is neither more nor
 less harmonized. That is
 so. And therefore can have no
 greater amount of discord or of harmony? No. And therefore again one soul can have no greater
 amount of wickedness or virtue than another, if wickedness is discord and virtue
 harmony?

Phaedo. It cannot. Or
 rather, to speak exactly, Simmias, 
 
 
 
 no soul will have any wickedness at all, if the soul
 is a harmony; for if a harmony is entirely harmony, it could have no part in
 discord. Certainly
 not. Then the soul, being
 entirely soul, could have no part in wickedness. How could it, if what we have said is
 right? According to this
 argument, then, if all souls are by nature equally souls, all souls of all
 living creatures will be equally good. So it seems, Socrates, said he. 
 
 
 And, said Socrates, do you think that
 this is true and that our reasoning would have come to this end, if the theory
 that the soul is a harmony were correct? Not in the least, he replied. Well, said Socrates, of all the parts that make up a man,
 do you think any is ruler except the soul, especially if it be a wise
 one? No, I do
 not. Does it yield to the
 feelings of the body or oppose them? I mean, when the body is hot and thirsty,
 does not the soul oppose it and draw it away from drinking, and from eating when
 it is hungry, and do we not see the soul opposing the body 
 
 
 in countless other ways? Certainly. Did we not
 agree in our previous discussion that it could never, if it be a harmony, give
 forth a sound at variance with the tensions and relaxations and vibrations and
 other conditions of the elements which compose it, but that it would follow them
 and never lead them? Yes, he
 replied, we did, of course. Well then, do we not now find that the soul acts in exactly the
 opposite way, leading those elements of which it is said to consist and opposing
 them 
 
 
 in almost everything through all our
 life, and tyrannizing over them in every way, sometimes inflicting harsh and
 painful punishments (those of gymnastics and medicine), and sometimes milder
 ones, sometimes threatening and sometimes admonishing, in short, speaking to the
 desires and passions and fears as if it were distinct from them and they from
 it, as Homer has shown in the Odyssey when he says of
 Odysseus: 
 He smote his breast, and thus
 he chid his heart: 
 Endure it, heart, you have born worse
 than this. 
 
 Hom. Od
 20.17-18 
 
 
 
 Do you suppose that, when he wrote those
 words, he thought of the soul as a harmony which would be led by the conditions
 of the body, and not rather as something fitted to lead and rule them, and
 itself a far more divine thing than a harmony? By Zeus, Socrates, the latter, I think.

Phaedo. Then, my good friend, it will never do for us to
 say that the soul is a harmony; for we should, it seems, 
 
 
 
 agree neither with Homer, the
 divine poet, nor with ourselves. That is true, said he. Very
 well, said Socrates, Harmonia, the Theban goddess, has, it seems,
 been moderately gracious to us; but how, Cebes, and by what argument can we find
 grace in the sight of Cadmus? I
 think, said Cebes, you will find a way. At any rate, you conducted
 this argument against harmony wonderfully and better than I expected. For when
 Simmias was telling of his difficulty, I wondered if anyone could make head
 against 
 
 
 his argument; so it seemed to me very
 remarkable that it could not withstand the first attack of your argument. Now I
 should not be surprised if the argument of Cadmus met with the same
 fate. My friend, said
 Socrates, do not be boastful, lest some evil eye put to rout the argument
 that is to come. That, however, is in the hands of God. Let us, in Homeric
 fashion, charge the foe and test the worth of what you say. Now the sum total of
 what you seek is this: You demand a proof that our soul is indestructible
 
 
 
 and immortal, if the philosopher, who is
 confident in the face of death and who thinks that after death he will fare
 better in the other world than if he had lived his life differently, is not to
 find his confidence senseless and foolish. And although we show that the soul is
 strong and godlike and existed before we men were born as men, all this, you
 say, may bear witness not to immortality, but only to the fact that the soul
 lasts a long while, and existed somewhere an immeasurably long time before our
 birth, and knew and did various things; yet it was none the more immortal for
 all that, 
 
 
 but its very entrance into the
 human body was the beginning of its dissolution, a disease, as it were; and it
 lives in toil through this life and finally perishes in what we call death. Now
 it makes no difference, you say, whether a soul enters into a body once or many
 times, so far as the fear each of us feels is concerned; for anyone, unless he
 is a fool, must fear, if he does not know and cannot prove that the soul is
 immortal. That, 
 
 
 Cebes, is, I think, about
 what you mean. And I restate it purposely that nothing may escape us and that
 you may, if you wish, add or take away anything. And Cebes said, I do not at present wish to take
 anything away or to add anything. You have expressed my
 meaning. Socrates paused for some time
 and was absorbed in thought. Then he said: It is no small thing that you
 seek; for the cause of generation and decay must be completely investigated.

Phaedo. Now I will
 tell you my own experience in the matter, if you wish; then if anything I say
 seems to you to be of any use, you can employ it for the solution of your
 difficulty. Certainly, 
 said Cebes, I wish to hear your experiences. Listen then, and I will tell you. When I was young,
 Cebes, I was tremendously eager for the kind of wisdom which they call
 investigation of nature. I thought it was a glorious thing to know the causes of
 everything, why each thing comes into being and why it perishes and why it
 exists; 
 
 
 and I was always unsettling myself
 with such questions as these: Do heat and cold, by a sort of fermentation, bring
 about the organization of animals, as some people say? Is it the blood, or air,
 or fire by which we think? Or is it none of these, and does the brain furnish
 the sensations of hearing and sight and smell, and do memory and opinion arise
 from these, and does knowledge come from memory and opinion in a state of rest?
 And again I tried to find out 
 
 
 how these
 things perish, and I investigated the phenomena of heaven and earth until
 finally I made up my mind that I was by nature totally unfitted for this kind of
 investigation. And I will give you a sufficient proof of this. I was so
 completely blinded by these studies that I lost the knowledge that I, and others
 also, thought I had before; I forgot what I had formerly believed I knew about
 many things and even about the cause of man’s growth. For I had thought
 previously that it was plain to everyone that man grows through eating and
 
 
 
 drinking; for when, from the food he
 eats, flesh is added to his flesh and bones to his bones, and in the same way
 the appropriate thing is added to each of his other parts, then the small bulk
 becomes greater and the small man large. That is what I used to think. Doesn’t
 that seem to you reasonable? Yes, said Cebes. Now listen
 to this, too. I thought I was sure enough, when I saw a tall man standing by a
 short one, that he was, say, taller by a head than the other, 
 
 
 and that one horse was larger by a head than another horse;
 and, to mention still clearer things than those, I thought ten were more than
 eight because two had been added to the eight, and I thought a two-cubit rule
 was longer than a one-cubit rule because it exceeded it by half its
 length. And now, said
 Cebes, what do you think about them?

