Very good. Would he who is great, desire to be great, or he who is
strong, desire to be strong?
That would be inconsistent with our previous admissions.
True. For he who is anything cannot want to be that which he is?
Very true.
And yet, added Socrates, if a man being strong desired to be strong, or
being swift desired to be swift, or being healthy desired to be healthy,
in that case he might be thought to desire something which he already
has or is. I give the example in order that we may avoid misconception.
For the possessors of these qualities, Agathon, must be supposed to have
their respective advantages at the time, whether they choose or not; and
who can desire that which he has? Therefore, when a person says, I am
well and wish to be well, or I am rich and wish to be rich, and I desire
simply to have what I have--to him we shall reply: 'You, my friend,
having wealth and health and strength, want to have the continuance of
them; for at this moment, whether you choose or no, you have them. And
when you say, I desire that which I have and nothing else, is not your
meaning that you want to have what you now have in the future?' He must
agree with us--must he not?
He must, replied Agathon.
Then, said Socrates, he desires that what he has at present may be
preserved to him in the future, which is equivalent to saying that he
desires something which is non-existent to him, and which as yet he has
not got:
Very true, he said.
Then he and every one who desires, desires that which he has not
already, and which is future and not present, and which he has not, and
is not, and of which he is in want;--these are the sort of things which
love and desire seek?
Very true, he said.
Then now, said Socrates, let us recapitulate the argument. First, is not
love of something, and of something too which is wanting to a man?
Yes, he replied.
Remember further what you said in your speech, or if you do not remember
I will remind you: you said that the love of the beautiful set in
order the empire of the gods, for that of deformed things there is no
love--did you not say something of that kind?
Yes, said Agathon.
Yes, my friend, and the remark was a just one. And if this is true, Love
is the love of beauty and not of deformity?
He assented.
And the admission has been already made that Love is of something which
a man wants and has not?
True, he said.
Then Love wants and has not beauty?
Certainly, he replied.
And would you call that beautiful which wants and does not possess
beauty?
Certainly not.
Then would you still say that love is beautiful?
Agathon replied: I fear that I did not understand what I was saying.
You made a very good speech, Agathon, replied Socrates; but there is
yet one small question which I would fain ask:--Is not the good also the
beautiful?
Yes.
Then in wanting the beautiful, love wants also the good?
I cannot refute you, Socrates, said Agathon:--Let us assume that what
you say is true.
Say rather, beloved Agathon, that you cannot refute the truth; for
Socrates is easily refuted.
And now, taking my leave of you, I would rehearse a tale of love which I
heard from Diotima of Mantineia (compare 1 Alcibiades), a woman wise in
this and in many other kinds of knowledge, who in the days of old, when
the Athenians offered sacrifice before the coming of the plague, delayed
the disease ten years. She was my instructress in the art of love, and
I shall repeat to you what she said to me, beginning with the admissions
made by Agathon, which are nearly if not quite the same which I made
to the wise woman when she questioned me: I think that this will be
the easiest way, and I shall take both parts myself as well as I can
(compare Gorgias). As you, Agathon, suggested (supra), I must speak
first of the being and nature of Love, and then of his works. First I
said to her in nearly the same words which he used to me, that Love was
a mighty god, and likewise fair; and she proved to me as I proved to him
that, by my own showing, Love was neither fair nor good. 'What do you
mean, Diotima,' I said, 'is love then evil and foul?' 'Hush,' she cried;
'must that be foul which is not fair?' 'Certainly,' I said. 'And is that
which is not wise, ignorant? do you not see that there is a mean between
wisdom and ignorance?' 'And what may that be?' I said. 'Right opinion,'
she replied; 'which, as you know, being incapable of giving a reason,
is not knowledge (for how can knowledge be devoid of reason? nor again,
ignorance, for neither can ignorance attain the truth), but is clearly
something which is a mean between ignorance and wisdom.' 'Quite true,'
I replied. 'Do not then insist,' she said, 'that what is not fair is of
necessity foul, or what is not good evil; or infer that because love
is not fair and good he is therefore foul and evil; for he is in a mean
between them.' 'Well,' I said, 'Love is surely admitted by all to be a
great god.' 'By those who know or by those who do not know?' 'By all.'
