The Internet Classics Archive | Symposium by Plato

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Concerning the things about which you ask to be informed I believe
that I am not ill-prepared with an answer. For the day before yesterday
I was coming from my own home at Phalerum to the city, and one of my acquaintance,
who had caught a sight of me from behind, hind, out playfully in the distance,
said: Apollodorus, O thou Phalerian man, halt! So I did as I was bid; and
then he said, I was looking for you, Apollodorus, only just now, that I
might ask you about the speeches in praise of love, which were delivered
by Socrates, Alcibiades, and others, at Agathon’s supper. Phoenix, the
son of Philip, told another person who told me of them; his narrative was
very indistinct, but he said that you knew, and I wish that you would give
me an account of them. Who, if not you, should be the reporter of the words
of your friend? And first tell me, he said, were you present at this
meeting?

Your informant, Glaucon, I said, must have been very indistinct
indeed, if you imagine that the occasion was recent; or that I could have
been of the party.

Why, yes, he replied, I thought so.

Impossible: I said. Are you ignorant that for many years
Agathon has not resided at Athens; and not three have elapsed since I became
acquainted with Socrates, and have made it my daily business to know all
that he says and does. There was a time when I was running about the world,
fancying myself to be well employed, but I was really a most wretched thing,
no better than you are now. I thought that I ought to do anything rather
than be a philosopher.

Well, he said, jesting apart, tell me when the meeting
occurred.

In our boyhood, I replied, when Agathon won the prize with his first
tragedy, on the day after that on which he and his chorus offered the sacrifice
of victory.

Then it must have been a long while ago, he said; and who told
you-did Socrates?

No indeed, I replied, but the same person who told Phoenix;-he
was a little fellow, who never wore any shoes Aristodemus, of the deme
of Cydathenaeum. He had been at Agathon’s feast; and I think that in those
days there was no one who was a more devoted admirer of Socrates. Moreover,
I have asked Socrates about the truth of some parts of his narrative, and
he confirmed them. Then, said Glaucon, let us have the tale over again;
is not the road to Athens just made for conversation? And so we walked,
and talked of the discourses on love; and therefore, as I said at first,
I am not ill-prepared to comply with your request, and will have another
rehearsal of them if you like. For to speak or to hear others speak of
philosophy always gives me the greatest pleasure, to say nothing of the
profit. But when I hear another strain, especially that of you rich men
and traders, such conversation displeases me; and I pity you who are my
companions, because you think that you are doing something when in reality
you are doing nothing. And I dare say that you pity me in return, whom
you regard as an unhappy creature, and very probably you are right. But
I certainly know of you what you only think of me-there is the
difference.

Companion. I see, Apollodorus, that you are just the same-always
speaking evil of yourself, and of others; and I do believe that you pity
all mankind, with the exception of Socrates, yourself first of all, true
in this to your old name, which, however deserved I know how you acquired,
of Apollodorus the madman; for you are always raging against yourself and
everybody but Socrates.

Apollodorus. Yes, friend, and the reason why I am said to
be mad, and out of my wits, is just because I have these notions of myself
and you; no other evidence is required.

Com. No more of that, Apollodorus; but let me renew my request
that you would repeat the conversation.

Apoll. Well, the tale of love was on this wise:-But perhaps
I had better begin at the beginning, and endeavour to give you the exact
words of Aristodemus:

He said that he met Socrates fresh from the bath and sandalled;
and as the sight of the sandals was unusual, he asked him whither he was
going that he had been converted into such a beau:-

To a banquet at Agathon’s, he replied, whose invitation to his
sacrifice of victory I refused yesterday, fearing a crowd, but promising
that I would come to-day instead; and so I have put on my finery, because
he is such a fine man. What say you to going with me
unasked?

I will do as you bid me, I replied.

Follow then, he said, and let us demolish the proverb:

To the feasts of inferior men the good unbidden go; instead of
which our proverb will run:-

To the feasts of the good the good unbidden go; and this alteration
may be supported by the authority of Homer himself, who not only demolishes
but literally outrages the proverb. For, after picturing Agamemnon as the
most valiant of men, he makes Menelaus, who is but a fainthearted warrior,
come unbidden to the banquet of Agamemnon, who is feasting and offering
sacrifices, not the better to the worse, but the worse to the
better.

I rather fear, Socrates, said Aristodemus, lest this may still
be my case; and that, like Menelaus in Homer, I shall be the inferior person,
who

To the leasts of the wise unbidden goes. But I shall say that I
was bidden of you, and then you will have to make an
excuse.

Two going together, he replied, in Homeric fashion, one or other
of them may invent an excuse by the way.

This was the style of their conversation as they went along. Socrates
dropped behind in a fit of abstraction, and desired Aristodemus, who was
waiting, to go on before him. When he reached the house of Agathon he found
the doors wide open, and a comical thing happened. A servant coming out
met him, and led him at once into the banqueting-hall in which the guests
were reclining, for the banquet was about to begin. Welcome, Aristodemus,
said Agathon, as soon as he appeared-you are just in time to sup with us;
if you come on any other matter put it off, and make one of us, as I was
looking for you yesterday and meant to have asked you, if I could have
found you. But what have you done with Socrates?

I turned round, but Socrates was nowhere to be seen; and I had
to explain that he had been with me a moment before, and that I came by
his invitation to the supper.

You were quite right in coming, said Agathon; but where is he
himself?

He was behind me just now, as I entered, he said, and I cannot
think what has become of him.

Go and look for him, boy, said Agathon, and bring him in; and do
you, Aristodemus, meanwhile take the place by Eryximachus.

The servant then assisted him to wash, and he lay down, and presently
another servant came in and reported that our friend Socrates had retired
into the portico of the neighbouring house. “There he is fixed,” said he,
“and when I call to him he will not stir.”