Phaedo. 
 By Zeus, said he, I am far from thinking that I know the
 cause of any of these things, I who do not even dare to say, when one is added
 to one, whether the one to which the addition was made has become two, or the
 one which was added, or the one which was added and 
 
 
 
 the one to which it was added
 became two by the addition of each to the other. I think it is wonderful that
 when each of them was separate from the other, each was one and they were not
 then two, and when they were brought near each other this juxtaposition was the
 cause of their becoming two. And I cannot yet believe that if one is divided,
 the division causes it to become two; for this is the opposite of 
 
 
 the cause which produced two in the former case; for
 then two arose because one was brought near and added to another one, and now
 because one is removed and separated from other. And I no longer believe that I
 know by this method even how one is generated or, in a word, how anything is
 generated or is destroyed or exists, and I no longer admit this method, but have
 another confused way of my own. Then one
 day I heard a man reading from a book, as he said, by Anaxagoras, 
 
 
 that it is the mind that arranges and causes all
 things. I was pleased with this theory of cause, and it seemed to me to be
 somehow right that the mind should be the cause of all things, and I thought,
 If this is so, the mind in arranging things arranges everything and establishes
 each thing as it is best for it to be. So if anyone wishes to find the cause of
 the generation or destruction or existence of a particular thing, he must find
 out what sort of existence, or passive state of any kind, or activity is best
 for it. And therefore in respect to 
 
 
 that
 particular thing, and other things too, a man need examine nothing but what is
 best and most excellent; for then he will necessarily know also what is
 inferior, since the science of both is the same. As I considered these things I
 was delighted to think that I had found in Anaxagoras a teacher of the cause of
 things quite to my mind, and I thought he would tell me whether the earth is
 flat or round, and when 
 
 
 he had told me that,
 would go on to explain the cause and the necessity of it, and would tell me the
 nature of the best and why it is best for the earth to be as it is; and if he
 said the earth was in the center, he would proceed to show that it is best for
 it to be in the center; and I had made up my mind that 
 
 
 
 if he made those things clear to
 me, I would no longer yearn for any other kind of cause.

Phaedo. And I had determined
 that I would find out in the same way about the sun and the moon and the other
 stars, their relative speed, their revolutions, and their other changes, and why
 the active or passive condition of each of them is for the best. For I never
 imagined that, when he said they were ordered by intelligence, he would
 introduce any other cause for these things than that it it is best for them to
 be as they are. 
 
 
 So I thought when he assigned
 the cause of each thing and of all things in common he would go on and explain
 what is best for each and what is good for all in common. I prized my hopes very
 highly, and I seized the books very eagerly and read them as fast as I could,
 that I might know as fast as I could about the best and the worst.
 My glorious hope, my friend, was quickly snatched
 away from me. As I went on with my reading I saw that the man made no use of
 intelligence, 
 
 
 and did not assign any real
 causes for the ordering of things, but mentioned as causes air and ether and
 water and many other absurdities. And it seemed to me it was very much as if one
 should say that Socrates does with intelligence whatever he does, and then, in
 trying to give the causes of the particular thing I do, should say first that I
 am now sitting here because my body is composed of bones and sinews, and the
 bones are hard and have joints which divide them and the sinews 
 
 
 can be contracted and relaxed and, with the flesh
 and the skin which contains them all, are laid about the bones; and so, as the
 bones are hung loose in their ligaments, the sinews, by relaxing and
 contracting, make me able to bend my limbs now, and that is the cause of my
 sitting here with my legs bent. Or as if in the same way he should give voice
 and air and hearing and countless other things of the sort as causes for our
 talking with each other, 
 
 
 and should fail to
 mention the real causes, which are, that the Athenians decided that it was best
 to condemn me, and therefore I have decided that it was best for me to sit here
 and that it is right for me to stay and undergo whatever penalty they order.
 
 
 For, by
 Dog, I fancy these bones and sinews of mine would have been in Megara or Boeotia long ago, carried thither by an opinion of what was
 best, if I did not think it was better and nobler to endure any penalty the city
 may inflict rather than to escape and run away.

Phaedo. 
 
 But it is most absurd to call
 things of that sort causes. If anyone were to say that I could not have done
 what I thought proper if I had not bones and sinews and other things that I
 have, he would be right. But to say that those things are the cause of my doing
 what I do, 
 
 
 and that I act with intelligence
 but not from the choice of what is best, would be an extremely careless way of
 talking. Whoever talks in that way is unable to make a distinction and to see
 that in reality a cause is one thing, and the thing without which the cause
 could never be a cause is quite another thing. And so it seems to me that most
 people, when they give the name of cause to the latter, are groping in the dark,
 as it were, and are giving it a name that does not belong to it. And so one man
 makes the earth stay below the heavens by putting a vortex about it, and another
 regards the earth as a flat trough supported on a foundation of air; but they do
 not look for 
 
 
 the power which causes things to
 be now placed as it is best for them to be placed, nor do they think it has any
 divine force, but they think they can find a new Atlas more powerful and more
 immortal and more all-embracing than this, and in truth they give no thought to
 the good, which must embrace and hold together all things. Now I would gladly be
 the pupil of anyone who would teach me the nature of such a cause; but since
 that was denied me and I was not able to discover it myself or to learn of it
 from anyone else, 
 
 
 do you wish me,
 Cebes, said he, to give you an account of the way in which I have
 conducted my second voyage in quest of the cause? I wish it with all my heart, he
 replied. After this, then, said
 he, since I had given up investigating realities, I decided that I must
 be careful not to suffer the misfortune which happens to people who look at the
 sun and watch it during an eclipse. For some of them ruin their eyes unless they
 look at its image in water 
 
 
 or something of
 the sort. I thought of that danger, and I was afraid my soul would be blinded if
 I looked at things with my eyes and tried to grasp them with any of my senses.
 So I thought I must have recourse to conceptions and examine in them the truth
 of realities.