'And how, Socrates,' she said with a smile, 'can Love be acknowledged to
be a great god by those who say that he is not a god at all?' 'And who
are they?' I said. 'You and I are two of them,' she replied. 'How can
that be?' I said. 'It is quite intelligible,' she replied; 'for you
yourself would acknowledge that the gods are happy and fair--of course
you would--would you dare to say that any god was not?' 'Certainly not,'
I replied. 'And you mean by the happy, those who are the possessors of
things good or fair?' 'Yes.' 'And you admitted that Love, because he
was in want, desires those good and fair things of which he is in want?'
'Yes, I did.' 'But how can he be a god who has no portion in what is
either good or fair?' 'Impossible.' 'Then you see that you also deny the
divinity of Love.'
'What then is Love?' I asked; 'Is he mortal?' 'No.' 'What then?' 'As in
the former instance, he is neither mortal nor immortal, but in a mean
between the two.' 'What is he, Diotima?' 'He is a great spirit (daimon),
and like all spirits he is intermediate between the divine and the
mortal.' 'And what,' I said, 'is his power?' 'He interprets,' she
replied, 'between gods and men, conveying and taking across to the gods
the prayers and sacrifices of men, and to men the commands and replies
of the gods; he is the mediator who spans the chasm which divides them,
and therefore in him all is bound together, and through him the arts of
the prophet and the priest, their sacrifices and mysteries and charms,
and all prophecy and incantation, find their way. For God mingles not
with man; but through Love all the intercourse and converse of God
with man, whether awake or asleep, is carried on. The wisdom which
understands this is spiritual; all other wisdom, such as that of arts
and handicrafts, is mean and vulgar. Now these spirits or intermediate
powers are many and diverse, and one of them is Love.' 'And who,' I
said, 'was his father, and who his mother?' 'The tale,' she said, 'will
take time; nevertheless I will tell you. On the birthday of Aphrodite
there was a feast of the gods, at which the god Poros or Plenty, who is
the son of Metis or Discretion, was one of the guests. When the feast
was over, Penia or Poverty, as the manner is on such occasions, came
about the doors to beg. Now Plenty who was the worse for nectar (there
was no wine in those days), went into the garden of Zeus and fell into
a heavy sleep, and Poverty considering her own straitened circumstances,
plotted to have a child by him, and accordingly she lay down at his side
and conceived Love, who partly because he is naturally a lover of the
beautiful, and because Aphrodite is herself beautiful, and also because
he was born on her birthday, is her follower and attendant. And as his
parentage is, so also are his fortunes. In the first place he is always
poor, and anything but tender and fair, as the many imagine him; and he
is rough and squalid, and has no shoes, nor a house to dwell in; on the
bare earth exposed he lies under the open heaven, in the streets, or at
the doors of houses, taking his rest; and like his mother he is always
in distress. Like his father too, whom he also partly resembles, he is
always plotting against the fair and good; he is bold, enterprising,
strong, a mighty hunter, always weaving some intrigue or other, keen in
the pursuit of wisdom, fertile in resources; a philosopher at all times,
terrible as an enchanter, sorcerer, sophist. He is by nature neither
mortal nor immortal, but alive and flourishing at one moment when he is
in plenty, and dead at another moment, and again alive by reason of his
father's nature. But that which is always flowing in is always flowing
out, and so he is never in want and never in wealth; and, further, he
is in a mean between ignorance and knowledge. The truth of the matter
is this: No god is a philosopher or seeker after wisdom, for he is wise
already; nor does any man who is wise seek after wisdom. Neither do the
ignorant seek after wisdom. For herein is the evil of ignorance, that he
who is neither good nor wise is nevertheless satisfied with himself:
he has no desire for that of which he feels no want.' 'But who then,
Diotima,' I said, 'are the lovers of wisdom, if they are neither the
wise nor the foolish?' 'A child may answer that question,' she replied;
'they are those who are in a mean between the two; Love is one of them.
