Thus Socrates ends his noble profession of faith in a future life—with him half instinct, half conviction, His "Non omnis moriur" has a triumphant ring about it; and, like the swans to whom he compares himself, "who sing more joyously on the day of their death than they ever did before," he rejoices in the thought of his speedy release from life, and looks confidently beyond the grave.
The evening is fast drawing on, and the shadows are lengthening on the Attic hills, when Crito asks him if he has any last directions to give about his children or about his burial. "Bury me in any way you like," says Socrates, with a touch of his old humour; "but be sure that you get hold of me, and that I don't run away from you." Then he turns to the others and says with a smile, "I cannot make Crito believe that I am the same Socrates who have been talking and conducting the argument. He fancies that I am the other Socrates whom he will soon see—a dead body—and he asks, 'How he shall bury me?' You must all be my sureties to Crito, that I shall go away, and then he will sorrow less at my death, and not be grieved when he sees my body burned or buried."
Then he takes his bath, and bids farewell to his wife and children; and by this time the sun is low in the heavens, and the jailer comes in to tell him that his hour is come—weeping himself as he utters the words.
Soon the poison is brought. Socrates takes the cup, and