Phaedo. 
 Now perhaps my metaphor 
 
 
 
 is not quite accurate; for I do not grant in the
 least that he who studies realities by means of conceptions is looking at them
 in images any more than he who studies them in the facts of daily life. However,
 that is the way I began. I assume in each case some principle which I consider
 strongest, and whatever seems to me to agree with this, whether relating to
 cause or to anything else, I regard as true, and whatever disagrees with it, as
 untrue. But I want to tell you more clearly what I mean; for I think you do not
 understand now. Not very well,
 certainly, said Cebes. 
 
 
 Well, said Socrates, this is what I mean. It is nothing
 new, but the same thing I have always been saying, both in our previous
 conversation and elsewhere. I am going to try to explain to you the nature of
 that cause which I have been studying, and I will revert to those familiar
 subjects of ours as my point of departure and assume that there are such things
 as absolute beauty and good and greatness and the like. If you grant this and
 agree that these exist, I believe I shall explain cause to you and shall prove
 that 
 
 
 the soul is immortal. You may assume, said Cebes, that I
 grant it, and go on. Then, 
 said he, see if you agree with me in the next step. I think that if
 anything is beautiful besides absolute beauty it is beautiful for no other
 reason than because it partakes of absolute beauty; and this applies to
 everything. Do you assent to this view of cause? I do, said he. Now I do not yet, understand, he went on, nor can I
 perceive those other ingenious causes. If anyone tells me that what makes a
 thing beautiful is its lovely color, 
 
 
 or its
 shape or anything else of the sort, I let all that go, for all those things
 confuse me, and I hold simply and plainly and perhaps foolishly to this, that
 nothing else makes it beautiful but the presence or communion (call it which you
 please) of absolute beauty, however it may have been gained; about the way in
 which it happens, I make no positive statement as yet, but I do insist that
 beautiful things are made beautiful by beauty. For I think this is the safest
 answer I can give to myself or to others, and if I cleave fast to this,
 
 
 
 I think I shall never be overthrown, and
 I believe it is safe for me or anyone else to give this answer, that beautiful
 things are beautiful through beauty. Do you agree? I do. And
 great things are great and greater things greater by greatness, and smaller
 things smaller by smallness? Yes.

Phaedo. And you would not
 accept the statement, if you were told that one man was greater or smaller than
 another by a head, 
 
 
 
 but you would insist that you say only that every greater
 thing is greater than another by nothing else than greatness, and that it is
 greater by reason of greatness, and that which is smaller is smaller by nothing
 else than smallness and is smaller by reason of smallness. For you would, I
 think, be afraid of meeting with the retort, if you said that a man was greater
 or smaller than another by a head, first that the greater is greater and the
 smaller is smaller by the same thing, and secondly, that 
 
 
 the greater man is greater by a head, which is small, and
 that it is a monstrous thing that one is great by something that is small. Would
 you not be afraid of this? And Cebes
 laughed and said, Yes, I should. Then, he continued, you would be afraid to say that ten
 is more than eight by two and that this is the reason it is more. You would say
 it is more by number and by reason of number; and a two cubit measure is greater
 than a one-cubit measure not by half but by magnitude, would you not? For you
 would have the same fear. Certainly, said he. Well,
 then, if one is added to one 
 
 
 or if one is
 divided, you would avoid saying that the addition or the division is the cause
 of two? You would exclaim loudly that you know no other way by which any thing
 can come into existence than by participating in the proper essence of each
 thing in which it participates, and therefore you accept no other cause of the
 existence of two than participation in duality, and things which are to be two
 must participate in duality, and whatever is to be one must participate in
 unity, and you would pay no attention to the divisions and additions and other
 such subtleties, leaving those for wiser men to explain. You would distrust
 
 
 
 your inexperience and would be afraid,
 as the saying goes, of your own shadow; so you would cling to that safe
 principle of ours and would reply as I have said. And if anyone attacked the
 principle, you would pay him no attention and you would not reply to him until
 you had examined the consequences to see whether they agreed with one another or
 not; and when you had to give an explanation of the principle, you would give it
 in the same way by assuming some other principle which seemed to you the best of
 the higher ones, and so on until 
 
 
 you reached
 one which was adequate. You would not mix things up, as disputants do, in
 talking about the beginning and its consequences, if you wished to discover any
 of the realities; for perhaps not one of them thinks or cares in the least about
 these things.
 
 They are so clever that they succeed in being well pleased with
 themselves even when they mix everything up; 
 
 
 
 but if you are a philosopher, I think
 you will do as I have said.

Phaedo. 
 That is
 true, said Simmias and Cebes together. 
 
 Echecrates. By Zeus, Phaedo, they were right. It seems to me that he made those matters
 astonishingly clear, to anyone with even a little sense. 
 Phaedo. Certainly, Echecrates, and all who were there thought so, too. 
 Echecrates. And so do we who were not there, and are hearing about it now. But what was said
 after that? 
 Phaedo. As I remember it, after all this had been admitted, and they had agreed that
 
 
 
 each of the abstract qualities exists
 and that other things which participate in these get their names from them, then
 Socrates asked: Now if you assent to this, do you not, when you say that
 Simmias is greater than Socrates and smaller than Phaedo, say that there is in
 Simmias greatness and smallness? Yes. But, said
 Socrates, you agree that the statement that Simmias is greater than
 Socrates is not true as stated in those words. For Simmias is not greater than
 Socrates 
 
 
 by reason of being Simmias, but by
 reason of the greatness he happens to have; nor is he greater than Socrates
 because Socrates is Socrates, but because Socrates has smallness relatively to
 his greatness. True. And again, he is
 not smaller than Phaedo because Phaedo is Phaedo, but because Phaedo has
 greatness relatively to Simmias’s smallness. That is true. Then Simmias
 is called small and great, when he is between the two, 
 
 
 surpassing the smallness of the one by exceeding him in
 height, and granting to the other the greatness that exceeds his own
 smallness. And he laughed and said, I seem to he speaking like a
 legal document, but it really is very much as I say. Simmias agreed. I am
 speaking so because I want you to agree with me. I think it is evident not only
 that greatness itself will never be great and also small, but that the greatness
 in us will never admit the small or allow itself to be exceeded. One of two
 things must take place: either it flees or withdraws when 
 
 
 its opposite, smallness, advances toward it, or it has
 already ceased to exist by the time smallness comes near it. But it will not
 receive and admit smallness, thereby becoming other than it was. So I have
 received and admitted smallness and am still the same small person I was; but
 the greatness in me, being great, has not suffered itself to become small. In
 the same way the smallness in us will never become or be great, nor will any
 other opposite which is still what it was, ever become or be also its own
 opposite. It either goes away or loses its existence in the change.

