PHÆDRUS.

Socrates. Phædrus.

Socr. My dear Phædrus, whither are you going, and from whence come you?

Phæ. From Lysias, son of Cephalus, Socrates; but I am going for a walk outside the walls; for I have spent a long time there, sitting from very early in the morning; but in obedience to your and my friend Acumenus, I take my walks in the open roads; for he says that they are more refreshing than those in the course.

Socr. He says rightly, my friend: Lysias then, as it seems, was in the city?

Phæ. Yes, with Epicrates in the Morychian house here, near the Olympium.

Socr. What was your employment there? Without doubt Lysias feasted you with speeches?

Phæ. You shall hear, if you have leisure to go on with me and listen.

Socr. What then? do you not think that, according to Pindar^[116], I should consider it a matter above all want and leisure, to listen to the conversation between you and Lysias?

Phæ. Proceed then.

Socr. Do you begin your story.

2. Phæ. And indeed, Socrates, the subject is suited to you. For the question, in which we spent our time, I know not how, was amatory. For Lysias had written a speech in which he described a beautiful youth as being courted, but not by a lover; and on this very point he argued with great subtilty; for he maintains that favour ought to be shewn to one who is not in love, rather than to one who is in love.

Socr. Generous man! I wish he had written that favour should be shewn to a poor man rather than a rich one, and to an old than 302a young, and so on with respect to such things as happen to me and the most of us; for then his discourses would be charming and of general usefulness. I, for my part, am so very desirous to hear his speech, that even if you prolong your walk to Megara, and, after Herodicus, when you have reached the wall, turn back again, I shall on no account lag behind you.

3. Phæ. How say you, most excellent Socrates? Do you think, that what Lysias, the most able writer of the day, composed at his leisure in a long space of time, I who am but a novice could repeat from memory in a manner worthy of him? Far from it; though I would rather be able to do so than be the possessor of a large sum of gold.

Socr. Phædrus, if I know not Phædrus, I have also forgotten myself; but neither of these is the case; for I know well that on hearing Lysias’s speech he not only heard it once, but urged him to read it repeatedly, and he readily complied; neither was this sufficient for Phædrus, but at length having got hold of the book, he examined the parts he liked best; and having done this, sitting from very early in the morning, he was fatigued and went out for a walk, as I believe, by the dog, having learnt the whole speech by heart, if it is not a very long one. And he was going outside the walls, that he might con it over, and, [4.] meeting with one who has a desire for hearing speeches, was delighted at seeing him approach, because he would have one to share his enthusiasm, and bade him accompany him in his walk. But when that lover of speeches begged him to recite it, he affected shyness, as if he did not wish to repeat it, though at length he would have compelled one to listen to it even though one was not willing to do so. Do you then, Phædrus, entreat him to do now what he will soon do at all events.

Phæ. It is, in truth, far best for me to repeat it as well as I can; for I see you are determined not to let me go, until I have delivered it some how or another.

Socr. You think perfectly right.

Phæ. I will do it then; but in truth, Socrates, I have by no means learnt the words of this oration by heart, though the general outline of all the several parts, in which he said the claims of one who is in love and one who is not differ from each other, I can go through summarily and in order, beginning from the first.

3035. Socr. But shew me first, my dear friend, what you have got there in your left hand, under your cloak; for I suspect that you have got the speech itself: and if this is the case, think thus of me, that I love you very much, but that, when Lysias is present, I have by no means made up my mind to lend myself to you to practise upon. Come then, shew it me.

Phæ. Stop, you have dashed down the hope I had, Socrates, of practising upon you. But where do you wish we should sit down and read?

Socr. Let us turn down here, and go near the Ilissus, then we will sit down quietly, wherever you please.

Phæ. Very seasonably, as it appears, I happen to be without shoes, for you are always so. It will be easiest for us then to walk by the shallow stream, wetting our feet, and it will not be unpleasant, especially at this season of the year, and this time of the day.

Socr. Lead on then, and at the same time look out for a place where we may sit down.

6. Phæ. Do you see that lofty plane-tree?

Socr. How should I not.

Phæ. There, there is both shade and a gentle breeze, and grass to sit down upon, or, if we prefer it, to lie down on.

Socr. Lead on, then.

Phæ. But tell me, Socrates, is not Boreas reported to have carried off Orithya from somewhere about this part of the Ilissus?

Socr. So it is said.

Phæ. Must it not have been from this spot? for the water hereabouts appears beautiful, clear and transparent, and well suited for damsels to sport about.

Socr. No, but lower down, as much as two or three stadia, where we cross over to the temple of the Huntress, and where there is, on the very spot, a kind of altar sacred to Boreas.

Phæ. I never noticed it. But tell me, by Jupiter, Socrates, do you believe that this fabulous account is true?

7. Socr. If I disbelieved it, as the wise do, I should not be guilty of any absurdity: then having recourse to subtleties, I should say that a blast of Boreas threw her down from the neighbouring cliffs, as she was sporting with Pharmacea, and that having thus met her death she was said to have been carried off by Boreas, or from Mars’ hill; for there is also another 304report that she was carried off from thence and not from this spot. But I, for my part, Phædrus, consider such things as pretty enough, but as the province of a very curious, painstaking, and not very happy man, and for no other reason than this, that after this he must set us right as to the form of the Hippocentaurs, and then as to that of the Chimæra; besides there pours in upon him a crowd of similar monsters, Gorgons and Pegasuses, and other monstrous creatures, incredible in number and absurdity, which if any one were to disbelieve and endeavour to reconcile each with probability, employing for this purpose a kind of vulgar cleverness, he will stand in need of abundant leisure. 8. But I have not leisure at all for such matters; and the cause of it, my friend, is this; I am not yet able, according to the Delphic precept, to know myself. But it appears to me to be ridiculous, while I am still ignorant of this to busy myself about matters that do not concern me. Wherefore dismissing these matters, and receiving the popular opinion respecting them, as I just now said, I do not enquire about them, but about myself, whether I happen to be a beast, with more folds and more furious than Typhon, or whether I am a more mild and simple animal, naturally partaking of a certain divine and modest condition. But, my friend, to interrupt our conversation, is not this the tree to which you were leading me?

Phæ. This is the very one.

9. Socr. By Juno, a beautiful retreat. For this plane-tree is very wide-spreading and lofty, and the height and shadiness of this agnus castus are very beautiful, and as it is now at the perfection of its flowering, it makes the spot as fragrant as possible. Moreover, a most agreeable fountain flows under the plane-tree, of very cold water, to judge from its effect on the foot. It appears from these images and statues to be sacred to certain nymphs, and to Achelous. Observe again the freshness of the spot how charming and very delightful it is, and how summer-like and shrill it sounds from the choir of grasshoppers. But the most delightful of all is the grass, which with its gentle slope is naturally adapted to give an easy support to the head, as one reclines. So that, my dear Phædrus, you make an admirable stranger’s guide.

10. Phæ. And you, my wonderful friend, appear to be a most surprising being: for as you say, you are just like a stranger 305who is being shewn the sights, and not a native of the place. This comes from your never quitting the city, or going beyond the boundaries, nor do you seem to me ever to go outside the walls.

Socr. Pardon me, my excellent friend; for I am a lover of learning: now the fields and trees will not teach me any thing, but men in the city do. You, however, appear to me to have discovered a charm to entice me out. For as those, who, by shaking leaves or some fruit before them, lead their hungry flocks, so do you, by holding out written speeches before me, seem as if you could lead me about all Attica, and wherever else you please. But now, for the present, since I am come here, I am resolved to lay me down, and do you in whatever posture you think you can read most conveniently, take this and read.

