_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 report 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 who 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 highly 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 better 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 fond 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.”
-----
Footnote 117:
Youth.
-----
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 amazed. 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 understand 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 have 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.
-----
Footnote 118:
See before, § 3 and 4.
-----
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, that so his friend, who heretofore
appeared to him to be wise, may now appear still more so.
-----
Footnote 119:
There is here a play on the words λίγειαι “tuneful,” and Λιγύων
“Ligyans,” which cannot be retained in an English version.
-----
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 possesses 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?
-----
Footnote 120:
I have followed Stallbaum in omitting the words ἐῤῥωμένως and
νικήσασα, but still fear that I have failed to convey the full meaning
of this difficult and corrupt passage.
-----
_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 as 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 respect 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
of, 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
good will, but like food for the sake of repletion, “as wolves love a
lamb, so lovers love a boy.”
-----
Footnote 121:
In allusion to a game among children, in which a shell, white on one
side and black on the other, was thrown up into the air, and according
as either side fell uppermost, one set of playmates ran off and the
other pursued, or vice versa.
-----
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 not
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?