Phaedo. 
 That, said Cebes, seems to me quite
 evident. Then one of those
 present—I don’t just remember who it was—said: In Heaven’s
 name, is not this present doctrine the exact opposite of what was fitted in our
 earlier discussion, that the greater is generated from the less and the less
 from the greater and that opposites are always generated from their opposites?
 But now it seems to me we are saying, this can never happen. Socrates cocked his head on one side and listened.
 
 
 
 You have spoken up like a
 man, he said, but you do not observe the difference between the
 present doctrine and what we said before. We said before that in the case of
 concrete things opposites are generated from opposites; whereas now we say that
 the abstract concept of an opposite can never become its own opposite, either in
 us or in the world about us. Then we were talking about things which possess
 opposite qualities and are called after them, but now about those very opposites
 the immanence of which gives the things their names. We say that these latter
 
 
 
 can never be generated from each
 other. At the same time he looked at
 Cebes and said: And you—are you troubled by any of our friends’
 objections? No, said
 Cebes, not this time; though I confess that objections often do trouble
 me. Well, we are quite
 agreed, said Socrates, upon this, that an opposite can never be
 its own opposite. Entirely
 agreed, said Cebes. Now, said
 he, see if you agree with me in what follows: Is there something that you
 call heat and something you call cold? Yes. Are they the same
 as snow and fire? 
 
 
 No, not at
 all. But heat is a different
 thing from fire and cold differs from snow? Yes. Yet I fancy you
 believe that snow, if (to employ the form of phrase we used before) it admits
 heat, will no longer be what it was, namely snow, and also warm, but will either
 withdraw when heat approaches it or will cease to exist. Certainly. And similarly fire, when cold approaches it, will either withdraw or
 perish. It will never succeed in admitting cold and being still fire, 
 
 
 as it was before, and also cold. That is true, said he. The fact is, said he, in some such cases,
 that not only the abstract idea itself has a right to the same name through all
 time, but also something else, which is not the idea, but which always, whenever
 it exists, has the form of the idea. But perhaps I can make my meaning clearer
 by some examples. In numbers, the odd must always have the name of odd, must it
 not? Certainly.

Phaedo. 
 But is this the only thing so called (for this is
 what I mean to ask), or is there something else, which is not 
 
 
 
 identical with the
 odd but nevertheless has a right to the name of odd in addition to its own name,
 because it is of such a nature that it is never separated from the odd? I mean,
 for instance, the number three, and there are many other examples. Take the case
 of three; do you not think it may always be called by its own name and also be
 called odd, which is not the same as three? Yet the number three and the number
 five and half of numbers in general are so constituted, that each of them is odd
 
 
 
 though not identified with the idea of
 odd. And in the same way two and four and all the other series of numbers are
 even, each of them, though not identical with evenness. Do you agree, or
 not? Of course, he
 replied. Now see what I want to make
 plain. This is my point, that not only abstract opposites exclude each other,
 but all things which, although not opposites one to another, always contain
 opposites; these also, we find, exclude the idea which is opposed to the idea
 contained in them, 
 
 
 and when it approaches
 they either perish or withdraw. We must certainly agree that the number three
 will endure destruction or anything else rather than submit to becoming even,
 while still remaining three, must we not? Certainly, said Cebes. But
 the number two is not the opposite of the number three. No. Then not
 only opposite ideas refuse to admit each other when they come near, but certain
 other things refuse to admit the approach of opposites. Very true, he said. Shall we then, said Socrates, determine if we can, what
 these are? Certainly. 
 
 
 
 Then, Cebes, will they be those
 which always compel anything of which they take possession not only to take
 their form but also that of some opposite? What do you mean? Such
 things as we were speaking of just now. You know of course that those things in
 which the number three is an essential element must be not only three but also
 odd. Certainly. Now such a thing can never admit the idea which
 is the opposite of the concept which produces this result. No, it cannot. But the result was produced by the concept of the
 odd? Yes. And the opposite of this is the idea 
 
 
 of the even? Yes. Then the idea of
 the even will never be admitted by the number three. No. Then
 three has no part in the even. No,
 it has none. Then the number three
 is uneven. Yes.

Phaedo. 
 Now I propose to determine what things, without
 being the opposites of something, nevertheless refuse to admit it, as the number
 three, though it is not the opposite of the idea of even, nevertheless refuses
 to admit it, but always brings forward its opposite against it, and 
 
 
 
 as the number two
 brings forward the opposite of the odd and fire that of cold, and so forth, for
 there are plenty of examples. Now see if you accept this statement: not only
 will opposites not admit their opposites, but nothing which brings an opposite
 to that which it approaches will ever admit in itself the oppositeness of that
 which is brought. Now let me refresh your memory; for there is no harm in
 repetition. The number five will not admit the idea of the even, nor will ten,
 the double of five, admit the idea of the odd. Now ten is not itself an
 opposite, and yet it will not admit the idea of the odd; 
 
 
 and so one-and-a-half and other mixed fractions and
 one-third and other simple fractions reject the idea of the whole. Do you go
 with me and agree to this? Yes, I
 agree entirely, he said, and am with you. Then, said Socrates, please begin again at
 the beginning. And do not answer my questions in their own words, but do as I
 do. I give an answer beyond that safe answer which I spoke of at first, now that
 I see another safe reply deduced from what has just been said. If you ask me
 what causes anything in which it is to be hot, I will not give 
 
 
 you that safe but stupid answer and say that it is
 heat, but I can now give a more refined answer, that it is fire; and if you ask,
 what causes the body in which it is to be ill, I shall not say illness, but
 fever; and if you ask what causes a number in which it is to be odd, I shall not
 say oddness, but the number one, and so forth. Do you understand sufficiently
 what I mean? Quite
 sufficiently, he replied. Now
 answer, said he. What causes the body in which it is to be
 alive? The soul, he
 replied. 
 
 
 Is this always the
 case? Yes, said he,
 of course. Then if the soul
 takes possession of anything it always brings life to it? Certainly, he said. Is there anything that is the opposite of
 life? Yes, said
 he. What? Death. Now
 the soul, as we have agreed before, will never admit the opposite of that which
 it brings with it. Decidedly
 not, said Cebes. Then what do we now
 call that which does not admit the idea of the even? Uneven, said he. And those which do not admit justice and music? 
 