Phæ. Listen then. 11. “You are well acquainted with the state of my affairs, and I think you have heard that it would be for our advantage if this took place. And I claim, not for this reason to fail in my request, because I do not happen to be one of your lovers: for they repent of the benefits they have conferred, as soon as their desires cease; but the others have no time at which it is convenient for them to repent; since not from necessity, but voluntarily, they confer benefits according to their ability, so as but to consult their own interests. Besides, lovers consider what of their affairs they have managed badly by reason of their love, and what benefits they have conferred, and adding thereto what labour they have undergone, they think that they have long since conferred sufficient favours on the objects of their love. But those who do not love have no pretence to make of the neglect of their own affairs on this score, nor can they take into account the labours they have undergone, nor make differences with their friends a pretext: so that, all such evils being removed, nothing remains for them but to do cheerfully whatever they think they will gratify them by doing. 12. Besides, if for this reason it is right to make much of those who love, because they say they are most devotedly attached to those whom they love, and are always ready, both in words and deeds, to incur the enmity of others, so that they can but gratify the objects of their love, it is easy to discover whether they speak the truth, because those whom they afterwards fall in love with they will prize more 306highly than the former, and it is evident that if the latter require it, they will behave ill to the former. And how is it reasonable to lavish such a treasure^[117] on one afflicted with such a calamity, as no experienced person would ever attempt to avert? for they themselves confess that they are rather diseased than in their right minds, and that they know that they are out of their senses, but are unable to control themselves. How therefore, when they recover their senses, can they think that those things were right about which they were so anxious when in that state of mind? 13. Moreover, if you should choose the best from among your lovers, your choice must be made from a few; but if from among all others the one most suited to you, from many: so that there is much more hope that among the many there is one worthy of your affection. If, therefore, you respect the established usages of mankind, and are afraid lest, when men discover it, it should be a disgrace to you, it is probable that lovers, thinking that they are envied by others in the same way that they envy each other, should be so elated as to talk, and, out of ambition, publish to the world that they have not bestowed their labour in vain; but that such as are not in love, having a control over themselves, should prefer what is best to celebrity amongst men. 14. Besides, it must needs happen that many should hear of and see lovers following the objects of their affection, and doing this sedulously, so that when they are seen conversing with one another men think that they are together on account of desire already indulged or about to be so: but they do not attempt to blame those who do not love, on account of their familiarity, being aware that it is necessary to converse with some one, either on account of friendship or some other pleasure. 15. Moreover, if you have experienced uneasiness from the consideration that it is difficult for friendship to last, but that when a difference takes place under other circumstances a common calamity happens to both; but that when you have lavished what you prize most highly great injury would befal you, you would with good reason be more afraid of those who love. For there are many things that grieve them, and they think that every thing is done to their detriment. Wherefore they prohibit the objects of their love from associating with others, fearing those who possess wealth, lest they should get the 307better of them by means of their riches, and the well-educated, lest they should surpass them in intelligence; and they are apprehensive of the influence of every one who possesses any other advantage. By persuading you, then, to keep aloof from such as these, they cause you to be destitute of friends. If, therefore, regarding your own interest, you pursue a wiser course than they recommend, you are sure to quarrel with them. 16. But such as are not in love, but have obtained the accomplishment of their wishes through merit, will not envy your associating with others, but will rather hate those who will not associate with you, thinking that you are despised by them, and are benefited by those who associate with you. So that there is much more reason to hope that friendship will be produced between these by this means, than enmity. Moreover, most lovers conceive a desire for the person before they know their habits or are acquainted with their own qualities, so that it is uncertain whether they will still wish to be their friends when their desire has ceased; but with those who are not in love, and who have done this, having been friends with each other before, it is not probable that acts of kindness will make their friendship less, but that they will be left as monuments of future services. 17. Besides, it will tend to your improvement if you are persuaded by me rather than by a lover. For they, contrary to your best interests, praise all that you say and do, partly fearing lest they should offend you, partly being themselves depraved in their judgment, through desire, for love shews itself in such things: it makes the unsuccessful consider as distressing things which occasion no pain to others, and compels the successful to praise things which are not worthy the name of pleasures; so that it is much more proper to pity than envy those that are loved. 18. But if you will be persuaded by me, first of all I will associate with you, not attending to present pleasure, but future advantage, not overcome by love, but controlling myself, not conceiving violent enmities for trifling offences, but slowly indulging slight anger for great offences, pardoning involuntary faults, and endeavouring to divert you from such as are voluntary; for these are the marks of a friendship that will endure for along time. If, however, it has occurred to you that it is not possible for affection to be strong unless one is in love, you should consider that in that case we should not be very 308fond of our children or our fathers and mothers, nor acquire faithful friends, who have become such not from desire of this kind, but from other useful qualities. 19. Moreover, if it is right to gratify those most who most need it, it is right also with respect to others to benefit, not the best men, but the most needy; for, being delivered from the greatest evils, they will feel the deepest gratitude towards us. And besides this, in private entertainments it will not be proper to invite our friends, but mendicants and those who are in need of a hearty meal; for these will greet and follow us, and will come to our doors, and be highly delighted, and feel the utmost gratitude, and pray for many blessings upon us. 20. But surely it is right to gratify those not who are exceedingly needy, but who are best able to repay a kindness, nor those who love only, but those who deserve this favour; nor such as will enjoy the bloom of your youth, but who, when you are old, will share their own fortune with you; nor those who, when they have effected their object, will boast of it to others, but who, out of modesty, will be silent towards all men; nor those who are devoted to you for a short time, but who will be greatly attached to you throughout life; nor who, when their desire has ceased, will seek a pretext for quarrelling, but who, when your bloom is gone, will then exhibit their own excellence. 21. Do you, then, remember what I have said, and consider this, that friends admonish lovers that their course of life is a bad one, but no one ever yet found fault with those who are not in love, as if, on that account, they consulted ill for their own interests. Perhaps, however, you may ask me whether I advise you to gratify all who are not in love. But I think that not even a lover would exhort you to be thus affected towards all your lovers: for neither if one considers the matter reasonably is such a course deserving of equal gratitude, nor if you wished it, is it equally possible to keep it secret from others; but it is requisite that no harm should result from the business; on the contrary, advantage to both. I, for my part, think that enough has been said, but if you require any thing more, under the impression that it has been omitted, question me.”

22. What do you think of the speech, Socrates? Does it not appear to you to be wonderfully composed in other respects, and especially as to the language?

Socr. Divinely indeed, my friend, so much so that I am 309amazed. And I had this feeling through you, Phædrus, by looking at you, for you appeared to me to be enraptured with the speech while you were reading it. For supposing you to understand such matters better than I do, I followed you, and, in following you, I felt the same enthusiasm with you, my inspired friend.

Phæ. Well; do you think proper to jest in this manner?

Socr. Do I appear to you to jest, and not to be in earnest?

Phæ. Don’t, Socrates! But tell me truly, by Jupiter the god of friendship, do you think that any other man in Greece could speak more ably and fully than this on the same subject?

23. Socr. But what? ought the speech to be praised by you and me for this reason, that its composer has said what he ought, and not only because every word is clear, and rounded, and accurately polished off? For, if it ought, it may be granted for your sake, since it escaped me by reason of my nothingness: for I attended only to its rhetoric, but this I did not think that even Lysias himself would think sufficient. And to me, indeed, it seemed, Phædrus, unless you say otherwise, that he has repeated the same things twice and thrice, as if he had not the faculty of saying much on the same subject, or perhaps he did not care about this. Moreover he appeared to me to make a wanton display of his ability to express these things in different ways, and both ways most elegantly.

24. Phæ. You say nothing to the purpose, Socrates: for the speech has this very merit in the highest degree. For he has omitted nothing belonging to his subject, which was worthy to be mentioned: so that, beyond what has been said by him, no one could ever say more things or of greater weight.

Socr. On this point I am no longer able to agree with you; for the ancient and wise, both men and women, who have spoken and written on this subject, would confute me, if I were to admit this out of compliment to you.

Phæ. Who are they? and where have you heard better things than these?

Socr. I am unable to say on the moment; but I am sure that I have heard them from some one or other, either from the beautiful Sappho, or the wise Anacreon, or some other writer. Whence do I form this conjecture? some how or other, my divine friend, my breast is full, and I feel that I could say other things in addition to those and not inferior to them. That I 310understand none of them of myself, I am well aware, being conscious of my ignorance. It remains then, I think, that I must have filled myself, like a vessel, by means of hearing, from some foreign source; but owing to my stupidity I have forgotten even this, both how and from whom I heard it.

25. Phæ. You have told me excellent news, my noble friend. For though you cannot tell me from whom and how you heard it, even if I bid you, yet do the very thing that you say; promise that you will say other things better and not less in quality than those contained in the book, without making use of any thing in it. And I promise you, after the manner of the nine Archons, that I will dedicate at Delphi, a golden statue as large as life, not only of myself, but also of you.