How strange, said Agathon; then you must call him again, and keep
calling him.

Let him alone, said my informant; he has a way of stopping anywhere
and losing himself without any reason. I believe that he will soon appear;
do not therefore disturb him.

Well, if you think so, I will leave him, said Agathon. And then,
turning to the servants, he added, “Let us have supper without waiting
for him. Serve up whatever you please, for there; is no one to give you
orders; hitherto I have never left you to yourselves. But on this occasion
imagine that you art our hosts, and that I and the company are your guests;
treat us well, and then we shall commend you.” After this, supper was served,
but still no-Socrates; and during the meal Agathon several times expressed
a wish to send for him, but Aristodemus objected; and at last when the
feast was about half over-for the fit, as usual, was not of long duration-Socrates
entered; Agathon, who was reclining alone at the end of the table, begged
that he would take the place next to him; that “I may touch you,” he said,
“and have the benefit of that wise thought which came into your mind in
the portico, and is now in your possession; for I am certain that you would
not have come away until you had found what you sought.”

How I wish, said Socrates, taking his place as he was desired,
that wisdom could be infused by touch, out of the fuller the emptier man,
as water runs through wool out of a fuller cup into an emptier one; if
that were so, how greatly should I value the privilege of reclining at
your side! For you would have filled me full with a stream of wisdom plenteous
and fair; whereas my own is of a very mean and questionable sort, no better
than a dream. But yours is bright and full of promise, and was manifested
forth in all the splendour of youth the day before yesterday, in the presence
of more than thirty thousand Hellenes.

You are mocking, Socrates, said Agathon, and ere long you and I
will have to determine who bears off the palm of wisdom-of this Dionysus
shall be the judge; but at present you are better occupied with
supper.

Socrates took his place on the couch, and supped with the rest;
and then libations were offered, and after a hymn had been sung to the
god, and there had been the usual ceremonies, they were about to commence
drinking, when Pausanias said, And now, my friends, how can we drink with
least injury to ourselves? I can assure you that I feel severely the effect
of yesterday’s potations, and must have time to recover; and I suspect
that most of you are in the same predicament, for you were of the party
yesterday. Consider then: How can the drinking be made
easiest?

I entirely agree, said Aristophanes, that we should, by all means,
avoid hard drinking, for I was myself one of those who were yesterday drowned
in drink.

I think that you are right, said Eryximachus, the son of Acumenus;
but I should still like to hear one other person speak: Is Agathon able
to drink hard?

I am not equal to it, said Agathon.

Then, the Eryximachus, the weak heads like myself, Aristodemus, Phaedrus,
and others who never can drink, are fortunate in finding that the stronger
ones are not in a drinking mood. (I do not include Socrates, who is able
either to drink or to abstain, and will not mind, whichever we do.) Well,
as of none of the company seem disposed to drink much, I may be forgiven
for saying, as a physician, that drinking deep is a bad practice, which
I never follow, if I can help, and certainly do not recommend to another,
least of all to any one who still feels the effects of yesterday’s
carouse.

I always do what you advise, and especially what you prescribe
as a physician, rejoined Phaedrus the Myrrhinusian, and the rest of the
company, if they are wise, will do the same.

It was agreed that drinking was not to be the order of the day,
but that they were all to drink only so much as they
pleased.

Then, said Eryximachus, as you are all agreed that drinking is
to be voluntary, and that there is to be no compulsion, I move, in the
next place, that the flute-girl, who has just made her appearance, be told
to go away and play to herself, or, if she likes, to the women who are
within. To-day let us have conversation instead; and, if you will allow
me, I will tell you what sort of conversation. This proposal having been
accepted, Eryximachus proceeded as follows:-

I will begin, he said, after the manner of Melanippe in
Euripides,

Not mine the word which I am about to speak, but that of Phaedrus.
For often he says to me in an indignant tone: “What a strange thing it
is, Eryximachus, that, whereas other gods have poems and hymns made in
their honour, the great and glorious god, Love, has no encomiast among
all the poets who are so many. There are the worthy sophists too-the excellent
Prodicus for example, who have descanted in prose on the virtues of Heracles
and other heroes; and, what is still more extraordinary, I have met with
a philosophical work in which the utility of salt has been made the theme
of an eloquent discourse; and many other like things have had a like honour
bestowed upon them. And only to think that there should have been an eager
interest created about them, and yet that to this day no one has ever dared
worthily to hymn Love’s praises! So entirely has this great deity been
neglected.” Now in this Phaedrus seems to me to be quite right, and therefore
I want to offer him a contribution; also I think that at the present moment
we who are here assembled cannot do better than honour the. god Love. If
you agree with me, there will be no lack of conversation; for I mean to
propose that each of us in turn, going from left to right, shall make a
speech in honour of Love. Let him give us the best which he can; and Phaedrus,
because he is sitting first on the left hand, and because he is the father
of the thought, shall begin.

No one will vote against you, Eryximachus, said Socrates. How can
I oppose your motion, who profess to understand nothing but matters of
love; nor, I presume, will Agathon and Pausanias; and there can be no doubt
of Aristophanes, whose whole concern is with Dionysus and Aphrodite; nor
will any one disagree of those whom I, see around me. The proposal, as
I am aware, may seem rather hard upon us whose place is last; but we shall
be contented if we hear some good speeches first. Let Phaedrus begin the
praise of Love, and good luck to him. All the company expressed their assent,
and desired him to do as Socrates bade him.

Aristodemus did not recollect all that was said, nor do I recollect
all that he related to me; but I will tell you what I thought most worthy
of remembrance, and what the chief speakers said.