 
 Unjust, he replied, and
 unmusical. Well then what do we
 call that which does not admit death? Deathless or immortal, he said. And the soul does not admit death? No. Then the soul is
 immortal. Yes. Very well, said he. Shall we say
 then that this is proved? Yes, and
 very satisfactorily, Socrates.

Phaedo. 
 Well
 then, Cebes, said he, if the odd were necessarily imperishable,
 
 
 
 
 would
 not the number three be imperishable? Of course. And if that
 which is without heat were imperishable, would not snow go away whole and
 unmelted whenever heat was brought in conflict with snow? For it could not have
 been destroyed, nor could it have remained and admitted the
 heat. That is very true, 
 he replied. In the same way, I think, if
 that which is without cold were imperishable, whenever anything cold approached
 fire, it would never perish or be quenched, but would go away
 unharmed. Necessarily, he
 said. 
 
 
 And must not the same be said
 of that which is immortal? If the immortal is also imperishable, it is
 impossible for the soul to perish when death comes against it. For, as our
 argument has shown, it will not admit death and will not be dead, just as the
 number three, we said, will not be even, and the odd will not be even, and as
 fire, and the heat in the fire, will not be cold. But, one might say, why is it
 not possible that the odd does not become even when the even comes against it
 (we agreed to that), but perishes, 
 
 
 and the
 even takes its place? Now we cannot silence him who raises this question by
 saying that it does not perish, for the odd is not imperishable. If that were
 conceded to us, we could easily silence him by saying that when the even
 approaches, the odd and the number three go away; and we could make the
 corresponding reply about fire and heat and the rest, could we
 not? Certainly. And so, too, in the case of the immortal; if it
 is conceded that the immortal is imperishable, the soul would be imperishable as
 well as immortal, 
 
 
 but if not, further
 argument is needed. But, he
 said, it is not needed, so far as that is concerned; for surely nothing
 would escape destruction, if the immortal, which is everlasting, is
 perishable. All, I think, 
 said Socrates, would agree that God and the Principle of life, and
 anything else that is immortal, can never perish. All men would, certainly, said he, and
 still more, I fancy, the Gods. Since, then, the immortal 
 
 
 is also
 indestructible, would not the soul, if it is immortal, be also
 imperishable? Necessarily. Then when death
 comes to a man, his mortal part, it seems, dies, but the immortal part goes away
 unharmed and undestroyed, withdrawing from death. So it seems.

Phaedo. 
 Then, Cebes, said he, it is perfectly certain 
 
 
 
 that the soul is
 immortal and imperishable, and our souls will exist somewhere in another
 world. I, said Cebes,
 have nothing more to say against that, and I cannot doubt your
 conclusions. But if Simmias, or anyone else, has anything to say, he would do
 well to speak, for I do not know to what other time than the present he could
 defer speaking, if he wishes to say or hear anything about those
 matters. But, said
 Simmias, I don’t see how I can doubt, either, as to the result of the
 discussion; but the subject is so great, 
 
 
 and
 I have such a poor opinion of human weakness, that I cannot help having some
 doubt in my own mind about what has been said. Not only that, Simmias, said Socrates, but
 our first assumptions ought to be more carefully examined, even though they seem
 to you to be certain. And if you analyze them completely, you will, I think,
 follow and agree with the argument, so far as it is possible for man to do so.
 And if this is made clear, you will seek no farther. That is true, he said. But my friends, he said, we ought to bear
 in mind, 
 
 
 that, if the soul is immortal, we
 must care for it, not only in respect to this time, which we call life, but in
 respect to all time, and if we neglect it, the danger now appears to be
 terrible. For if death were an escape from everything, it would be a boon to the
 wicked, for when they die they would be freed from the body and from their
 wickedness together with their souls. But now, since the soul is seen to be
 immortal, it cannot escape 
 
 
 from evil or be
 saved in any other way than by becoming as good and wise as possible. For the
 soul takes with it to the other world nothing but its education and nurture, and
 these are said to benefit or injure the departed greatly from the very beginning
 of his journey thither. And so it is said that after death, the tutelary genius
 of each person, to whom he had been allotted in life, leads him to a place where
 the dead are gathered together; then they are judged and depart to the other
 world 
 
 
 with the guide whose task it is to
 conduct thither those who come from this world; and when they have there
 received their due and remained through the time appointed, another guide brings
 them back after many long periods of time.

Phaedo. 
 And the journey is not as Telephus
 says in the play of Aeschylus; 
 
 
 
 for he says a simple path leads to the lower world,
 but I think the path is neither simple nor single, for if it were, there would
 be no need of guides, since no one could miss the way to any place if there were
 only one road. But really there seem to be many forks of the road and many
 windings; this I infer from the rites and ceremonies practiced here on earth.
 Now the orderly and wise soul follows its guide and understands its
 circumstances; but the soul that is desirous of the body, as I said before,
 flits about it, and in the visible world for a long time, 
 
 
 and after much resistance and many sufferings is led away
 with violence and with difficulty by its appointed genius. And when it arrives
 at the place where the other souls are, the soul which is impure and has done
 wrong, by committing wicked murders or other deeds akin to those and the works
 of kindred souls, is avoided and shunned by all, and no one is willing to be its
 companion or its guide, 
 
 
 but it wanders about
 alone in utter bewilderment, during certain fixed times, after which it is
 carried by necessity to its fitting habitation. But the soul that has passed
 through life in purity and righteousness, finds gods for companions and guides,
 and goes to dwell in its proper dwelling. Now there are many wonderful regions
 of the earth, and the earth itself is neither in size nor in other respects such
 as it is supposed to be by those who habitually discourse about it, as I believe
 on someone’s authority. 
 
 
 And Simmias
 said, What do you mean, Socrates? I have heard a good deal about the
 earth myself, but not what you believe; so I should like to hear
 it. Well Simmias, I do not think
 I need the art of Glaucus to tell what it is. But to prove that it is true
 would, I think, be too hard for the art of Glaucus, and perhaps I should not be
 able to do it; besides, even if I had the skill, I think my life, Simmias, will
 end before the discussion could be finished. However, there is nothing to
 prevent my telling 
 
 
 what I believe the form
 of the earth to be, and the regions in it. 
 Well, said Simmias, that will be enough.