Socr. You are very kind, Phædrus, and really worth your weight in gold, if you suppose I mean that Lysias was entirely wrong, and that it is possible to say something altogether different from what he has said; for I do not think that this could happen even to the poorest writer. 26. For instance with respect to the subject in hand; do you think that any one who was maintaining that favours ought to be shewn to one who is not in love rather than to one who is, if he neglected to extol the prudence of the former and to blame the folly of the latter, these being obvious points, could have any thing else to say? But I think that such points are to be allowed and granted to a speaker, and that of such things not the invention but the method of handling is to be praised, but of things which are obvious, and which are not difficult to discover, the invention as well as the method of handling.

Phæ. I grant what you say; for you appear to me to have spoken fairly. I will therefore do thus; I will allow you to suppose that one who is in love is more diseased than one who is not, but for the rest if you say other things more fully and of greater weight than Lysias, you shall stand in Olympia, of solid gold, near the offering of the Cypselidæ.

27. Socr. You are quite serious, Phædrus, because in teasing you I have attacked your favourite, and you think that I shall really attempt to say something more skilfully wrought than his wisdom has produced.

Phæ. For that matter, my friend, you have given me as good a hold on you; for you must speak, at all events, as well as you are able. And take care that we are not compelled to 311have recourse to that troublesome method of comedians, of retorting upon one another, and do not compel me to say^[118], “If I, Socrates! know not Socrates, I have also forgotten myself,” and, “he longed to speak, but affected shyness.” But make up your mind that we shall not leave this spot before you have given utterance to what you said you have in your breast. For we two are by ourselves, in a lonely place, and I am both stronger and younger; from all this understand what I mean, and on no account prefer speaking by compulsion rather than willingly.

28. Socr. But, my excellent Phædrus, it would be ridiculous in me, who am but a novice in comparison with an experienced author, to attempt to speak extempore on the same subject.

Phæ. Do you know how the case stands? Let me have no more of your airs; for I have that to say which will force you to speak.

Socr. On no account say it then.

Phæ. Nay, but I will say it. And what I have to say is an oath. For I swear to you, by whom, by what god? shall it be by this plane-tree? that unless you make a speech to me before this very tree, I will never again either shew or repeat to you another speech by any one whomsoever.

Socr. Ah, wicked one! how well have you found out how to compel a lover of speeches to do whatever you bid him.

Phæ. Why then do you hesitate?

Socr. I shall not any longer, since you have sworn this oath. For how should I ever be able to debar myself of such a feast?

Phæ. Begin then.

Socr. Do you know then, what I mean to do?

Phæ. About what?

Socr. I shall speak with my face covered, that I may run through my speech as quickly as possible, and that I may not, by looking at you, be put out through shame.

Phæ. Do but speak; and as to the rest, do as you please.

29. Socr. Come then, ye Muses, whether from the character of your song, ye are called tuneful^[119], or whether ye derive this appellation from the musical race of the Ligyans, assist me in the tale which this best of men compels me to relate, 312that so his friend, who heretofore appeared to him to be wise, may now appear still more so.

There was once a boy, or rather a youth, of exceeding beauty; and he had very many lovers. One of them was a cunning fellow; who though he was no less in love than the rest, persuaded the boy that he was not in love. And once, as he was courting him, he endeavoured to persuade him that favour ought to be shewn to one who was not in love, in preference to one who was. And he spoke as follows.

On every subject, my boy, there is one method of beginning, for those who mean to deliberate well; they must know what the thing is about which the deliberation is to be, or else of necessity go altogether astray. But it has escaped the notice of most men that they do not know the essence of each several thing. As if they did know, then, they do not agree with each other at the outset of the enquiry, and as they proceed they pay the probable penalty, for they agree neither with themselves nor with each other. Let not you and I, then, fall into the error which we condemn in others, but since the question proposed to us is, whether we ought rather to enter into a friendship with one who is in love or not, having by mutual agreement settled on a definition of love, what it is, and what power it has, and looking back and referring to this, let us prosecute our enquiry whether it occasions advantage or detriment. 30. That love, then, is a kind of desire, is clear to every one; and we know that they who are not in love, desire beautiful things. How then shall we distinguish a lover from one who is not in love? Here it is necessary to observe, that in each of us there are two ruling and leading principles, which we follow wherever they lead, one being an innate desire of pleasures, the other an acquired opinion, which aims at what is most excellent. These sometimes agree in us, and sometimes are at variance; and sometimes one gets the upper hand, at other times the other. When opinion therefore with the aid of reason leads to that which is best, and gets the upper hand, we give the name of temperance to this power; but when desire drags us irrationally to pleasures and rules within us, this ruling power takes the name of excess. But excess has many names; for it has many limbs and many forms. 31. And of these principles whichever happens to get the predominance gives its own designation to the person who 313possesses it, and that neither honourable nor worth acquiring. For instance with respect to food, desire that gets the better of the highest reason, and of the other desires, will be called gluttony, and will cause the person who possesses it to be called by the same name; again with respect to drinking, when it has usurped dominion, by leading its possessor in this direction, it is clear what designation it will acquire: and with respect to other things akin to these, and the names of kindred desires, it is manifest how they ought to be called, according as each for the time being happens to be dominant. Why all this has been said is already pretty evident, but every thing becomes in a manner more clear by being mentioned than if not mentioned. 32. For desire without reason having got the upper hand of opinion that tends to what is right, and being driven towards the pleasure derived from beauty, and being strongly impelled by its kindred desires to corporeal beauty, receives its name from this very strength and is called love^[120]. But, my dear Phædrus, do I appear to you, as I do to myself, to be moved by some divine influence?

Phæ. Assuredly, Socrates, an unusual fluency has got possession of you.

Socr. Listen to me then in silence. For in truth the place appears to be divine. If, therefore, in the progress of my speech I should be frequently entranced by the genius of the spot, you must not be surprized. For what I utter now is not very far removed from dithyrambics.

Phæ. You say most truly.

33. Socr. Of this, however, you are the cause. But hear the rest; for perhaps the attack of the trance may be averted: though this will be the care of the deity, but let us again direct our discourse to the boy.

Well then, my excellent boy, what that is, about which we are to deliberate, has been declared and defined. Keeping this in view, then, let us proceed to consider what advantage or detriment will probably accrue from one who is in love and one who is not, to him that shews favour to them.

He that is ruled by desire and is a slave to pleasure, must necessarily, I think, endeavour to make the object of his love 314as agreeable to himself as possible. But to one diseased every thing is pleasant that does not oppose his wishes; but that which is superior and equal is hateful to him. A lover therefore will never willingly allow his favourite to be either superior to or on an equality with himself, but is always endeavouring to make him inferior and more deficient. An ignorant person is inferior to a wise one, a coward to a brave one, one who is unable to speak to a rhetorician, a dull to a clever one. 34. Since so many evils, and even more than these, are engendered or naturally exist in the mind of the beloved object, the lover must of necessity rejoice at the existence of the one sort and endeavour to introduce the others, or be deprived of immediate pleasure. He must therefore needs be envious, and by debarring his favourite from much other and that profitable society, whence he might become most manly, he is the occasion of great harm, and of the greatest by debarring him of that by means of which he would become most wise; and this is divine philosophy, from which a lover must needs keep his favourite at a distance, through the fear of being despised; and must so manage every thing else, that he may be ignorant of every thing, and look to the lover for every thing, thus being most agreeable to him, but most detrimental to himself. As concerns the mind, then, a man that is in love is in no respect a profitable guardian and companion.

