_Socr._ I do not think, then, that it will come to-day, but to-morrow. I
conjecture this from a dream which I had this very night, not long ago,
and you seem very opportunely to have refrained from waking me.

_Cri._ But what was this dream?

_Socr._ A beautiful and majestic woman, clad in white garments seemed to
approach me, and to call to me and say, "Socrates, three days hence you
will reach fertile Pythia"[9].

_Cri._ What a strange dream, Socrates!

_Socr._ Very clear, however, as it appears to me, Crito.

3. _Cri._ Very much so, as it seems. But, my dear Socrates, even now be
persuaded by me, and save yourself. For if you die, not only a single
calamity will befall me, but, besides being deprived of such a friend as
I shall never meet with again, I shall also appear to many who do not
know you and me well, when I might have saved you had I been willing to
spend my money, to have neglected to do so. And what character can be
more disgraceful than this--to appear to value one's riches more than
one's friends? For the generality of men will not be persuaded that you
were unwilling to depart hence, when we urged you to it.

_Socr._ But why, my dear Crito, should we care so much for the opinion
of the many? For the most worthy men, whom we ought rather to regard,
will think that matters have transpired as they really have.

_Cri._ Yet you see, Socrates, that it is necessary to attend to the
opinion of the many. For the very circumstances of the present case show