Phaedo. 
 I am convinced, then, said he, that
 in the first place, if the earth is round and in the middle of the heavens, it
 needs neither the air 
 
 
 
 nor any other similar force to keep it from falling, but its
 own equipoise and the homogeneous nature of the heavens on all sides suffice to
 hold it in place; for a body which is in equipoise and is placed in the center
 of something which is homogeneous cannot change its inclination in any
 direction, but will remain always in the same position. This, then, is the first
 thing of which I am convinced. And
 rightly, said Simmias. Secondly, said he, I believe that the earth is very large
 and that we who dwell between the pillars of Hercules 
 
 
 and the river Phasis live in a small part of it about the sea, like ants or
 frogs about a pond, and that many other people live in many other such regions.
 For I believe there are in all directions on the earth many hollows of very
 various forms and sizes, into which the water and mist and air have run
 together; but the earth itself is pure and is situated in the pure heaven in
 which the stars are, the heaven which 
 
 
 those
 who discourse about such matters call the ether; the water, mist and air are the
 sediment of this and flow together into the hollows of the earth. Now we do not
 perceive that we live in the hollows, but think we live on the upper surface of
 the earth, just as if someone who lives in the depth of the ocean should think
 he lived on the surface of the sea, and, seeing the sun and the stars through
 the water, should think the sea was the sky, and should, by reason of
 sluggishness or 
 
 
 feebleness, never have
 reached the surface of the sea, and should never have seen, by rising and
 lifting his head out of the sea into our upper world, and should never have
 heard from anyone who had seen, how much purer and fairer it is than the world
 he lived in. I believe this is just the case with us; for we dwell in a hollow
 of the earth and think we dwell on its upper surface; and the air we call the
 heaven, and think that is the heaven in which the stars move. But the fact is
 the same, 
 
 
 that by reason of feebleness and
 sluggishness, we are unable to attain to the upper surface of the air; for if
 anyone should come to the top of the air or should get wings and fly up, he
 could lift his head above it and see, as fishes lift their heads out of the
 water and see the things in our world, so he would see things in that upper
 world; and, if his nature were strong enough to bear the sight, he would
 recognize that that is the real heaven 
 
 
 
 and the real light and the real earth.

Phaedo. 
 For this earth of ours, and the stones and the whole region where we live, are
 injured and corroded, as in the sea things are injured by the brine, and nothing
 of any account grows in the sea, and there is, one might say, nothing perfect
 there, but caverns and sand and endless mud and mire, where there is earth also,
 and there is nothing at all worthy to be compared with the beautiful things of
 our world. But the things in that world above would be seen to be even more
 superior to those in this world of ours. 
 
 
 If
 I may tell a story, Simmias, about the things on the earth that is below the
 heaven, and what they are like, it is well worth hearing. By all means, Socrates, said Simmias;
 we should be glad to hear this story. Well then, my friend, said he, to begin with, the earth
 when seen from above is said to look like those balls that are covered with
 twelve pieces of leather; it is divided into patches of various colors, of which
 the colors which we see here may be regarded as samples, such as painters use.
 
 
 
 But there the whole earth is of such
 colors, and they are much brighter and purer than ours; for one part is purple
 of wonderful beauty, and one is golden, and one is white, whiter than chalk or
 snow, and the earth is made up of the other colors likewise, and they are more
 in number and more beautiful than those which we see here. For those very
 hollows of the earth which are full of water and air, present an appearance
 
 
 
 of color as they glisten amid the
 variety of the other colors, so that the whole produces one continuous effect of
 variety. And in this fair earth the things that grow, the trees, and flowers and
 fruits, are correspondingly beautiful; and so too the mountains and the stones
 are smoother, and more transparent and more lovely in color than ours. In fact,
 our highly prized stones, sards and 
 
 
 jaspers,
 and emeralds, and other gems, are fragments of those there, but there everything
 is like these or still more beautiful. And the reason of this is that there the
 stones are pure, and not corroded or defiled, as ours are, with filth and brine
 by the vapors and liquids which flow together here and which cause ugliness and
 disease in earth and stones and animals and plants.

Phaedo. 
 And the earth there is
 adorned with all the jewels and also with gold and 
 
 
 
 silver and everything of the
 sort. For there they are in plain sight, abundant and large and in many places,
 so that the earth is a sight to make those blessed who look upon it. And there
 are many animals upon it, and men also, some dwelling inland, others on the
 coasts of the air, as we dwell about the sea, and others on islands, which the
 air flows around, near the mainland; and in short, what water and the sea are
 
 
 
 in our lives, air is in theirs, and what
 the air is to us, ether is to them. And the seasons are so tempered that people
 there have no diseases and live much longer than we, and in sight and hearing
 and wisdom and all such things are as much superior to us as air is purer than
 water or the ether than air. And they have sacred groves and temples of the
 gods, in which the gods really dwell, and they have intercourse with the gods by
 speech and prophecies and visions, 
 
 
 and they
 see the sun and moon and stars as they really are, and in all other ways their
 blessedness is in accord with this. Such then is
 the nature of the earth as a whole, and of the things around it. But round about
 the whole earth, in the hollows of it, are many regions, some deeper and wider
 than that in which we live, 
 
 
 some deeper but
 with a narrower opening than ours, and some also less in depth and wider. Now
 all these are connected with one another by many subterranean channels, some
 larger and some smaller, which are bored in all of them, and there are passages
 through which much water flows from one to another as into mixing bowls; and
 there are everlasting rivers of huge size under the earth, flowing with hot and
 cold water; and there is much fire, and great rivers of fire, and many streams
 of mud, some thinner 
 
 
 and some thicker, like
 the rivers of mud that flow before the lava in Sicily , and the lava itself. These fill the various regions as
 they happen to flow to one or another at any time. Now a kind of oscillation
 within the earth moves all these up and down. And the nature of the oscillation
 is as follows:

Phaedo. 
 One of the chasms of the earth is greater than the rest,
 
 
 
 
 and is
 bored right through the whole earth; this is the one which Homer means when he
 says: 
 Far off, the lowest abyss beneath
 the earth; 
 
 and which elsewhere he and
 many other poets have called Tartarus. For all the rivers flow together into
 this chasm and flow out of it again, and they have each the nature of the earth
 through which they flow. And the reason why all the streams flow in and out here
 
 
 
 is that this liquid matter has no bottom
 or foundation. So it oscillates and waves up and down, and the air and wind
 about it do the same; for they follow the liquid both when it moves toward the
 other side of the earth and when it moves toward this side, and just as the
 breath of those who breathe blows in and out, so the wind there oscillates with
 the liquid and causes terrible and irresistible blasts as it rushes in and out.
 