But as to the habit and care of the body, what it will be and how he will attend to it, of which a man has become the lord, who is compelled to pursue the pleasant in preference to the good, is next to be considered. 35. He will be seen pursuing some delicate and not hardy youth, not reared in the open air but under the shade of mingled trees, a stranger to manly toil, and dry sweats, but no stranger to a delicate and effeminate mode of life, adorned with foreign colours and ornaments, through want of such as are natural, and studious of all such other things as accompany these: what they are, is clear, and it is not worth while to enter into further detail; but having summed them up under one head, we will proceed to another part of our subject. Such a body both in battle and other great emergencies, enemies will look upon with confidence, but friends and lovers themselves will fear for. This, however, as sufficiently evident, may be dismissed. 36. In the next place we must declare what advantage or what detriment, with 315respect to our possessions, the society and guardianship of one in love will occasion. But this indeed is manifest to every one, and especially to a lover, that he would desire above all things that the object of his love should be bereft of his dearest, fondest, and holiest treasures: for he would have him gladly deprived of father and mother, kindred and friends, thinking that they are an hindrance to, and blamers of the sweetest intercourse with him. Moreover if he has abundance of gold, or any other property, he will think that he cannot be so easily caught, nor when caught easily managed. Wherefore it must of necessity happen that a lover should grudge his favourite possession of abundance, and should rejoice at its loss. Further still, a lover will wish his favourite to continue as long as possible without a wife, without child, and without home, from a desire to enjoy his own delights for as long a time as possible. 37. There are, indeed, other evils besides these, but some deity has mingled present pleasure with most of them: with a flatterer, for instance, a dreadful beast and great bane, nature has nevertheless mingled a kind of pleasure that is by no means inelegant. And some one perhaps may blame a mistress as detrimental, and many other similar creatures and pursuits, which for the day, however, afford the greatest enjoyment; but to a favourite, a lover besides being detrimental, is the most disagreeable of all for daily intercourse. For the ancient proverb says, that equal delights in equal; I suppose, because an equality of age leading to equal pleasures produces friendship by similarity of tastes. But still the intercourse even of these brings satiety: and moreover, necessity is said to be irksome to every one in every thing; and this in addition to their dissimilarity is especially the case with a lover towards his favourite. 38. For an old man who associates with a young one, does not willingly leave him, either by day or night, but is driven on by necessity and frenzy, which leads him on by constantly giving him pleasure, through seeing, hearing, touching, and by every sense feeling the presence of the beloved object, so that he would with pleasure cling constantly to him: but by giving what solace or what pleasures to the object of his love, can he prevent him during an intercourse of equal duration, from feeling the utmost disgust, while he sees a face old and no longer in its bloom, with the other things that accompany it, which are unpleasant even to hear spoken 316of, much more so to have actually to do with from an ever-pressing necessity; when he has too to keep a suspicious watch over himself at all times and in all company, and has to listen to unreasonable and extravagant praises, and reproaches as well, which when the lover is sober are intolerable, and when he is drunk, are not only intolerable but disgraceful from the loathsome and undisguised freedom of his language. 39. Thus he that is in love is detrimental and disgusting, but when he ceases to love, he is thenceforth unfaithful towards him who by many promises and with many oaths and entreaties he could hardly prevail on at that time to endure his troublesome familiarity in the hope of advantage. But now, when payment ought to be made, having received within himself another ruler and master, reason and prudence, instead of love and madness, he has become another man unknown to his favourite. He then demands a return for former favours, reminding him of what was done and said, as if he was talking to the same person; but the other through shame, dares neither say that he has become another man, nor is he able to adhere to the oaths and promises of the former insensate reign, now that he has got possession of his senses and has become prudent, fearing lest, by doing the same things as before, he should become like what he was, and the same thing again. 40. Hence he becomes a runaway, and of necessity a defrauder, who was before a lover, and the shell being turned^[121], he changes from pursuit to flight; but the other is forced to pursue him with indignation and curses, having been ignorant from the very beginning that he ought never to have granted favours to one that is in love and of necessity out of his senses, but much rather to one who is not in love, and in his right mind; otherwise he must necessarily give himself up to one that is unfaithful, morose, envious, disgusting, detrimental to his property, detrimental to his bodily habit, but far more detrimental to the cultivation of his soul, than which in truth there neither is nor ever will be any thing more precious in the sight of gods and men. It is right, therefore, my boy, to reflect on these things, and to know that the attachment of a lover is not united with 317good will, but like food for the sake of repletion, “as wolves love a lamb, so lovers love a boy.”

This is it, Phædrus; you must not expect to hear me say another word, but must let my speech end here.

41. Phæ. But I thought it was only in the middle, and that it would say as much about one who is not in love, that he ought rather to be favoured, mentioning in turn what advantages he has. Why then, Socrates, do you stop short now?

Socr. Did you not observe, my excellent friend, that I was now uttering epics, and no longer dithyrambics, and this while giving expression to blame? If then I should begin to praise the other, what do you think would become of me? Do you not know that I shall be thrown into an exstacy by the Nymphs, to whom you have purposely exposed me? I say then, in one word, that whatever vices I have attributed to the one, to the other the contrary advantages belong. What need then is there for a long speech? for enough has been said about both. Thus the story will be treated as it ought to be treated: I will, therefore, cross over the river and go home, before I am compelled by you to do something more difficult.

42. Phæ. Not yet, Socrates, before the heat has passed away. Do you not see that it is now nearly high-noon, as it is called? Let us, then, remain here, and converse together about what has been said, and as soon as it grows cool, we will go home.

Socr. You are a strange man for speeches, Phædrus, and really wonderful. For I think that of all the speeches made during your life-time no one has been the occasion of more being made than yourself, whether by speaking them yourself, or in some way or other compelling others. I except Simmias of Thebes; but you far surpass all the rest. And now again you appear to me to be the occasion of another speech being made.

Phæ. You do not announce war indeed. But how and what speech is this?

43. Socr. When I was about to cross the river, my good friend, the divine and wonted signal was given me, (it always deters me from what I am about to do,) and I seemed to hear a voice from this very spot, which would not suffer me to depart before I had purified myself, as if I had committed some offence against the deity. Now I am a prophet, though 318not a very good one, but like bad writers, am good enough for my own purposes. Accordingly, I clearly perceive my offence: for, my friend, the soul is in some measure prophetic; and mine troubled me some time since as I was delivering the speech, and some how I was cast down, as Ibycus says, for fear I should offend the gods, and gain honour from men in exchange. But now I perceive my offence.

Phæ. What do you say it is?

Socr. A dreadful, dreadful speech, Phædrus, you both brought here yourself, and compelled me to utter.

Phæ. How so?

Socr. Foolish, and in some sort impious: and can any thing be more dreadful than this?

44. Phæ. Nothing, if you say truly.

Socr. What then? Do you not think that Love is son of Venus, and a god?

Phæ. So it is said.

Socr. Yet not by Lysias, nor by that speech of yours which was uttered through my mouth when bewitched by you. But if Love be, as indeed he is, a god, or something divine, he cannot be in any respect evil; yet both our late speeches spoke of him as such. In this therefore they committed an offence against Love, besides their silliness was very amusing, in that they said nothing sound or true, yet they prided themselves as if they were something, because they might perhaps impose on some simpletons and gain their approbation. It is necessary, therefore, my friend, that I should purify myself. But there is an ancient purification for those who offend in matters relating to mythology, which Homer was not acquainted with, but Stesichorus was. For, being deprived of sight for defaming Helen, he was not ignorant like Homer, but as a friend of the Muses, knew the cause, and immediately composed the following lines: “This tale is not true, thou didst not go on board the well-benched ships, nor reach the towers of Troy.” Thus having composed this entire recantation as it is called, he immediately recovered his sight. I however, will be wiser than them in this respect; for before I suffer any harm for defaming Love, I will endeavour to present him my recantation, with my head bare, and not, as before, covered through shame.

45. Phæ. There is nothing, Socrates, that you could say to me more agreeable than this.

319Socr. For, my good Phædrus, you must be sensible how shamelessly both our speeches were composed, as well mine as that which was read from the book. For, if any generous man, and of mild disposition, who is either now in love with, or has formerly been enamoured of another like himself, had happened to hear us say that lovers contract violent enmities for trifling causes, and are envious of, and detrimental to, their favourites, can you suppose that he would do otherwise than think he was listening to men brought up among sailors, and who had never witnessed an ingenuous love, and would be far from assenting to the censures we cast upon Love?

Phæ. Probably he would, by Jupiter, Socrates.

Socr. Out of respect to him, then, and fear of Love himself, I am anxious to wash out as it were the brackish taste by a sweet speech. And I advise Lysias, too, to write as soon as possible, that it is proper, under similar circumstances, to favour a lover rather than one who is not in love.

46. Phæ. You may be well assured that this will be done; for, when you have spoken in praise of the lover, Lysias must needs be compelled by me to write another speech on the same subject.

Socr. This I believe, while you continue the man you are.

Phæ. Speak then with confidence.

Socr. But where is my boy, to whom I spoke? that he may hear this too, and may not, from not hearing it, hastily grant favours to one who is not in love.

Phæ. Here he is always very near to you, whenever you want him.