Phaedrus began by affirming that love is a mighty god, and wonderful
among gods and men, but especially wonderful in his birth. For he is the
eldest of the gods, which is an honour to him; and a proof of his claim
to this honour is, that of his parents there is no memorial; neither poet
nor prose-writer has ever affirmed that he had any. As Hesiod
says:

First Chaos came, and then broad-bosomed Earth,

The everlasting seat of all that is,

And Love. In other words, after Chaos, the Earth and Love, these two,
came into being. Also Parmenides sings of Generation:

First in the train of gods, he fashioned Love. And Acusilaus agrees
with Hesiod. Thus numerous are the witnesses who acknowledge Love to be
the eldest of the gods. And not only is he the eldest, he is also the source
of the greatest benefits to us. For I know not any greater blessing to
a young man who is beginning life than a virtuous lover or to the lover
than a beloved youth. For the principle which ought to be the guide of
men who would nobly live at principle, I say, neither kindred, nor honour,
nor wealth, nor any other motive is able to implant so well as love. Of
what am I speaking? Of the sense of honour and dishonour, without which
neither states nor individuals ever do any good or great work. And I say
that a lover who is detected in doing any dishonourable act, or submitting
through cowardice when any dishonour is done to him by another, will be
more pained at being detected by his beloved than at being seen by his
father, or by his companions, or by any one else. The beloved too, when
he is found in any disgraceful situation, has the same feeling about his
lover. And if there were only some way of contriving that a state or an
army should be made up of lovers and their loves, they would be the very
best governors of their own city, abstaining from all dishonour, and emulating
one another in honour; and when fighting at each other’s side, although
a mere handful, they would overcome the world. For what lover would not
choose rather to be seen by all mankind than by his beloved, either when
abandoning his post or throwing away his arms? He would be ready to die
a thousand deaths rather than endure this. Or who would desert his beloved
or fail him in the hour of danger? The veriest coward would become an inspired
hero, equal to the bravest, at such a time; Love would inspire him. That
courage which, as Homer says, the god breathes into the souls of some heroes,
Love of his own nature infuses into the lover.

Love will make men dare to die for their beloved-love alone; and
women as well as men. Of this, Alcestis, the daughter of Pelias, is a monument
to all Hellas; for she was willing to lay down her life on behalf of her
husband, when no one else would, although he had a father and mother; but
the tenderness of her love so far exceeded theirs, that she made them seem
to be strangers in blood to their own son, and in name only related to
him; and so noble did this action of hers appear to the gods, as well as
to men, that among the many who have done virtuously she is one of the
very few to whom, in admiration of her noble action, they have granted
the privilege of returning alive to earth; such exceeding honour is paid
by the gods to the devotion and virtue of love. But Orpheus, the son of
Oeagrus, the harper, they sent empty away, and presented to him an apparition
only of her whom he sought, but herself they would not give up, because
he showed no spirit; he was only a harp-player, and did not-dare like Alcestis
to die for love, but was contriving how he might enter hades alive; moreover,
they afterwards caused him to suffer death at the hands of women, as the
punishment of his cowardliness. Very different was the reward of the true
love of Achilles towards his lover Patroclus-his lover and not his love
(the notion that Patroclus was the beloved one is a foolish error into
which Aeschylus has fallen, for Achilles was surely the fairer of the two,
fairer also than all the other heroes; and, as Homer informs us, he was
still beardless, and younger far). And greatly as the gods honour the virtue
of love, still the return of love on the part of the beloved to the lover
is more admired and valued and rewarded by them, for the lover is more
divine; because he is inspired by God. Now Achilles was quite aware, for
he had been told by his mother, that he might avoid death and return home,
and live to a good old age, if he abstained from slaying Hector. Nevertheless
he gave his life to revenge his friend, and dared to die, not only in his
defence, but after he was dead Wherefore the gods honoured him even above
Alcestis, and sent him to the Islands of the Blest. These are my reasons
for affirming that Love is the eldest and noblest and mightiest of the
gods; and the chiefest author and giver of virtue in life, and of happiness
after death.

This, or something like this, was the speech of Phaedrus; and some
other speeches followed which Aristodemus did not remember; the next which
he repeated was that of Pausanias. Phaedrus, he said, the argument has
not been set before us, I think, quite in the right form;-we should not
be called upon to praise Love in such an indiscriminate manner. If there
were only one Love, then what you said would be well enough; but since
there are more Loves than one,-should have begun by determining which of
them was to be the theme of our praises. I will amend this defect; and
first of all I would tell you which Love is deserving of praise, and then
try to hymn the praiseworthy one in a manner worthy of him. For we all
know that Love is inseparable from Aphrodite, and if there were only one
Aphrodite there would be only one Love; but as there are two goddesses
there must be two Loves.

And am I not right in asserting that there are two goddesses? The
elder one, having no mother, who is called the heavenly Aphrodite-she is
the daughter of Uranus; the younger, who is the daughter of Zeus and Dione-her
we call common; and the Love who is her fellow-worker is rightly named
common, as the other love is called heavenly. All the gods ought to have
praise given to them, but not without distinction of their natures; and
therefore I must try to distinguish the characters of the two Loves. Now
actions vary according to the manner of their performance. Take, for example,
that which we are now doing, drinking, singing and talking these actions
are not in themselves either good or evil, but they turn out in this or
that way according to the mode of performing them; and when well done they
are good, and when wrongly done they are evil; and in like manner not every
love, but only that which has a noble purpose, is noble and worthy of praise.
The Love who is the offspring of the common Aphrodite is essentially common,
and has no discrimination, being such as the meaner sort of men feel, and
is apt to be of women as well as of youths, and is of the body rather than
of the soul-the most foolish beings are the objects of this love which
desires only to gain an end, but never thinks of accomplishing the end
nobly, and therefore does good and evil quite indiscriminately. The goddess
who is his mother is far younger than the other, and she was born of the
union of the male and female, and partakes of both.