 
 
 And when the water retires to the region
 which we call the lower, it flows into the rivers there and fills them up, as if
 it were pumped into them; and when it leaves that region and comes back to this
 side, it fills the rivers here; and when the streams are filled they flow
 through the passages and through the earth and come to the various places to
 which their different paths lead, where they make seas and marshes, and rivers
 and springs. Thence they go down again under the earth, 
 
 
 some passing around many great regions and others around
 fewer and smaller places, and flow again into Tartarus, some much below the
 point where they were sucked out, and some only a little; but all flow in below
 their exit. Some flow in on the side from which they flowed out, others on the
 opposite side; and some pass completely around in a circle, coiling about the
 earth once or several times, like serpents, then descend to the lowest possible
 depth and fall again into the chasm. 
 
 
 Now it
 is possible to go down from each side to the center, but not beyond, for there
 the slope rises forward in front of the streams from either side of the
 earth.

Phaedo. 
 Now these streams are many and
 great and of all sorts, but among the many are four streams, the greatest and
 outermost of which is that called Oceanus, which flows round in a circle, and
 opposite this, flowing in the opposite direction, is Acheron , which flows through 
 
 
 
 various desert
 places and, passing under the earth, comes to the Acherusian lake. To this lake
 the souls of most of the dead go and, after remaining there the appointed time,
 which is for some longer and for others shorter, are sent back to be born again
 into living beings. The third river flows out between these two, and near the
 place whence it issues it falls into a vast region burning with a great fire and
 makes a lake larger than our Mediterranean sea, boiling with water and mud.
 
 
 
 Thence it flows in a circle, turbid and
 muddy, and comes in its winding course, among other places, to the edge of the
 Acherusian lake, but does not mingle with its water. Then, after winding about
 many times underground, it flows into Tartarus at a lower level. This is the
 river which is called Pyriphlegethon, and the streams of lava which spout up at
 various places on earth are offshoots from it. Opposite this the fourth river
 issues, it is said, first into a wild and awful place, which is all of a dark
 blue color, like lapis lazuli. 
 
 
 This is
 called the Stygian river, and the lake which it forms by flowing in is the Styx.
 And when the river has flowed in here and has received fearful powers into its
 waters, it passes under the earth and, circling round in the direction opposed
 to that of Pyriphlegethon, it meets it coming from the other way in the
 Acherusian lake. And the water of this river also mingles with no other water,
 but this also passes round in a circle and falls into Tartarus opposite
 Pyriphlegethon. And the name of this river, as the Poets say, is Cocytus.
 
 
 
 Such is the nature of these
 things. Now when the dead have come to the place where each is led by his
 genius, first they are judged and sentenced, as they have lived well and
 piously, or not. And those who are found to have lived neither well nor ill, go
 to the Acheron and, embarking upon vessels provided for them, arrive in them at
 the lake; there they dwell and are purified, and if they have done any wrong
 they are absolved by paying the penalty for their wrong doings, 
 
 
 and for their good deeds they receive rewards, each according to his merits. But those who
 appear to be incurable, on account of the greatness of their wrongdoings,
 because they have committed many great deeds of sacrilege, or wicked and
 abominable murders, or any other such crimes, are cast by their fitting destiny
 into Tartarus, whence they never emerge.

Phaedo. 
 Those, however, who are curable, but
 are found to have committed great sins—who have, for example, in a moment
 of passion done some act of violence against father or mother and 
 
 
 
 have lived in
 repentance the rest of their lives, or who have slain some other person under
 similar conditions—these must needs be thrown into Tartarus, and when they
 have been there a year the wave casts them out, the homicides by way of Cocytus,
 those who have outraged their parents by way of Pyriphlegethon. And when they
 have been brought by the current to the Acherusian lake, they shout and cry out,
 calling to those whom they have slain or outraged, begging and beseeching them
 
 
 
 to be gracious and to let them come out
 into the lake; and if they prevail they come out and cease from their ills, but
 if not, they are borne away again to Tartarus and thence back into the rivers,
 and this goes on until they prevail upon those whom they have wronged; for this
 is the penalty imposed upon them by the judges. But those who are found to have
 excelled in holy living are freed from these regions within the earth and are
 released as from prisons; 
 
 
 they mount upward
 into their pure abode and dwell upon the earth. And of these, all who have duly
 purified themselves by philosophy live henceforth altogether without bodies, and
 pass to still more beautiful abodes which it is not easy to describe, nor have
 we now time enough. But, Simmias, because
 of all these things which we have recounted we ought to do our best to acquire
 virtue and wisdom in life. For the prize is fair and the hope great. 
 
 
 Now it would not be fitting for a man of
 sense to maintain that all this is just as I have described it, but that this or
 something like it is true concerning our souls and their abodes, since the soul
 is shown to be immortal, I think he may properly and worthily venture to
 believe; for the venture is well worth while; and he ought to repeat such things
 to himself as if they were magic charms, which is the reason why I have been
 lengthening out the story so long. This then is why a man should be of good
 cheer about his soul, who in his life 
 
 
 has
 rejected the pleasures and ornaments of the body, thinking they are alien to him
 and more likely to do him harm than good, and has sought eagerly for those of
 learning, and after adorning his soul with no alien ornaments, but with its own
 proper adornment of self-restraint and justice and 
 
 
 
 courage and freedom and truth,
 awaits his departure to the other world, ready to go when fate calls him.