Socr. Understand then, my beautiful boy, that the former speech was that of Phædrus, son of Pythocles, a man of Myrrhinus; but that which I am now about to deliver is the speech of Stesichorus, son of Euphemus, of Himera. It must begin thus:

“The assertion is not true which declares that when a lover is present favour ought rather to be shewn to one who is not in love, because the one is mad and the other in his sober senses. 47. For if it were universally true that madness is evil, the assertion would be correct. But now the greatest blessings we have spring from madness, when granted by divine bounty. For the prophetess at Delphi, and the priestesses at Dodona, have, when mad, done many and noble services 320for Greece, both privately and publicly, but in their sober senses, little or nothing. And if we were to speak of the Sybil and others, who, employing prophetic inspiration, have correctly predicted many things to many persons respecting the future, we should be too prolix in relating what is known to every one. 48. This, however, deserves to be adduced by way of testimony, that such of the ancients as gave names to things did not consider madness as disgraceful or a cause of reproach: for they would not have attached this very name to that most noble art by which the future is discerned, and have called it a mad art; but considering it noble when it happens by the divine decree, they gave it this name; but the men of the present day, by ignorantly inserting the letter τ, have called it the prophetic art^[122]. Since also with respect to the investigation of the future by people in their senses, which is made by means of birds and other signs, inasmuch as men by means of reflection, furnished themselves by human thought with intelligence and information, they gave it the name of prognostication^[123], which the moderns, by using the emphatic long õ, now call augury. But how much more perfect and valuable, then, prophecy is than augury, one name than the other, and one effect than the other, by so much did the ancients testify that madness is more noble than sound sense, that which comes from God than that which proceeds from men. 49. Moreover, for those dire diseases and afflictions, which continued in some families in consequence of ancient crimes committed by some or other of them, madness springing up and prophesying to those to whom it was proper, discovered a remedy, fleeing for refuge to prayers and services of the gods, whence obtaining purifications and atoning rites, it made him who possessed it sound, both for the present and the future, by discovering to him, who was rightly mad and possessed, a release from present evils. There is a third possession and madness proceeding from the Muses, which seizing upon a tender and chaste soul, and rousing and inspiring it to the composition of odes and 321other species of poetry, by adorning the countless deeds of antiquity, instructs posterity. But he who without the madness of the Muses approaches the gates of poesy under the persuasion that by means of art he can become an efficient poet, both himself fails in his purpose, and his poetry, being that of a sane man, is thrown into the shade by the poetry of such as are mad.

50. So great and even more noble effects of madness proceeding from the gods I am able to mention to you. Let us not, therefore, be afraid of this, nor let any argument disturb and frighten us so as to persuade us that we ought to prefer a sane man as our friend in preference to one who is under the influence of a divine impulse; but let him carry all the victory when he was shewn this in addition, that love is sent by the gods for no benefit to the lover and the beloved. But we, on the other hand, must prove that such madness is given by the gods, for the purpose of producing the highest happiness. Now the proof will be incredible to the subtle, but credible to the wise. It is necessary, therefore, first of all to understand the truth with respect to the nature of the soul both divine and human, by observing its affections and operations. 51. This then is the beginning of the demonstration.

Every soul is immortal: for whatever is continually moved is immortal; but that which moves another and is moved by another, when it ceases to move, ceases to live. Therefore that only which moves itself, since it does not quit itself, never ceases to be moved, but is also the source and beginning of motion to all other things that are moved. But a beginning is uncreate: for every thing that is created must necessarily be created from a beginning, but a beginning itself from nothing whatever; for if a beginning were created from any thing, it would not be a beginning. 52. Since then it is uncreate it must also of necessity be indestructible; for should a beginning perish, it could neither itself be ever created from any thing, nor any thing else from it, since all things must be created from a beginning. Thus then the beginning of motion is that which moves itself: and this can neither perish nor be created, or all heaven and all creation must collapse and come to a stand-still, and never again have any means whereby it may be moved and created. 53. Since then it appears that that which is moved by itself is immortal, no one will be ashamed to say that this is the very essence and true notion of soul. For every body which is 322moved from without, is soulless, but that which is moved from within of itself, possesses a soul, since this is the very nature of soul. But if this be the case, that there is nothing else which moves itself except soul, soul must necessarily be both uncreate and immortal. This then may suffice for its immortality.

But respecting its idea we must speak as follows: what it is, would in every way require a divine and lengthened exposition to tell, but what it is like, a human and a shorter one: in this way then we will describe it. 54. Let it then be likened to the combined power of a pair of winged steeds and a charioteer. Now the horses and charioteers of the gods are all both good themselves and of good extraction, but all others are mixed. In the first place, then, our ruling power drives a pair of steeds, in the next place, of these horses it has one that is beautiful and noble, and of similar extraction, but the other is of opposite extraction, and opposite character; our driving therefore is necessarily difficult and troublesome. But we must endeavour to explain in what respect an animal is called mortal or immortal. All soul takes care of all that is without soul, and goes about all heaven, appearing at different times in different forms. 55. While it is perfect, then, and winged, it soars aloft and governs the universe: but when it has lost its wings it is borne downward, until it meets with something solid, in which having taken up its abode, by assuming an earthly body, which appears to move itself by means of its own power, the whole together is called an animal, soul and body compounded, and takes the appellation of mortal. But the immortal derives its name from no deduction of reasoning, but as we neither see, nor sufficiently understand God, we represent him as an immortal animal possessed of soul, and possessed of body, and these united together throughout all time. Let these things, however, so be and be described as God pleases. But let us now discover the cause of the loss of the wings, why they fall off from the soul. It is something of the following kind:

56. The natural power of a wing, is to carry up heavy substances by raising them aloft to the regions where the race of the gods dwells; and of the parts connected with the body, it probably partakes most largely of that which is divine. But that which is divine is beautiful, wise, good, and every thing of that kind. By these then the wings of the soul are chiefly 323nourished and increased, but by what is base and vile, and other similar contraries, it falls to decay and perishes. Now the mighty chief in heaven, Jupiter, goes first, driving a winged chariot, ordering and taking care of all things; and there follows him a host of gods and demons, distributed into eleven divisions, for Vesta remains alone in the dwelling of the gods: but of the others all that have been assigned a station as chief gods in the number of the twelve, lead in the order to which they have been severally appointed. 57. But there are many delightful sights and paths within heaven among which the race of the blessed gods move, each performing his own proper work; and whoso has both will and power accompanies them; for envy stands aloof from the heavenly choir. But when they proceed to a banquet and feast, they now ascend by an up-hill path to the highest arch of heaven: and the chariots of the gods, which from being equally poised are obedient to the rein, move easily, but all others with difficulty; for the horse that partakes of vice weighs them down, leaning and pressing heavily towards the earth, if he happens not to have been well trained by his charioteer. Here then the severest toil and trial is laid upon the soul. For those that are called immortal, when they reach the summit, proceeding outside, stand on the back of heaven, and while they are stationed here, its revolution carries them round, and they behold the external regions of heaven. 58. But the region above heaven no poet here has ever yet sung of, nor ever will sing of, as it deserves. It is, however, as follows: for surely I may venture to speak the truth, especially as my subject is truth. For essence, that really exists, colourless, formless and intangible, is visible only to intelligence that guides the soul, and around it the family of true science have this for their abode. As then the mind of deity is nourished by intelligence and pure science, so the mind of every soul that is about to receive what properly belongs to it, when it sees after a long time that which is, is delighted, and by contemplating the truth, is nourished and thrives, until the revolution of heaven brings it round again to the same point. And during this circuit it beholds justice herself, it beholds temperance, it beholds science, not that to which creation is annexed, nor that which is different in different things of those which we call real, but that which is science in what really is. And in like manner, having beheld all other 324things that really are, and having feasted on them, it again enters into the interior of heaven, and returns home. 59. And on its return, the charioteer having taken his horses to the manger, sets ambrosia before them, and afterwards gives them nectar to drink. And this is the life of the gods.