For wisdom is a most beautiful thing, and Love is of the beautiful; and
therefore Love is also a philosopher or lover of wisdom, and being a
lover of wisdom is in a mean between the wise and the ignorant. And of
this too his birth is the cause; for his father is wealthy and wise, and
his mother poor and foolish. Such, my dear Socrates, is the nature of
the spirit Love. The error in your conception of him was very natural,
and as I imagine from what you say, has arisen out of a confusion of
love and the beloved, which made you think that love was all beautiful.
For the beloved is the truly beautiful, and delicate, and perfect, and
blessed; but the principle of love is of another nature, and is such as
I have described.'
I said, 'O thou stranger woman, thou sayest well; but, assuming Love to
be such as you say, what is the use of him to men?' 'That, Socrates,'
she replied, 'I will attempt to unfold: of his nature and birth I have
already spoken; and you acknowledge that love is of the beautiful. But
some one will say: Of the beautiful in what, Socrates and Diotima?--or
rather let me put the question more clearly, and ask: When a man loves
the beautiful, what does he desire?' I answered her 'That the beautiful
may be his.' 'Still,' she said, 'the answer suggests a further question:
What is given by the possession of beauty?' 'To what you have asked,'
I replied, 'I have no answer ready.' 'Then,' she said, 'let me put the
word "good" in the place of the beautiful, and repeat the question once
more: If he who loves loves the good, what is it then that he loves?'
'The possession of the good,' I said. 'And what does he gain who
possesses the good?' 'Happiness,' I replied; 'there is less difficulty
in answering that question.' 'Yes,' she said, 'the happy are made happy
by the acquisition of good things. Nor is there any need to ask why a
man desires happiness; the answer is already final.' 'You are right.'
I said. 'And is this wish and this desire common to all? and do all men
always desire their own good, or only some men?--what say you?' 'All
men,' I replied; 'the desire is common to all.' 'Why, then,' she
rejoined, 'are not all men, Socrates, said to love, but only some of
them? whereas you say that all men are always loving the same things.'
'I myself wonder,' I said, 'why this is.' 'There is nothing to wonder
at,' she replied; 'the reason is that one part of love is separated
off and receives the name of the whole, but the other parts have other
names.' 'Give an illustration,' I said. She answered me as follows:
'There is poetry, which, as you know, is complex and manifold. All
creation or passage of non-being into being is poetry or making, and the
processes of all art are creative; and the masters of arts are all poets
or makers.' 'Very true.' 'Still,' she said, 'you know that they are not
called poets, but have other names; only that portion of the art which
is separated off from the rest, and is concerned with music and metre,
is termed poetry, and they who possess poetry in this sense of the word
are called poets.' 'Very true,' I said. 'And the same holds of love. For
you may say generally that all desire of good and happiness is only the
great and subtle power of love; but they who are drawn towards him
by any other path, whether the path of money-making or gymnastics or
philosophy, are not called lovers--the name of the whole is appropriated
to those whose affection takes one form only--they alone are said to
love, or to be lovers.' 'I dare say,' I replied, 'that you are right.'
'Yes,' she added, 'and you hear people say that lovers are seeking for
their other half; but I say that they are seeking neither for the half
of themselves, nor for the whole, unless the half or the whole be also a
good. And they will cut off their own hands and feet and cast them away,
if they are evil; for they love not what is their own, unless perchance
there be some one who calls what belongs to him the good, and what
belongs to another the evil. For there is nothing which men love but
the good. Is there anything?' 'Certainly, I should say, that there is
nothing.' 'Then,' she said, 'the simple truth is, that men love the
good.' 'Yes,' I said. 'To which must be added that they love the
possession of the good?' 'Yes, that must be added.' 'And not only the
possession, but the everlasting possession of the good?' 'That must be
added too.' 'Then love,' she said, 'may be described generally as the
love of the everlasting possession of the good?' 'That is most true.'