But the offspring of the heavenly Aphrodite is derived from a mother
in whose birth the female has no part,-she is from the male only; this
is that love which is of youths, and the goddess being older, there is
nothing of wantonness in her. Those who are inspired by this love turn
to the male, and delight in him who is the more valiant and intelligent
nature; any one may recognise the pure enthusiasts in the very character
of their attachments. For they love not boys, but intelligent, beings whose
reason is beginning to be developed, much about the time at which their
beards begin to grow. And in choosing young men to be their companions,
they mean to be faithful to them, and pass their whole life in company
with them, not to take them in their inexperience, and deceive them, and
play the fool with them, or run away from one to another of them. But the
love of young boys should be forbidden by law, because their future is
uncertain; they may turn out good or bad, either in body or soul, and much
noble enthusiasm may be thrown away upon them; in this matter the good
are a law to themselves, and the coarser sort of lovers ought to be restrained
by force; as we restrain or attempt to restrain them from fixing their
affections on women of free birth. These are the persons who bring a reproach
on love; and some have been led to deny the lawfulness of such attachments
because they see the impropriety and evil of them; for surely nothing that
is decorously and lawfully done can justly be censured.

Now here and in Lacedaemon the rules about love are perplexing,
but in most cities they are simple and easily intelligible; in Elis and
Boeotia, and in countries having no gifts of eloquence, they are very straightforward;
the law is simply in favour of these connexions, and no one, whether young
or old, has anything to say to their discredit; the reason being, as I
suppose, that they are men of few words in those parts, and therefore the
lovers do not like the trouble of pleading their suit. In Ionia and other
places, and generally in countries which are subject to the barbarians,
the custom is held to be dishonourable; loves of youths share the evil
repute in which philosophy and gymnastics are held because they are inimical
to tyranny; for the interests of rulers require that their subjects should
be poor in spirit and that there should be no strong bond of friendship
or society among them, which love, above all other motives, is likely to
inspire, as our Athenian tyrants-learned by experience; for the love of
Aristogeiton and the constancy of Harmodius had strength which undid their
power. And, therefore, the ill-repute into which these attachments have
fallen is to be ascribed to the evil condition of those who make them to
be ill-reputed; that is to say, to the self-seeking of the governors and
the cowardice of the governed; on the other hand, the indiscriminate honour
which is given to them in some countries is attributable to the laziness
of those who hold this opinion of them. In our own country a far better
principle prevails, but, as I was saying, the explanation of it is rather
perplexing. For, observe that open loves are held to be more honourable
than secret ones, and that the love of the noblest and highest, even if
their persons are less beautiful than others, is especially
honourable.

Consider, too, how great is the encouragement which all the world
gives to the lover; neither is he supposed to be doing anything dishonourable;
but if he succeeds he is praised, and if he fail he is blamed. And in the
pursuit of his love the custom of mankind allows him to do many strange
things, which philosophy would bitterly censure if they were done from
any motive of interest, or wish for office or power. He may pray, and entreat,
and supplicate, and swear, and lie on a mat at the door, and endure a slavery
worse than that of any slave-in any other case friends and enemies would
be equally ready to prevent him, but now there is no friend who will be
ashamed of him and admonish him, and no enemy will charge him with meanness
or flattery; the actions of a lover have a grace which ennobles them; and
custom has decided that they are highly commendable and that there no loss
of character in them; and, what is strangest of all, he only may swear
and forswear himself (so men say), and the gods will forgive his transgression,
for there is no such thing as a lover’s oath. Such is the entire liberty
which gods and men have allowed the lover, according to the custom which
prevails in our part of the world. From this point of view a man fairly
argues in Athens to love and to be loved is held to be a very honourable
thing. But when parents forbid their sons to talk with their lovers, and
place them under a tutor’s care, who is appointed to see to these things,
and their companions and equals cast in their teeth anything of the sort
which they may observe, and their elders refuse to silence the reprovers
and do not rebuke them-any one who reflects on all this will, on the contrary,
think that we hold these practices to be most disgraceful. But, as I was
saying at first, the truth as I imagine is, that whether such practices
are honourable or whether they are dishonourable is not a simple question;
they are honourable to him who follows them honourably, dishonourable to
him who follows them dishonourably. There is dishonour in yielding to the
evil, or in an evil manner; but there is honour in yielding to the good,
or in an honourable manner.

Evil is the vulgar lover who loves the body rather than the soul,
inasmuch as he is not even stable, because he loves a thing which is in
itself unstable, and therefore when the bloom of youth which he was desiring
is over, he takes wing and flies away, in spite of all his words and promises;
whereas the love of the noble disposition is life-long, for it becomes
one with the everlasting. The custom of our country would have both of
them proven well and truly, and would have us yield to the one sort of
lover and avoid the other, and therefore encourages some to pursue, and
others to fly; testing both the lover and beloved in contests and trials,
until they show to which of the two classes they respectively belong. And
this is the reason why, in the first place, a hasty attachment is held
to be dishonourable, because time is the true test of this as of most other
things; and secondly there is a dishonour in being overcome by the love
of money, or of wealth, or of political power, whether a man is frightened
into surrender by the loss of them, or, having experienced the benefits
of money and political corruption, is unable to rise above the seductions
of them. For none of these things are of a permanent or lasting nature;
not to mention that no generous friendship ever sprang from them. There
remains, then, only one way of honourable attachment which custom allows
in the beloved, and this is the way of virtue; for as we admitted that
any service which the lover does to him is not to be accounted flattery
or a dishonour to himself, so the beloved has one way only of voluntary
service which is not dishonourable, and this is virtuous
service.