Phaedo. 
 You, Simmias and Cebes and the rest, he said, will go hereafter, each
 in his own time; but I am now already, as a tragedian would say, called by fate,
 and it is about time for me to go to the bath; for I think it is better to bathe
 before drinking the poison, that the women may not have the trouble of bathing
 the corpse. When he had finished speaking,
 Crito said: 
 
 
 Well, Socrates, do you
 wish to leave any directions with us about your children or anything
 else—anything we can do to serve you? What I always say, Crito, he replied, nothing new. If you
 take care of yourselves you will serve me and mine and yourselves, whatever you
 do, even if you make no promises now; but if you neglect yourselves and are not
 willing to live following step by step, as it were, in the path marked out by
 our present and past discussions, you will accomplish nothing, 
 
 
 no matter how much or how eagerly you promise at
 present. We will certainly try
 hard to do as you say, he replied. But how shall we bury
 you? However you please, 
 he replied, if you can catch me and I do not get away from you. 
 And he laughed gently, and looking towards us, said: I cannot persuade
 Crito, my friends, that the Socrates who is now conversing and arranging the
 details of his argument is really I; he thinks I am the one whom he will
 presently see as a corpse, 
 
 
 and he asks how
 to bury me. And though I have been saying at great length that after I drink the
 poison I shall no longer be with you, but shall go away to the joys of the
 blessed you know of, he seems to think that was idle talk uttered to encourage
 you and myself. So, he said, give security for me to Crito, the
 opposite of that which he gave the judges at my trial; for he gave security that
 I would remain, but you must give security that I shall not remain when I die,
 
 
 
 but shall go away, so that Crito may
 bear it more easily, and may not be troubled when he sees my body being burnt or
 buried, or think I am undergoing terrible treatment, and may not say at the
 funeral that he is laying out Socrates, or following him to the grave, or
 burying him. For, dear Crito, you may be sure that such wrong words are not only
 undesirable in themselves, but they infect the soul with evil.

Phaedo. No, you must be
 of good courage, and say that you bury my body,—and bury it 
 
 
 
 as you think best
 and as seems to you most fitting. When he
 had said this, he got up and went into another room to bathe; Crito followed
 him, but he told us to wait. So we waited, talking over with each other and
 discussing the discourse we had heard, and then speaking of the great misfortune
 that had befallen us, for we felt that he was like a father to us and that when
 bereft of him we should pass the rest of our lives as orphans. And when he had
 bathed 
 
 
 and his children had been brought to
 him—for he had two little sons and one big one—and the women of the
 family had come, he talked with them in Crito’s presence and gave them such
 directions as he wished; then he told the women to go away, and he came to us.
 And it was now nearly sunset; for he had spent a long time within. And he came
 and sat down fresh from the bath. After that not much was said, and the servant
 
 
 
 of the eleven came and stood beside him
 and said: Socrates, I shall not find fault with you, as I do with others,
 for being angry and cursing me, when at the behest of the authorities, I tell
 them to drink the poison. No, I have found you in all this time in every way the
 noblest and gentlest and best man who has ever come here, and now I know your
 anger is directed against others, not against me, for you know who are blame.
 Now, for you know the message I came to bring you, farewell and try to bear what
 you must 
 
 
 as easily as you can. And he
 burst into tears and turned and went away. And Socrates looked up at him and
 said: Fare you well, too; I will do as you say. And then he said
 to us: How charming the man is! Ever since I have been here he has been
 coming to see me and talking with me from time to time, and has been the best of
 men, and now how nobly he weeps for me! But come, Crito, let us obey him, and
 let someone bring the poison, if it is ready; and if not, let the man prepare
 it. And Crito said: 
 
 
 But I
 think, Socrates, the sun is still upon the mountains and has not yet set; and I
 know that others have taken the poison very late, after the order has come to
 them, and in the meantime have eaten and drunk and some of them enjoyed the
 society of those whom they loved. Do not hurry; for there is still
 time.

Phaedo. 
 And Socrates said: Crito,
 those whom you mention are right in doing as they do, for they think they gain
 by it; and I shall be right in not doing as they do; 
 
 
 
 for I think I should gain
 nothing by taking the poison a little later. I should only make myself
 ridiculous in my own eyes if I clung to life and spared it, when there is no
 more profit in it. Come, he said, do as I ask and do not
 refuse. Thereupon Crito nodded to the
 boy who was standing near. The boy went out and stayed a long time, then came
 back with the man who was to administer the poison, which he brought with him in
 a cup ready for use. And when Socrates saw him, he said: Well, my good
 man, you know about these things; what must I do? Nothing, 
 he replied, except drink the poison and walk about 
 
 
 till your legs feel heavy; then lie down, and the poison
 will take effect of itself. At the same
 time he held out the cup to Socrates. He took it, and very gently, Echecrates,
 without trembling or changing color or expression, but looking up at the man
 with wide open eyes, as was his custom, said: What do you say about
 pouring a libation to some deity from this cup? May I, or not? 
 Socrates, said he, we prepare only as much as we think is
 enough. I understand, said Socrates; 
 
 
 but I may and must pray to the gods that my departure
 hence be a fortunate one; so I offer this prayer, and may it be granted. 
 With these words he raised the cup to his lips and very cheerfully and quietly
 drained it. Up to that time most of us had been able to restrain our tears
 fairly well, but when we watched him drinking and saw that he had drunk the
 poison, we could do so no longer, but in spite of myself my tears rolled down in
 floods, so that I wrapped my face in my cloak and wept for myself; for it was
 not for him that I wept, 
 
 
 but for my own
 misfortune in being deprived of such a friend. Crito had got up and gone away
 even before I did, because he could not restrain his tears. But Apollodorus, who
 had been weeping all the time before, then wailed aloud in his grief and made us
 all break down, except Socrates himself. But he said, What conduct is
 this, you strange men! I sent the women away chiefly for this very reason, that
 they might not behave in this absurd way; for I have heard that 
 
 
 it is best to die in silence. Keep quiet and be
 brave. Then we were ashamed and controlled our tears. He walked about
 and, when he said his legs were heavy, lay down on his back, for such was the
 advice of the attendant. The man who had administered the poison laid his hands
 on him and after a while examined his feet and legs, then pinched his foot hard
 and asked if he felt it. He said No ;

Phaedo. 
 then after that, 
 
 
 
 his thighs; and
 passing upwards in this way he showed us that he was growing cold and rigid. And
 again he touched him and said that when it reached his heart, he would be gone.
 The chill had now reached the region about the groin, and uncovering his face,
 which had been covered, he said—and these were his last
 words— Crito, we owe a cock to Aesculapius. Pay it and do not
 neglect it. That, said Crito, shall be done; but see
 if you have anything else to say. To this question he made no reply, but
 after a little while he moved; the attendant uncovered him; his eyes were fixed.
 And Crito when he saw it, closed his mouth and eyes. Such was the end, Echecrates, of our friend, who was, as we may
 say, of all those of his time whom we have known, the best and wisest and most
 righteous man.