But, with respect to other souls, that which best follows and imitates a god, raises the head of its charioteer to the outer region, and is carried round with the rest in the revolution, yet is confused by its horses, and scarcely able to behold real existences; but another at one time rises, at another sinks, and owing to the violence of the horses, partly sees, and partly not. The rest follow, all eager for the upper region, but being unable to reach it they are carried round sunk beneath the surface, trampling on and striking against each other, in endeavouring to get one before another. Hence the tumult, and struggling, and sweating is extreme; and here through the fault of the charioteers many are maimed, and many break many of their feathers; and all of them having undergone much toil depart without having succeeded in getting a view of that which is, and after their departure they make use of the food of mere opinion. 60. And this is the reason for the great anxiety to behold the field of truth, where it is; the proper pasture for the best part of the soul happens to be in the meadow there, and it is the nature of the wing by which the soul is borne aloft, to be nourished by it; and this is a law of Adrastia^[124], that whatever soul, in accompanying a deity, has beheld any of the true essences, it shall be free from harm until the next revolution, and if it can always accomplish this, it shall be always free from harm: but whenever from inability to keep up it has not seen any of them, and from meeting with some misfortune, has been filled with oblivion and vice, and so weighed down, and from being weighed down has lost its wings, and fallen to the earth, then there is a law that this soul should not be implanted in any brutal nature in its first generation, but that the soul which has seen most, should enter into the germ of a man who will become a philosopher or a lover of the beautiful, or a votary of the Muses and Love; but that the second should enter into the form of a constitutional king, or a warrior and commander, the third into that of a statesman, or economist, or merchant, the fourth into one 325who loves the toil of gymnastic exercises, or who will be employed in healing the body, the fifth will have a prophetic life or one connected with the mysteries, to the sixth the poetic life or some other of those employed in imitation will be best adapted, to the seventh a mechanical or agricultural life, to the eighth the life of a sophist or mob-courtier, to the ninth that of a tyrant. 61. But among all these, whosoever passes his life justly afterwards obtains a better lot, but who unjustly, a worse one. For to the same place, whence each soul comes, it does not return till the expiration of ten thousand years; for it does not recover its wings for so long a period, except it is the soul of a sincere lover of wisdom, or of one who has made philosophy his favourite^[125]. But these in the third period of a thousand years, if they have chosen this life thrice in succession, thereupon depart, with their wings restored in the three thousandth year. But the others, when they have ended their first life, are brought to trial; and being sentenced, some go to places of punishment beneath the earth and there suffer for their sins, but others, being borne upwards by their sentence to some region in heaven, pass their time in a manner worthy of the life they have lived in human form. But in the thousandth year, both kinds coming back again for the allotment and choice of their second life, choose that which they severally please. And here a human soul passes into the life of a beast, and from a beast he who was once a man passes again into a man. 62. For the soul which has never seen the truth, cannot come into this form: for it is necessary that a man should understand according to a generic form, as it is called, which proceeding from many perceptions is by reasoning combined into one. And this is a recollection of those things which our soul formerly saw when journeying with deity, despising the things which we now say are, and looking up to that which really is. Wherefore, with justice, the mind of the philosopher is alone furnished with wings; for, to the best of his power, his memory dwells on those things, by the contemplation of which even deity is divine. But a man who makes a right use of such memorials as these, by constantly perfecting himself in perfect mysteries, alone becomes truly perfect. And by keeping aloof from human pursuits, and dwelling on that which is divine, he is found fault 326with by the multitude as out of his senses, but it escapes the notice of the multitude that he is inspired.

63. To this then comes our whole argument respecting the fourth kind of madness, on account of which any one, who, on seeing beauty in this lower world, being reminded of the true, begins to recover his wings, and, having recovered them, longs to soar aloft, but being unable to do it, looks upwards like a bird, and despising things below, is deemed to be affected with madness. Our argument comes to this then, that this is the best of all enthusiasmsenthusiasms, and of the best origin, both for him who possesses and for him who partakes of it, and that he who loves beautiful objects, by having a share of this madness, is called a lover. For, as we have mentioned, every soul of man has, from its very nature, beheld real existences, or it would not have entered into this human form; for it is not easy for every one to call to mind former things from the present, neither for those who then had but a brief view of the things there, nor for those who after their fall hither, were so unfortunate as to be turned aside by evil associations to injustice, and so to have forgotten the sacred things they formerly beheld. Few therefore are left who have sufficient memory. But these, when they see any resemblance of the things there, are amazed and no longer masters of themselves, and they know not what this affection is, because they do not thoroughly perceive it. 64. Now of justice and temperance and whatever else souls deem precious, there is no brightness in the resemblances here, but by means of dull instruments with difficulty a few only, on approaching the images, are able to discern the character of that which is represented. But beauty was then splendid to look on, when with that happy choir, we in company with Jupiter, and others with some other of the gods, beheld that blissful sight and spectacle, and were initiated into that which may be rightly called the most blessed of all mysteries, which we celebrated when we were whole and unaffected by the evils that awaited us in time to come, and moreover when we were initiated in, and beheld in the pure light, perfect, simple, calm, and blessed visions, being ourselves pure, and as yet unmasked with this which we now carry about with us and call the body, fettered to it like an oyster to its shell.

65. Let this much be said out of regard to memory, on account of which, from a longing for former things, I have now 327spoken at greater length than I ought. But with respect to beauty, as we observed, she both shone among things there, and on our coming hither we found her, through the clearest of our senses, shining most clearly. For sight is the keenest of our bodily senses, though wisdom is not seen by it. For vehement would be the love she would inspire, if she came before our sight and shewed us any such clear image of herself, and so would all other loveable things; but now beauty only has this privilege of being most manifest and most lovely. 66. He, then, who has not been recently initiated, or who has become corrupted, is not speedily carried hence thither to beauty itself, by beholding here that which takes its name from it. So that he does not reverence it when he beholds it, but, giving himself up to pleasure, like a beast he attempts to mount it and to have intercourse with it, and in his wanton advances he is neither afraid nor ashamed of this unnatural pursuit of pleasure. But he who has been recently initiated, and who formerly beheld many things, when he sees a god-like countenance, or some bodily form that presents a good imitation of beauty, at first shudders and some of the former terrors come over him, then as he looks stedfastly at it, he reverences it as a god, and if he did not dread the imputation of excessive madness, he would sacrifice to his favourite, as to a statue or a god. 67. But after he has beheld it, as commonly happens, after shuddering, a change, a sweating and unusual heat comes over him. For having received the emanation of beauty through his eyes, he has become heated, so that the wings that are natural to him are refreshed; and by his being heated, the parts where they grow are softened, which having been long closed up through hardness prevented them from shooting out. But when this nutriment flows in, the quill of the wing begins to swell, and makes an effort to burst from the root, beneath the whole form of the soul; for of old it was all winged. In this state, then, the whole boils and throbs violently, and as is the case with infants cutting their teeth, when they are just growing out there is a pricking and soreness of the gums, in the same way the soul is affected of one who is beginning to put forth his wings, it boils and is sore, and itches as it puts them forth. 68. When, therefore, by beholding the beauty of a boy, and receiving particles that proceed and flow from thence, which are for that reason called 328desire, it becomes refreshed and heated; it is relieved from pain and filled with joy: but when it is separated and becomes parched, the orifices of the passages through which the wing shoots forth, become closed through drought and shut up the germ of the wing. But it being shut in together with desire, leaping like throbbing veins, strikes against each passage that is shut against it, so that the whole soul, being pricked all round, is frantic and in agony; but again retaining the memory of the beautiful one, it is filled with joy. 69. And from both these mingled together, it is tormented by the strangeness of the affection, and not knowing what to do becomes frenzied, and being in this frantic state it can neither sleep at night, nor remain quiet by day, but runs about with longing wherever it may hope to see the possessor of the beauty. And on beholding him and drawing in fresh supplies of desire, it loosens the parts that were closed up, and recovering breath has a respite from stings and throes, and again for the present enjoys this most exquisite pleasure. Wherefore, it never willingly leaves him, nor values any one more than the beautiful one, but forgets mothers and brothers and friends all alike, and if its substance is wasting through neglect, it reckons that as of no consequence, and despising all customs and decorums in which it formerly prided itself, it is ready to be a slave and to lie down wherever any one will allow it as near as possible to the object of its longing. For in addition to its reverence for the possessor of beauty, it has found that he is the only physician for its severest troubles.

70. Now this affection, my beautiful boy, you I mean to whom I am speaking, men call love, but when you hear what the gods designate it, you will probably laugh, on account of your youth. Some Homerics, I think, adduce out of their secret poems two verses on love, of which the second is very insolent, and not altogether delicate: they sing as follows: “Him mortals indeed call winged Eros, but immortals Pteros (Flyer) for his flighty nature^[126].”