For we have a custom, and according to our custom any one who does
service to another under the idea that he will be improved by him either
in wisdom, or, in some other particular of virtue-such a voluntary service,
I say, is not to be regarded as a dishonour, and is not open to the charge
of flattery. And these two customs, one the love of youth, and the other
the practice of philosophy and virtue in general, ought to meet in one,
and then the beloved may honourably indulge the lover. For when the lover
and beloved come together, having each of them a law, and the lover thinks
that he is right in doing any service which he can to his gracious loving
one; and the other that he is right in showing any kindness which he can
to him who is making him wise and good; the one capable of communicating
wisdom and virtue, the other seeking to acquire them with a view to education
and wisdom, when the two laws of love are fulfilled and meet in one-then,
and then only, may the beloved yield with honour to the lover. Nor when
love is of this disinterested sort is there any disgrace in being deceived,
but in every other case there is equal disgrace in being or not being deceived.
For he who is gracious to his lover under the impression that he is rich,
and is disappointed of his gains because he turns out to be poor, is disgraced
all the same: for he has done his best to show that he would give himself
up to any one’s “uses base” for the sake of money; but this is not honourable.
And on the same principle he who gives himself to a lover because he is
a good man, and in the hope that he will be improved by his company, shows
himself to be virtuous, even though the object of his affection turn out
to be a villain, and to have no virtue; and if he is deceived he has committed
a noble error. For he has proved that for his part he will do anything
for anybody with a view to virtue and improvement, than which there can
be nothing nobler. Thus noble in every case is the acceptance of another
for the sake of virtue. This is that love which is the love of the heavenly
godess, and is heavenly, and of great price to individuals and cities,
making the lover and the beloved alike eager in the work of their own improvement.
But all other loves are the offspring of the other, who is the common goddess.
To you, Phaedrus, I offer this my contribution in praise of love, which
is as good as I could make extempore.

Pausanias came to a pause-this is the balanced way in which I have
been taught by the wise to speak; and Aristodemus said that the turn of
Aristophanes was next, but either he had eaten too much, or from some other
cause he had the hiccough, and was obliged to change turns with Eryximachus
the physician, who was reclining on the couch below him. Eryximachus, he
said, you ought either to stop my hiccough, or to speak in my turn until
I have left off.

I will do both, said Eryximachus: I will speak in your turn, and
do you speak in mine; and while I am speaking let me recommend you to hold
your breath, and if after you have done so for some time the hiccough is
no better, then gargle with a little water; and if it still continues,
tickle your nose with something and sneeze; and if you sneeze once or twice,
even the most violent hiccough is sure to go. I will do as you prescribe,
said Aristophanes, and now get on.

Eryximachus spoke as follows: Seeing that Pausanias made a fair
beginning, and but a lame ending, I must endeavour to supply his deficiency.
I think that he has rightly distinguished two kinds of love. But my art
further informs me that the double love is not merely an affection of the
soul of man towards the fair, or towards anything, but is to be found in
the bodies of all animals and in productions of the earth, and I may say
in all that is; such is the conclusion which I seem to have gathered from
my own art of medicine, whence I learn how great and wonderful and universal
is the deity of love, whose empire extends over all things, divine as well
as human. And from medicine I would begin that I may do honour to my art.
There are in the human body these two kinds of love, which are confessedly
different and unlike, and being unlike, they have loves and desires which
are unlike; and the desire of the healthy is one, and the desire of the
diseased is another; and as Pausanias was just now saying that to indulge
good men is honourable, and bad men dishonourable:-so too in the body the
good and healthy elements are to be indulged, and the bad elements and
the elements of disease are not to be indulged, but discouraged. And this
is what the physician has to do, and in this the art of medicine consists:
for medicine may be regarded generally as the knowledge of the loves and
desires of the body, and how to satisfy them or not; and the best physician
is he who is able to separate fair love from foul, or to convert one into
the other; and he who knows how to eradicate and how to implant love, whichever
is required, and can reconcile the most hostile elements in the constitution
and make them loving friends, is skilful practitioner. Now the: most hostile
are the most opposite, such as hot and cold, bitter and sweet, moist and
dry, and the like. And my ancestor, Asclepius, knowing how-to implant friendship
and accord in these elements, was the creator of our art, as our friends
the poets here tell us, and I believe them; and not only medicine in every
branch but the arts of gymnastic and husbandry are under his
dominion.

Any one who pays the least attention to the subject will also perceive
that in music there is the same reconciliation of opposites; and I suppose
that this must have been the meaning, of Heracleitus, although, his words
are not accurate, for he says that is united by disunion, like the harmony-of
bow and the lyre. Now there is an absurdity saying that harmony is discord
or is composed of elements which are still in a state of discord. But what
he probably meant was, that, harmony is composed of differing notes of
higher or lower pitch which disagreed once, but are now reconciled by the
art of music; for if the higher and lower notes still disagreed, there
could be there could be no harmony-clearly not. For harmony is a symphony,
and symphony is an agreement; but an agreement of disagreements while they
disagree there cannot be; you cannot harmonize that which disagrees. In
like manner rhythm is compounded of elements short and long, once differing
and now-in accord; which accordance, as in the former instance, medicine,
so in all these other cases, music implants, making love and unison to
grow up among them; and thus music, too, is concerned with the principles
of love in their application to harmony and rhythm. Again, in the essential
nature of harmony and rhythm there is no difficulty in discerning love
which has not yet become double. But when you want to use them in actual
life, either in the composition of songs or in the correct performance
of airs or metres composed already, which latter is called education, then
the difficulty begins, and the good artist is needed. Then the old tale
has to be repeated of fair and heavenly love -the love of Urania the fair
and heavenly muse, and of the duty of accepting the temperate, and those
who are as yet intemperate only that they may become temperate, and of
preserving their love; and again, of the vulgar Polyhymnia, who must be
used with circumspection that the pleasure be enjoyed, but may not generate
licentiousness; just as in my own art it is a great matter so to regulate
the desires of the epicure that he may gratify his tastes without the attendant
evil of disease. Whence I infer that in music, in medicine, in all other
things human as which as divine, both loves ought to be noted as far as
may be, for they are both present.