'Then if this be the nature of love, can you tell me further,' she said,
'what is the manner of the pursuit? what are they doing who show all
this eagerness and heat which is called love? and what is the object
which they have in view? Answer me.' 'Nay, Diotima,' I replied, 'if I
had known, I should not have wondered at your wisdom, neither should I
have come to learn from you about this very matter.' 'Well,' she said,
'I will teach you:--The object which they have in view is birth in
beauty, whether of body or soul.' 'I do not understand you,' I said;
'the oracle requires an explanation.' 'I will make my meaning clearer,'
she replied. 'I mean to say, that all men are bringing to the birth in
their bodies and in their souls. There is a certain age at which human
nature is desirous of procreation--procreation which must be in beauty
and not in deformity; and this procreation is the union of man and
woman, and is a divine thing; for conception and generation are an
immortal principle in the mortal creature, and in the inharmonious they
can never be. But the deformed is always inharmonious with the divine,
and the beautiful harmonious. Beauty, then, is the destiny or goddess
of parturition who presides at birth, and therefore, when approaching
beauty, the conceiving power is propitious, and diffusive, and benign,
and begets and bears fruit: at the sight of ugliness she frowns and
contracts and has a sense of pain, and turns away, and shrivels up, and
not without a pang refrains from conception. And this is the reason why,
when the hour of conception arrives, and the teeming nature is full,
there is such a flutter and ecstasy about beauty whose approach is the
alleviation of the pain of travail. For love, Socrates, is not, as you
imagine, the love of the beautiful only.' 'What then?' 'The love of
generation and of birth in beauty.' 'Yes,' I said. 'Yes, indeed,' she
replied. 'But why of generation?' 'Because to the mortal creature,
generation is a sort of eternity and immortality,' she replied; 'and if,
as has been already admitted, love is of the everlasting possession
of the good, all men will necessarily desire immortality together with
good: Wherefore love is of immortality.'
All this she taught me at various times when she spoke of love. And I
remember her once saying to me, 'What is the cause, Socrates, of love,
and the attendant desire? See you not how all animals, birds, as well as
beasts, in their desire of procreation, are in agony when they take the
infection of love, which begins with the desire of union; whereto is
added the care of offspring, on whose behalf the weakest are ready to
battle against the strongest even to the uttermost, and to die for them,
and will let themselves be tormented with hunger or suffer anything
in order to maintain their young. Man may be supposed to act thus from
reason; but why should animals have these passionate feelings? Can you
tell me why?' Again I replied that I did not know. She said to me: 'And
do you expect ever to become a master in the art of love, if you do not
know this?' 'But I have told you already, Diotima, that my ignorance is
the reason why I come to you; for I am conscious that I want a teacher;
tell me then the cause of this and of the other mysteries of love.'
'Marvel not,' she said, 'if you believe that love is of the immortal,
as we have several times acknowledged; for here again, and on the same
principle too, the mortal nature is seeking as far as is possible to be
everlasting and immortal: and this is only to be attained by generation,
because generation always leaves behind a new existence in the place of
the old. Nay even in the life of the same individual there is succession
and not absolute unity: a man is called the same, and yet in the short
interval which elapses between youth and age, and in which every animal
is said to have life and identity, he is undergoing a perpetual process
of loss and reparation--hair, flesh, bones, blood, and the whole body
are always changing. Which is true not only of the body, but also of the
soul, whose habits, tempers, opinions, desires, pleasures, pains, fears,
never remain the same in any one of us, but are always coming and going;
and equally true of knowledge, and what is still more surprising to us
mortals, not only do the sciences in general spring up and decay,
so that in respect of them we are never the same; but each of them
individually experiences a like change. For what is implied in the word
"recollection," but the departure of knowledge, which is ever being
forgotten, and is renewed and preserved by recollection, and appears to
be the same although in reality new, according to that law of succession
by which all mortal things are preserved, not absolutely the same, but
by substitution, the old worn-out mortality leaving another new and
similar existence behind--unlike the divine, which is always the same
and not another? And in this way, Socrates, the mortal body, or mortal
anything, partakes of immortality; but the immortal in another way.
Marvel not then at the love which all men have of their offspring; for
that universal love and interest is for the sake of immortality.'