These verses then, you are at liberty to believe, or not; however, this assuredly is the cause and the condition of lovers. 71. Now when one of the attendants upon Jupiter is seized, he is able to bear with greater firmness the burden of the wing-named 329god; but such as are in the service of Mars and went round heaven with him, when they are caught by Love, and think that they are at all injured by the object of their love, are blood-thirsty, and ready to immolate both themselves and their favourite. And so with respect to each several god, whose choir each followed, he spends his life in honouring and imitating him to the best of his power, so long as he remains free from corruption, and is living here his first generation; and in this way he associates with and behaves to his beloved and all others. 72. Every one, therefore, chooses his love out of the objects of beauty according to his own taste, and, as if he were a god to him, he fashions and adorns him like a statue, as if for the purpose of reverencing him and celebrating orgies in his honour. They then that are followers of Jupiter seek for some one who resembles Jupiter in his soul, to be the object of his love. They therefore consider whether he is by nature a lover of wisdom, and fitted to command; and when, on finding one, they have become enamoured of him, they do every thing in their power to make him such. If, then, they have not already entered upon this study, they now set about it, and learn it from whatever source they can, and themselves pursue it; and by endeavouring to discover of themselves the nature of their own deity, they succeed by being compelled to look stedfastly on their god, and when they grasp him with their memory, being inspired by him, they receive from him their manners and pursuits, as far it is possible for man to participate of deity. 73. And considering the object of their love as the cause of all this, they love him still more, and if they have drawn their inspiration from Jupiter, like the Bacchanals, they pour it into the soul of their beloved, and make him as much as possible resemble their own god. But such as attended Juno seek after a royal favourite, and when they have found one, they act towards him in precisely the same manner. And such as attended Apollo, and each of the other gods, following the example of their several deities, desire that their favourite may have a corresponding character, and when they have gained such an one, both by imitation on their own part, and by persuading and alluring their favourite, they lead him to the peculiar pursuit and character of that god; not, indeed, by employing envy or illiberal severity towards their favourite, but endeavouring by every means in their power to lead him to a perfect resemblance 330of themselves and their god, they act accordingly. 74. A zeal, then, on the part of those who truly love, and an initiation, as I call it, if they succeed in what they desire, so beautiful and blessed, falls to the lot of the beloved one at the hands of him that is maddened by love, if only he be won. But he that is won, is won in the following manner.

As in the beginning of this account I divided each soul into three parts, two of them having the form of horses, and the third that of a charioteer, so let us still maintain that division: but of the horses, one, we said, was good and the other not: what however is the virtue of the good one, or the vice of the bad one, we have not yet explained, but must now declare. That one of them, then, which is in the nobler condition, is in form erect, finely-moulded, high-necked, hook-nosed, white-coloured, black-eyed, a lover of honour, with temperance and modesty, and a companion of true glory, without the whip is driven by word of command and voice only: the other, on the other hand, is crooked, thick set, clumsily put together, strong-necked, short-throated, flat-faced, black-coloured, gray-eyed, hot-blooded, a companion of insolence and swaggering, shaggy about the ears, deaf, scarcely obedient to whip and spur together. 75. When, therefore, the charioteer beholds the love-inspiring sight, his whole soul becoming heated by sensation, he is filled with irritation and the stings of desire, the horse that is obedient to the charioteer, then as ever, overpowered by shame restrains himself from leaping on the beloved object: but the other, no longer heeds either the whip or the spurs of the charioteer, but bounding forward is carried violently along, and giving every kind of trouble to his yoke-fellow and the charioteer, compels them to hurry to the favourite, and to indulge in the delights of love. They at first resist from indignation at being compelled to such a dreadful and lawless course: but at length, when there is no end to the evil, they go on as they are led, having submitted and consented to do what they are ordered; and now they come up to him and behold the gleaming countenance of the favourite. 76. But the memory of the charioteer when he beholds him is carried back to the nature of absolute beauty, and again sees her together with temperance standing on a chaste pedestal. And, on beholding, it^[127] shudders, and awe-struck falls down backward, and at the 331same time is compelled to draw back the reins so violently, as to throw both the horses on their haunches, the one indeed willingly, from his not resisting, but the insolent one very much against his will. When they have withdrawn to some distance, the former through shame and amazement drenches the whole soul with sweat, but the other, having got rid of the pain which he suffered from the bit and the fall, when he has scarcely recovered his breath, bursts out into passionate revilings, vehemently reproaches the charioteer and his yoke-fellow, for having abandoned their station and compact from cowardice and effeminacy. And again compelling them against their wills to approach, he with difficulty yields to their entreaties to defer it to a future time. 77. But when the time agreed on comes, reminding them who pretend to forget it, plunging, neighing, and dragging forward, he compels them again to approach the favourite for the same purpose. And when they are near, bending down his head and extending his spear, he champs the bit and drags them on with wantonness. But the charioteer being affected as before, though more strongly, as if he were falling back from the starting rope, pulls back the bit with still greater violence from the teeth of the insolent horse, and covers his railing tongue and jaws with blood, and forcing his legs and haunches to the ground, tortures him with pain. 78. But when by being often treated in the same way, the vicious horse has laid aside his insolence, being humbled he henceforth follows the directions of the charioteer, and when he beholds the beautiful object, he swoons through fear. So that it comes to pass, that thenceforth the soul of the lover follows its favourite with reverence and awe. Since then he is worshipped with all observance as if he were a god, not by a lover who feigns the passion, but who really feels it, and since he is by nature inclined to friendship, he directs his affection to accord with that of his worshipper, even though in past times he may have been misled by his associates or some others, who told him that it was disgraceful to allow a lover to approach him, and he may for this reason have rejected his lover, yet in process of time his age and destiny induce him to admit his lover to familiarity. 79. For surely it was never decreed by fate, that the evil should be a friend to the evil, or the good not a friend to the good. When, therefore, he has admitted him and accepted his conversation and society, the 332benevolence of the lover being brought into close contact astonishes the beloved, when he perceives that all his other friends and relatives together exhibited no friendship at all towards him in comparison with his inspired friend. But when he has spent some time in doing this, and has approached so near as to come in contact in the gymnastic schools and other places of social intercourse, then the fountain of that stream to which Jupiter, when in love with Ganymede, gave the name of desire, streaming in great abundance upon the lover, partly sinks into him, and partly flows out from him when he is full. And as a wind or any sound rebounding from smooth and hard substances, is borne back again to the place from whence it proceeded, so this stream of beauty, flowing back again to the beautiful one through the eyes, by which way it naturally enters the soul, and having returned thither and fledged itself anew, refreshes the outlets of the feathers, and moves him to put forth wings, and in turn fills the soul of the beloved one with love. 80. Accordingly he is in love, but with whom he knows not; neither is he aware nor is he able to tell what has happened to him, but like a person who has caught a disease in the eyes from another, he is unable to assign the cause, and is not aware that he beholds himself in his lover, as in a mirror. And when the lover is present, he is freed from pain in the same way as the lover is; but, when he is absent, he in turn longs for him in the same manner that he is longed for, possessing love’s image, love returned; but he calls it and considers it to be not love but friendship. And he desires, in the same way as the lover, though more feebly, to see, to touch, to kiss, to lie down with him; and, as is probable, he soon afterwards does all this. 81. In this lying down together, then, the unbridled horse of the lover has something to say to its charioteer, and begs to be allowed some small enjoyment in recompence for his many toils, but the same horse of the favourite has nothing to say, but swelling with love and in doubt, embraces the lover, and kisses him as he would kiss a very dear friend, and when they are laid down together, he is unable to refuse, as far as in his power, to gratify his lover in whatever he requires. But his yoke-fellow, together with the charioteer, resists this familiarity with shame and reason. If, then, the better parts of their mind have prevailed so as to lead them to a well-regulated mode of living and philosophy, 333they pass their life here in bliss and concord, having obtained the mastery over themselves, and being orderly, through having brought into subjection that part of the soul in which vice was engendered, and having set free that in which was virtue: and when they depart this life, becoming winged and light, they have been victorious in one of the three truly Olympic contests, a greater good than which neither human prudence nor divine madness can possibly bestow on man. 82. If, however, they have adopted a coarser and less philosophic mode of living, yet still honourable, but perhaps in a fit of drunkenness or some other thoughtless moment, their two unbridled beasts finding their souls unguarded, and bringing them together to one place, have made and consummated that choice which most men deem blissful; and having once consummated it they continue to practise it for the future, though rarely, in that they are doing what is not approved by their whole mind. These too, then, pass their life dear to each other, but less so than the others, both during the period of love and after it, thinking that they have both given to and received from each other the strongest pledges, which it were impious to violate, and so at any time become alienated. 83. But in the end, without wings indeed, yet making an effort to become winged, they quit the body, so as to carry off no trifling prize of impassioned madness: for there is a law that those who have already set out in the heavenward path should never again enter on darkness and the paths beneath the earth, but that, passing a splendid life, they should be happy walking with each other, and that, for their love’s sake, whenever they become winged, they should be winged together.