The course of the seasons is also full of both these principles;
and when, as I was saying, the elements of hot and cold, moist and dry,
attain the harmonious love of one another and blend in temperance and harmony,
they bring to men, animals, and plants health and plenty, and do them no
harm; whereas the wanton love, getting the upper hand and affecting the
seasons of the year, is very destructive and injurious, being the source
of pestilence, and bringing many other kinds of diseases on animals and
plants; for hoar-frost and hail and blight spring from the excesses and
disorders of these elements of love, which to know in relation to the revolutions
of the heavenly bodies and the seasons of the year is termed astronomy.
Furthermore all sacrifices and the whole province of divination, which
is the art of communion between gods and men-these, I say, are concerned
with the preservation of the good and the cure of the evil love. For all
manner of impiety is likely to ensue if, instead of accepting and honouring
and reverencing the harmonious love in all his actions, a man honours the
other love, whether in his feelings towards gods or parents, towards the
living or the dead. Wherefore the business of divination is to see to these
loves and to heal them, and divination is the peacemaker of gods and men,
working by a knowledge of the religious or irreligious tendencies which
exist in human loves. Such is the great and mighty, or rather omnipotent
force of love in general. And the love, more especially, which is concerned
with the good, and which is perfected in company with temperance and justice,
whether among gods or men, has the greatest power, and is the source of
all our happiness and harmony, and makes us friends with the gods who are
above us, and with one another. I dare say that I too have omitted several
things which might be said in praise of Love, but this was not intentional,
and you, Aristophanes, may now supply the omission or take some other line
of commendation; for I perceive that you are rid of the
hiccough.

Yes, said Aristophanes, who followed, the hiccough is gone; not,
however, until I applied the sneezing; and I wonder whether the harmony
of the body has a love of such noises and ticklings, for I no sooner applied
the sneezing than I was cured.

Eryximachus said: Beware, friend Aristophanes, although you are
going to speak, you are making fun of me; and I shall have to watch and
see whether I cannot have a laugh at your expense, when you might speak
in peace.

You are right, said Aristophanes, laughing. I will unsay my words;
but do you please not to watch me, as I fear that in the speech which I
am about to make, instead of others laughing with me, which is to the manner
born of our muse and would be all the better, I shall only be laughed at
by them.

Do you expect to shoot your bolt and escape, Aristophanes? Well,
perhaps if you are very careful and bear in mind that you will be called
to account, I may be induced to let you off.

Aristophanes professed to open another vein of discourse; he had
a mind to praise Love in another way, unlike that either of Pausanias or
Eryximachus. Mankind; he said, judging by their neglect of him, have never,
as I think, at all understood the power of Love. For if they had understood
him they would surely have built noble temples and altars, and offered
solemn sacrifices in his honour; but this is not done, and most certainly
ought to be done: since of all the gods he is the best friend of men, the
helper and the healer of the ills which are the great impediment to the
happiness of the race. I will try to describe his power to you, and you
shall teach the rest of the world what I am teaching you. In the first
place, let me treat of the nature of man and what has happened to it; for
the original human nature was not like the present, but different. The
sexes were not two as they are now, but originally three in number; there
was man, woman, and the union of the two, having a name corresponding to
this double nature, which had once a real existence, but is now lost, and
the word “Androgynous” is only preserved as a term of reproach. In the
second place, the primeval man was round, his back and sides forming a
circle; and he had four hands and four feet, one head with two faces, looking
opposite ways, set on a round neck and precisely alike; also four ears,
two privy members, and the remainder to correspond. He could walk upright
as men now do, backwards or forwards as he pleased, and he could also roll
over and over at a great pace, turning on his four hands and four feet,
eight in all, like tumblers going over and over with their legs in the
air; this was when he wanted to run fast. Now the sexes were three, and
such as I have described them; because the sun, moon, and earth are three;-and
the man was originally the child of the sun, the woman of the earth, and
the man-woman of the moon, which is made up of sun and earth, and they
were all round and moved round and round: like their parents. Terrible
was their might and strength, and the thoughts of their hearts were great,
and they made an attack upon the gods; of them is told the tale of Otys
and Ephialtes who, as Homer says, dared to scale heaven, and would have
laid hands upon the gods. Doubt reigned in the celestial councils. Should
they kill them and annihilate the race with thunderbolts, as they had done
the giants, then there would be an end of the sacrifices and worship which
men offered to them; but, on the other hand, the gods could not suffer
their insolence to be unrestrained.