I was astonished at her words, and said: 'Is this really true, O
thou wise Diotima?' And she answered with all the authority of an
accomplished sophist: 'Of that, Socrates, you may be assured;--think
only of the ambition of men, and you will wonder at the senselessness of
their ways, unless you consider how they are stirred by the love of an
immortality of fame. They are ready to run all risks greater far than
they would have run for their children, and to spend money and undergo
any sort of toil, and even to die, for the sake of leaving behind them
a name which shall be eternal. Do you imagine that Alcestis would have
died to save Admetus, or Achilles to avenge Patroclus, or your own
Codrus in order to preserve the kingdom for his sons, if they had not
imagined that the memory of their virtues, which still survives among
us, would be immortal? Nay,' she said, 'I am persuaded that all men do
all things, and the better they are the more they do them, in hope of
the glorious fame of immortal virtue; for they desire the immortal.
'Those who are pregnant in the body only, betake themselves to women and
beget children--this is the character of their love; their offspring,
as they hope, will preserve their memory and giving them the blessedness
and immortality which they desire in the future. But souls which are
pregnant--for there certainly are men who are more creative in their
souls than in their bodies--conceive that which is proper for the soul
to conceive or contain. And what are these conceptions?--wisdom and
virtue in general. And such creators are poets and all artists who are
deserving of the name inventor. But the greatest and fairest sort of
wisdom by far is that which is concerned with the ordering of states
and families, and which is called temperance and justice. And he who in
youth has the seed of these implanted in him and is himself inspired,
when he comes to maturity desires to beget and generate. He wanders
about seeking beauty that he may beget offspring--for in deformity he
will beget nothing--and naturally embraces the beautiful rather than
the deformed body; above all when he finds a fair and noble and
well-nurtured soul, he embraces the two in one person, and to such an
one he is full of speech about virtue and the nature and pursuits of a
good man; and he tries to educate him; and at the touch of the beautiful
which is ever present to his memory, even when absent, he brings forth
that which he had conceived long before, and in company with him tends
that which he brings forth; and they are married by a far nearer tie and
have a closer friendship than those who beget mortal children, for the
children who are their common offspring are fairer and more immortal.
Who, when he thinks of Homer and Hesiod and other great poets, would
not rather have their children than ordinary human ones? Who would not
emulate them in the creation of children such as theirs, which have
preserved their memory and given them everlasting glory? Or who would
not have such children as Lycurgus left behind him to be the saviours,
not only of Lacedaemon, but of Hellas, as one may say? There is Solon,
too, who is the revered father of Athenian laws; and many others there
are in many other places, both among Hellenes and barbarians, who have
given to the world many noble works, and have been the parents of virtue
of every kind; and many temples have been raised in their honour for the
sake of children such as theirs; which were never raised in honour of
any one, for the sake of his mortal children.
'These are the lesser mysteries of love, into which even you, Socrates,
may enter; to the greater and more hidden ones which are the crown of
these, and to which, if you pursue them in a right spirit, they will
lead, I know not whether you will be able to attain. But I will do my
utmost to inform you, and do you follow if you can. For he who would
proceed aright in this matter should begin in youth to visit beautiful
forms; and first, if he be guided by his instructor aright, to love one
such form only--out of that he should create fair thoughts; and soon
he will of himself perceive that the beauty of one form is akin to the
beauty of another; and then if beauty of form in general is his pursuit,
how foolish would he be not to recognize that the beauty in every form
is and the same! And when he perceives this he will abate his violent
love of the one, which he will despise and deem a small thing, and
will become a lover of all beautiful forms; in the next stage he will
consider that the beauty of the mind is more honourable than the beauty
of the outward form. So that if a virtuous soul have but a little
comeliness, he will be content to love and tend him, and will search out
and bring to the birth thoughts which may improve the young, until he
is compelled to contemplate and see the beauty of institutions and laws,
and to understand that the beauty of them all is of one family, and that
personal beauty is a trifle; and after laws and institutions he will
go on to the sciences, that he may see their beauty, being not like
a servant in love with the beauty of one youth or man or institution,
himself a slave mean and narrow-minded, but drawing towards and
