“No, Socrates; I only utter your thoughts; that is all!”
Protagoras came forward. “Mourning in Athens! Mourning in Hellas! Alas!” was his greeting.
“What is the matter, Protagoras?”
“Phidias of immortal memory lies dead in prison.”
“Alas! then they have killed him.”
“So it is rumoured in the city.”
“Phidias is dead!”
“Probably poisoned, they say; but that need not be true.”
“All die here in Athens before their proper time. When will our turn come?”
“When it does.”