At last, after a good deal of reflection, Zeus discovered a way.
He said: “Methinks I have a plan which will humble their pride and improve
their manners; men shall continue to exist, but I will cut them in two
and then they will be diminished in strength and increased in numbers;
this will have the advantage of making them more profitable to us. They
shall walk upright on two legs, and if they continue insolent and will
not be quiet, I will split them again and they shall hop about on a single
leg.” He spoke and cut men in two, like a sorb-apple which is halved for
pickling, or as you might divide an egg with a hair; and as he cut them
one after another, he bade Apollo give the face and the half of the neck
a turn in order that the man might contemplate the section of himself:
he would thus learn a lesson of humility. Apollo was also bidden to heal
their wounds and compose their forms. So he gave a turn to the face and
pulled the skin from the sides all over that which in our language is called
the belly, like the purses which draw in, and he made one mouth at the
centre, which he fastened in a knot (the same which is called the navel);
he also moulded the breast and took out most of the wrinkles, much as a
shoemaker might smooth leather upon a last; he left a few, however, in
the region of the belly and navel, as a memorial of the primeval state.
After the division the two parts of man, each desiring his other half,
came together, and throwing their arms about one another, entwined in mutual
embraces, longing to grow into one, they were on the point of dying from
hunger and self-neglect, because they did not like to do anything apart;
and when one of the halves died and the other survived, the survivor sought
another mate, man or woman as we call them, being the sections of entire
men or women, and clung to that. They were being destroyed, when Zeus in
pity of them invented a new plan: he turned the parts of generation round
to the front, for this had not been always their position and they sowed
the seed no longer as hitherto like grasshoppers in the ground, but in
one another; and after the transposition the male generated in the female
in order that by the mutual embraces of man and woman they might breed,
and the race might continue; or if man came to man they might be satisfied,
and rest, and go their ways to the business of life: so ancient is the
desire of one another which is implanted in us, reuniting our original
nature, making one of two, and healing the state of
man.

Each of us when separated, having one side only, like a flat fish,
is but the indenture of a man, and he is always looking for his other half.
Men who are a section of that double nature which was once called Androgynous
are lovers of women; adulterers are generally of this breed, and also adulterous
women who lust after men: the women who are a section of the woman do not
care for men, but have female attachments; the female companions are of
this sort. But they who are a section of the male follow the male, and
while they are young, being slices of the original man, they hang about
men and embrace them, and they are themselves the best of boys and youths,
because they have the most manly nature. Some indeed assert that they are
shameless, but this is not true; for they do not act thus from any want
of shame, but because they are valiant and manly, and have a manly countenance,
and they embrace that which is like them. And these when they grow up become
our statesmen, and these only, which is a great proof of the truth of what
I am saving. When they reach manhood they are loves of youth, and are not
naturally inclined to marry or beget children,-if at all, they do so only
in obedience to the law; but they are satisfied if they may be allowed
to live with one another unwedded; and such a nature is prone to love and
ready to return love, always embracing that which is akin to him. And when
one of them meets with his other half, the actual half of himself, whether
he be a lover of youth or a lover of another sort, the pair are lost in
an amazement of love and friendship and intimacy, and would not be out
of the other’s sight, as I may say, even for a moment: these are the people
who pass their whole lives together; yet they could not explain what they
desire of one another. For the intense yearning which each of them has
towards the other does not appear to be the desire of lover’s intercourse,
but of something else which the soul of either evidently desires and cannot
tell, and of which she has only a dark and doubtful presentiment. Suppose
Hephaestus, with his instruments, to come to the pair who are lying side,
by side and to say to them, “What do you people want of one another?” they
would be unable to explain. And suppose further, that when he saw their
perplexity he said: “Do you desire to be wholly one; always day and night
to be in one another’s company? for if this is what you desire, I am ready
to melt you into one and let you grow together, so that being two you shall
become one, and while you live a common life as if you were a single man,
and after your death in the world below still be one departed soul instead
of two-I ask whether this is what you lovingly desire, and whether you
are satisfied to attain this?”-there is not a man of them who when he heard
the proposal would deny or would not acknowledge that this meeting and
melting into one another, this becoming one instead of two, was the very
expression of his ancient need. And the reason is that human nature was
originally one and we were a whole, and the desire and pursuit of the whole
is called love. There was a time, I say, when we were one, but now because
of the wickedness of mankind God has dispersed us, as the Arcadians were
dispersed into villages by the Lacedaemonians. And if we are not obedient
to the gods, there is a danger that we shall be split up again and go about
in basso-relievo, like the profile figures having only half a nose which
are sculptured on monuments, and that we shall be like
tallies.

Wherefore let us exhort all men to piety, that we may avoid evil,
and obtain the good, of which Love is to us the lord and minister; and
let no one oppose him-he is the enemy of the gods who oppose him. For if
we are friends of the God and at peace with him we shall find our own true
loves, which rarely happens in this world at present. I am serious, and
therefore I must beg Eryximachus not to make fun or to find any allusion
in what I am saying to Pausanias and Agathon, who, as I suspect, are both
of the manly nature, and belong to the class which I have been describing.
But my words have a wider application-they include men and women everywhere;
and I believe that if our loves were perfectly accomplished, and each one
returning to his primeval nature had his original true love, then our race
would be happy. And if this would be best of all, the best in the next
degree and under present circumstances must be the nearest approach to
such an union; and that will be the attainment of a congenial love. Wherefore,
if we would praise him who has given to us the benefit, we must praise
the god Love, who is our greatest benefactor, both leading us in this life
back to our own nature, and giving us high hopes for the future, for he
promises that if we are pious, he will restore us to our original state,
and heal us and make us happy and blessed. This, Eryximachus, is my discourse
of love, which, although different to yours, I must beg you to leave unassailed
by the shafts of your ridicule, in order that each may have his turn; each,
or rather either, for Agathon and Socrates are the only ones
left.

Indeed, I am not going to attack you, said Eryximachus, for I thought
your speech charming, and did I not know that Agathon and Socrates are
masters in the art of love, I should be really afraid that they would have
nothing to say, after the world of things which have been said already.
But, for all that, I am not without hopes.

Socrates said: You played your part well, Eryximachus; but if you
were as I am now, or rather as I shall be when Agathon has spoken, you
would, indeed, be in a great strait.

You want to cast a spell over me, Socrates, said Agathon, in the
hope that I may be disconcerted at the expectation raised among the audience
that I shall speak well.