contemplating the vast sea of beauty, he will create many fair and noble
thoughts and notions in boundless love of wisdom; until on that shore he
grows and waxes strong, and at last the vision is revealed to him of
a single science, which is the science of beauty everywhere. To this I
will proceed; please to give me your very best attention:
'He who has been instructed thus far in the things of love, and who has
learned to see the beautiful in due order and succession, when he comes
toward the end will suddenly perceive a nature of wondrous beauty (and
this, Socrates, is the final cause of all our former toils)--a nature
which in the first place is everlasting, not growing and decaying, or
waxing and waning; secondly, not fair in one point of view and foul
in another, or at one time or in one relation or at one place fair, at
another time or in another relation or at another place foul, as if fair
to some and foul to others, or in the likeness of a face or hands or any
other part of the bodily frame, or in any form of speech or knowledge,
or existing in any other being, as for example, in an animal, or
in heaven, or in earth, or in any other place; but beauty absolute,
separate, simple, and everlasting, which without diminution and without
increase, or any change, is imparted to the ever-growing and perishing
beauties of all other things. He who from these ascending under the
influence of true love, begins to perceive that beauty, is not far from
the end. And the true order of going, or being led by another, to the
things of love, is to begin from the beauties of earth and mount upwards
for the sake of that other beauty, using these as steps only, and from
one going on to two, and from two to all fair forms, and from fair forms
to fair practices, and from fair practices to fair notions, until from
fair notions he arrives at the notion of absolute beauty, and at last
knows what the essence of beauty is. This, my dear Socrates,' said the
stranger of Mantineia, 'is that life above all others which man should
live, in the contemplation of beauty absolute; a beauty which if you
once beheld, you would see not to be after the measure of gold, and
garments, and fair boys and youths, whose presence now entrances you;
and you and many a one would be content to live seeing them only and
conversing with them without meat or drink, if that were possible--you
only want to look at them and to be with them. But what if man had eyes
to see the true beauty--the divine beauty, I mean, pure and clear and
unalloyed, not clogged with the pollutions of mortality and all the
colours and vanities of human life--thither looking, and holding
converse with the true beauty simple and divine? Remember how in that
communion only, beholding beauty with the eye of the mind, he will be
enabled to bring forth, not images of beauty, but realities (for he
has hold not of an image but of a reality), and bringing forth and
nourishing true virtue to become the friend of God and be immortal, if
mortal man may. Would that be an ignoble life?'
Such, Phaedrus--and I speak not only to you, but to all of you--were the
words of Diotima; and I am persuaded of their truth. And being persuaded
of them, I try to persuade others, that in the attainment of this
end human nature will not easily find a helper better than love: And
therefore, also, I say that every man ought to honour him as I myself
honour him, and walk in his ways, and exhort others to do the same,
and praise the power and spirit of love according to the measure of my
ability now and ever.
The words which I have spoken, you, Phaedrus, may call an encomium of
love, or anything else which you please.
When Socrates had done speaking, the company applauded, and Aristophanes
was beginning to say something in answer to the allusion which Socrates
had made to his own speech, when suddenly there was a great knocking at
the door of the house, as of revellers, and the sound of a flute-girl
was heard. Agathon told the attendants to go and see who were the
intruders. 'If they are friends of ours,' he said, 'invite them in, but
if not, say that the drinking is over.' A little while afterwards they
heard the voice of Alcibiades resounding in the court; he was in a great
state of intoxication, and kept roaring and shouting 'Where is Agathon?
Lead me to Agathon,' and at length, supported by the flute-girl and some
of his attendants, he found his way to them. 'Hail, friends,' he said,
appearing at the door crowned with a massive garland of ivy and violets,
his head flowing with ribands. 'Will you have a very drunken man as
a companion of your revels? Or shall I crown Agathon, which was my
intention in coming, and go away? For I was unable to come yesterday,
and therefore I am here to-day, carrying on my head these ribands, that
taking them from my own head, I may crown the head of this fairest and
wisest of men, as I may be allowed to call him. Will you laugh at me
because I am drunk? Yet I know very well that I am speaking the truth,
although you may laugh. But first tell me; if I come in shall we have
the understanding of which I spoke (supra Will you have a very drunken
man? etc.)? Will you drink with me or not?'