These so great and divine things, my boy, will the affection of a lover confer on you. But the familiarity of one who is not in love, being mingled with mortal prudence, and dispensing mortal and niggardly gifts, generating in the beloved soul an illiberality which is praised by the multitude as virtue, will cause it to be tossed about the earth and beneath the earth for nine thousand years, devoid of intelligence. 84. To thee, beloved Love, this recantation, the most beautiful and the best, according to my ability, is presented and duly paid, both in other respects and by certain poetical phrases, of necessity, adorned for the sake of Phædrus. But do thou, pardoning my former speech, and graciously accepting this, propitiously and 334benignly, neither take from me the art of love which thou hast given me, nor maim it in thy wrath, but grant that even more than now I may be honoured by the beautiful. And if, in our former speech, Phædrus and I have said any thing offensive to thee, blaming Lysias as the author of the speech, make him desist from such speeches in future, and convert him to philosophy, as his brother Polemarchus has been converted, so that this lover of his may no longer remain neutral as now, but may wholly devote his life to love, in conjunction with philosophic discourses.

Phæ. I join with you in praying, Socrates, that if this is better for us, so it may be. 85. But I have been long wondering at your speech, how much more beautiful you have made it than the former one; so that I am afraid that Lysias will appear to me but poor, even if he should be willing to produce another in opposition to it. For only the other day, my admirable friend, one of our public men, as he was attacking him, upbraided him with this very thing, and throughout the whole of his attack called him a writer of speeches. Perhaps, therefore, for ambition’s sake he will refrain from writing any more.

Socr. The opinion you express, my youth, is ridiculous; and you very much mistake your friend, if you imagine him to be so easily frightened. Perhaps, too, you think that his assailant really meant what he said.

86. Phæ. He seemed to do so, Socrates; and you are doubtless yourself aware, that the most powerful and considerable men in a city are ashamed to write speeches, and to leave their own compositions behind them, through fear of the opinion of posterity, lest they should be called sophists.

Socr. It has escaped your notice, Phædrus, that the proverb “a sweet bend” is derived from that long bend in the Nile: and as well as the bend, it escapes your notice, that these public men who think most highly of themselves are most fond of writing speeches, and of leaving their compositions behind them; and moreover, whenever they write a speech, they so love its supporters, that they prefix their names who on each occasion commend them.

87. Phæ. How do you mean? for I don’t understand you.

Socr. Don’t you understand, that at the beginning of a statesman’s writing, the name of its supporter is written first.

Phæ. How?

335Socr. “Approved,” I think the writing itself says, “by the council, or the people, or both,” and he who proposed it, speaking very pompously of and extolling himself, namely the composer, after this makes a speech so as to display his own wisdom to his supporters, sometimes making a very long composition. Does this appear to you to be any thing else than a written speech?

Phæ. It does not to me.

88. Socr. If, then, it happens to be approved, the composer goes home from the theatre delighted. But if it should be rubbed out, and he debarred from writing speeches, and from the dignity of an author, both he and his friends take it greatly to heart.

Phæ. Just so.

Socr. It is clear, then, that they do not despise this practice, but admire it exceedingly.

Phæ. Certainly.

Socr. What then, when an orator or a king has proved himself competent to assume the power of a Lycurgus, or a Solon, or a Darius, and to become immortal as a speech-writer in a state, does he not deem himself godlike, while he is yet alive, and do not posterity think the very same of his writings?

Phæ. Just so.

89. Socr. Do you think then that any person of this sort, however ill-disposed he may be towards Lysias, would upbraid him merely because he is a writer?

Phæ. It does not seem probable from what you say; for in that case, as it appears, he would upbraid his own passion.

Socr. This, then, must be clear to every one, that the mere writing of speeches is not disgraceful.

Phæ. Why should it be?

Socr. But this I think now is disgraceful, not to express and write them well, but shamefully and ill.

Phæ. Clearly so.

Socr. What then is the method of writing well or ill? Have we not occasion, Phædrus, to enquire about this from Lysias or some one else, who has at some time or other written or means to write, either a political or private composition, in metre as a poet, or without metre as a prose-writer?

Phæ. Do you ask, if we have occasion? For what purpose in the world should any one live, but for the sake of pleasures 336of this kind? Not, surely, for those which cannot even be enjoyed unless they are preceded by pain, which is the case with nearly all the pleasures connected with the body; on which account they are justly called servile.

90. Socr. We have leisure, however, as it seems: and moreover the grasshoppers, while, as is their wont in the heat of the day, they are singing over our heads and talking with one another, appear to me to be looking down upon us. If, then, they should see us too, like most men, not conversing at mid-day, but falling asleep and lulled by them, through indolence of mind, they would justly laugh us to scorn, thinking that some slaves or other had come to them in this retreat, in order like sheep to take a mid-day sleep by the side of the fountain. But if they see us conversing, and sailing by them, as if they were Syrens unenchanted, the boon which they have from the gods to confer upon men, they will perhaps out of admiration bestow upon us.

Phæ. But what is this that they have? For I happen not to have heard of it, as it seems.

Socr. Yet it is not proper that a lover of the Muses should not have heard of things of this kind. It is said, then, that these grasshoppers were men before the Muses were born; but that when the Muses were born, and song appeared, some of the men of that time were so overcome by pleasure, that through singing they neglected to eat and drink, until they died unawares. 91. From these the race of grasshoppers afterwards sprung, having received this boon from the Muses, that they should need no nourishment from the time of their birth, but should continue singing without food and without drink till they died, and that after that they should go to the Muses and inform them who of those here honoured each of them. Therefore by informing Terpsichore of those who honour her in the dance they make them dearer to her; and Erato they inform of her votaries in love; and so all the rest in a similar manner, according to the kind of honour belonging to each. But the eldest, Calliope, and next to her Urania, they tell of those who pass their lives in philosophy, and honour their music; and these most of all the Muses, being conversant with heaven, and discourse both divine and human, pour forth the most beautiful strains. For many reasons, therefore, we should converse and not sleep at mid-day.

337Phæ. We should converse, indeed.

Socr. Therefore, as we lately proposed to consider, we should enquire in what consists a correct method of speaking and writing, and in what not.

Phæ. Evidently.

92. Socr. Is it not, then, essential, in order to a good and beautiful speech being made, that the mind of the speaker should know the truth of the subject on which he is about to speak?

Phæ. I have heard say on this subject, my dear Socrates, that it is not necessary for one who purposes to be an orator to learn what is really just, but what would appear so to the multitude, who will have to judge; nor what is really good or beautiful, but what will appear so: for that persuasion proceeds from these, and not from truth.

Socr. We ought not to reject a saying^[128], which wise men utter, but should consider whether they say any thing worth attending to. Wherefore we must not pass by what you have now said.

93. Phæ. You are right.

Socr. Let us then consider it as follows.

Phæ. How?

Socr. Suppose I should persuade you to purchase a horse for the purpose of repelling enemies, but both of us should be ignorant what a horse is, suppose, however, I did happen to know this much, that Phædrus believes a horse to be that tame animal which has the longest ears.

Phæ. That would be ridiculous indeed, Socrates.

Socr. Wait a moment: if I should earnestly persuade you, by composing a speech in praise of the ass, calling him a horse, and asserting that it is well worth while to purchase this beast both for domestic purposes and for military service, that he is useful to fight from, and able to carry baggage, and serviceable in many other respects.

Phæ. This, now, would be perfectly ridiculous.

Socr. But is it not better that a friend should be ridiculous, than dangerous and mischievous?

Phæ. Clearly so.

94. Socr. When an orator, therefore, who is ignorant of good and evil, having found a city that is likewise so, endeavours 338to persuade it, not by celebrating the praises of an ass’s shadow^[129], as if it were a horse, but of evil, as if it were good, and having studied the opinions of the multitude should persuade them to do evil instead of good, what kind of fruit do you suppose rhetoric will afterwards reap from such a sowing?

Phæ. By no means a good one.

Socr. But have we not, my good friend, reviled the art of speaking more roughly than is proper? for she may, perhaps, say: “Why, sirs, do you talk so foolishly? For I compel no one who is ignorant of the truth to learn how to speak: but if my advice is worth any thing, when he has acquired that, he then has recourse to me. This, then, I insist on, that without me one who knows the truth will not for all that be able to persuade by art.”