When Socrates was being prepared to drink his hemlock, and not suffer a Keatsian ODE TO A GRECIAN URN by going far ahead of his time and groaning:
'My heart aches and a drowsy numbness pains my sense,
as though of hemlock I had drunk
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains and Lethewards had sunk,
Tis not through envy of thy happy lot. . .'
BUT WHAT HE ACTUALLY DID MADE THE MOB SO ANGRY AS TO WANT TO CLOBBER HIM TO HIS DEATH IF IT WEREN'T FOR THE SIMPLE SYNCHRONY OF THE SILLY FACT THAT HE WAS ALREADY ON THE DEATH ROW AWAITING HIS HEMLOCK. . .