The company were vociferous in begging that he would take his place
among them, and Agathon specially invited him. Thereupon he was led in
by the people who were with him; and as he was being led, intending to
crown Agathon, he took the ribands from his own head and held them in
front of his eyes; he was thus prevented from seeing Socrates, who made
way for him, and Alcibiades took the vacant place between Agathon and
Socrates, and in taking the place he embraced Agathon and crowned him.
Take off his sandals, said Agathon, and let him make a third on the same
couch.
By all means; but who makes the third partner in our revels? said
Alcibiades, turning round and starting up as he caught sight of
Socrates. By Heracles, he said, what is this? here is Socrates always
lying in wait for me, and always, as his way is, coming out at all sorts
of unsuspected places: and now, what have you to say for yourself, and
why are you lying here, where I perceive that you have contrived to find
a place, not by a joker or lover of jokes, like Aristophanes, but by the
fairest of the company?
Socrates turned to Agathon and said: I must ask you to protect me,
Agathon; for the passion of this man has grown quite a serious matter to
me. Since I became his admirer I have never been allowed to speak to
any other fair one, or so much as to look at them. If I do, he goes wild
with envy and jealousy, and not only abuses me but can hardly keep his
hands off me, and at this moment he may do me some harm. Please to see
to this, and either reconcile me to him, or, if he attempts violence,
protect me, as I am in bodily fear of his mad and passionate attempts.
There can never be reconciliation between you and me, said Alcibiades;
but for the present I will defer your chastisement. And I must beg
you, Agathon, to give me back some of the ribands that I may crown the
marvellous head of this universal despot--I would not have him complain
of me for crowning you, and neglecting him, who in conversation is the
conqueror of all mankind; and this not only once, as you were the day
before yesterday, but always. Whereupon, taking some of the ribands, he
crowned Socrates, and again reclined.
Then he said: You seem, my friends, to be sober, which is a thing not to
be endured; you must drink--for that was the agreement under which I
was admitted--and I elect myself master of the feast until you are
well drunk. Let us have a large goblet, Agathon, or rather, he said,
addressing the attendant, bring me that wine-cooler. The wine-cooler
which had caught his eye was a vessel holding more than two quarts--this
he filled and emptied, and bade the attendant fill it again for
Socrates. Observe, my friends, said Alcibiades, that this ingenious
trick of mine will have no effect on Socrates, for he can drink any
quantity of wine and not be at all nearer being drunk. Socrates drank
the cup which the attendant filled for him.
Eryximachus said: What is this, Alcibiades? Are we to have neither
conversation nor singing over our cups; but simply to drink as if we
were thirsty?
Alcibiades replied: Hail, worthy son of a most wise and worthy sire!
The same to you, said Eryximachus; but what shall we do?
That I leave to you, said Alcibiades.
'The wise physician skilled our wounds to heal (from Pope's Homer, Il.)'
shall prescribe and we will obey. What do you want?
Well, said Eryximachus, before you appeared we had passed a resolution
that each one of us in turn should make a speech in praise of love, and
as good a one as he could: the turn was passed round from left to right;
and as all of us have spoken, and you have not spoken but have well
drunken, you ought to speak, and then impose upon Socrates any task
which you please, and he on his right hand neighbour, and so on.
That is good, Eryximachus, said Alcibiades; and yet the comparison of
a drunken man's speech with those of sober men is hardly fair; and
I should like to know, sweet friend, whether you really believe what
Socrates was just now saying; for I can assure you that the very reverse
is the fact, and that if I praise any one but himself in his presence,
whether God or man, he will hardly keep his hands off me.
For shame, said Socrates.
Hold your tongue, said Alcibiades, for by Poseidon, there is no one else
whom I will praise when you are of the company.
Well then, said Eryximachus, if you like praise Socrates.
What do you think, Eryximachus? said Alcibiades: shall I attack him and
inflict the punishment before you all?
What are you about? said Socrates; are you going to raise a laugh at my
expense? Is that the meaning of your praise?