I should be strangely forgetful, Agathon replied Socrates, of the
courage and magnanimity which you showed when your own compositions were
about to be exhibited, and you came upon the stage with the actors and
faced the vast theatre altogether undismayed, if I thought that your nerves
could be fluttered at a small party of friends.

Do you think, Socrates, said Agathon, that my head is so full of
the theatre as not to know how much more formidable to a man of sense a
few good judges are than many fools?

Nay, replied Socrates, I should be very wrong in attributing to
you, Agathon, that or any other want of refinement. And I am quite aware
that if you happened to meet with any whom you thought wise, you would
care for their opinion much more than for that of the many. But then we,
having been a part of the foolish many in the theatre, cannot be regarded
as the select wise; though I know that if you chanced to be in the presence,
not of one of ourselves, but of some really wise man, you would be ashamed
of disgracing yourself before him-would you not?

Yes, said Agathon.

But before the many you would not be ashamed, if you thought that you
were doing something disgraceful in their presence?

Here Phaedrus interrupted them, saying: not answer him, my dear
Agathon; for if he can only get a partner with whom he can talk, especially
a good-looking one, he will no longer care about the completion of our
plan. Now I love to hear him talk; but just at present I must not forget
the encomium on Love which I ought to receive from him and from every one.
When you and he have paid your tribute to the god, then you may
talk.

Very good, Phaedrus, said Agathon; I see no reason why I should
not proceed with my speech, as I shall have many other opportunities of
conversing with Socrates. Let me say first how I ought to speak, and then
speak:-

The previous speakers, instead of praising the god Love, or unfolding
his nature, appear to have congratulated mankind on the benefits which
he confers upon them. But I would rather praise the god first, and then
speak of his gifts; this is always the right way of praising everything.
May I say without impiety or offence, that of all the blessed gods he is
the most blessed because he is the fairest and best? And he is the fairest:
for, in the first place, he is the youngest, and of his youth he is himself
the witness, fleeing out of the way of age, who is swift enough, swifter
truly than most of us like:-Love hates him and will not come near him;
but youth and love live and move together-like to like, as the proverb
says. Many things were said by Phaedrus about Love in which I agree with
him; but I cannot agree that he is older than Iapetus and Kronos:-not so;
I maintain him to be the youngest of the gods, and youthful ever. The ancient
doings among the gods of which Hesiod and Parmenides spoke, if the tradition
of them be true, were done of Necessity and not Love; had Love been in
those days, there would have been no chaining or mutilation of the gods,
or other violence, but peace and sweetness, as there is now in heaven,
since the rule of Love began.

Love is young and also tender; he ought to have a poet like Homer
to describe his tenderness, as Homer says of Ate, that she is a goddess
and tender:

Her feet are tender, for she sets her steps,

Not on the ground but on the heads of men: herein is an excellent proof
of her tenderness that,-she walks not upon the hard but upon the soft.
Let us adduce a similar proof of the tenderness of Love; for he walks not
upon the earth, nor yet upon skulls of men, which are not so very soft,
but in the hearts and souls of both god, and men, which are of all things
the softest: in them he walks and dwells and makes his home. Not in every
soul without exception, for Where there is hardness he departs, where there
is softness there he dwells; and nestling always with his feet and in all
manner of ways in the softest of soft places, how can he be other than
the softest of all things? Of a truth he is the tenderest as well as the
youngest, and also he is of flexile form; for if he were hard and without
flexure he could not enfold all things, or wind his way into and out of
every soul of man undiscovered. And a proof of his flexibility and symmetry
of form is his grace, which is universally admitted to be in an especial
manner the attribute of Love; ungrace and love are always at war with one
another. The fairness of his complexion is revealed by his habitation among
the flowers; for he dwells not amid bloomless or fading beauties, whether
of body or soul or aught else, but in the place of flowers and scents,
there he sits and abides. Concerning the beauty of the god I have said
enough; and yet there remains much more which I might say. Of his virtue
I have now to speak: his greatest glory is that he can neither do nor suffer
wrong to or from any god or any man; for he suffers not by force if he
suffers; force comes not near him, neither when he acts does he act by
force. For all men in all things serve him of their own free will, and
where there is voluntary agreement, there, as the laws which are the lords
of the city say, is justice. And not only is he just but exceedingly temperate,
for Temperance is the acknowledged ruler of the pleasures and desires,
and no pleasure ever masters Love; he is their master and they are his
servants; and if he conquers them he must be temperate indeed. As to courage,
even the God of War is no match for him; he is the captive and Love is
the lord, for love, the love of Aphrodite, masters him, as the tale runs;
and the master is stronger than the servant. And if he conquers the bravest
of all others, he

must be himself the bravest.

Of his courage and justice and temperance I have spoken, but I
have yet to speak of his wisdom-and according to the measure of my ability
I must try to do my best. In the first place he is a poet (and here, like
Eryximachus, I magnify my art), and he is also the source of poesy in others,
which he could not be if he were not himself a poet. And at the touch of
him every one becomes a poet, even though he had no music in him before;
this also is a proof that Love is a good poet and accomplished in all the
fine arts; for no one can give to another that which he has not himself,
or teach that of which he has no knowledge. Who will deny that the creation
of the animals is his doing? Are they not all the works his wisdom, born
and begotten of him? And as to the artists, do we not know that he only
of them whom love inspires has the light of fame?-he whom Love touches
riot walks in darkness. The arts of medicine and archery and divination
were discovered by Apollo, under the guidance of love and desire; so that
he too is a disciple of Love. Also the melody of the Muses, the metallurgy
of Hephaestus, the weaving of Athene, the empire of Zeus over gods and
men, are all due to Love, who was the inventor of them. And so Love set
in order the empire of the gods-the love of beauty, as is evident, for
with deformity Love has no concern. In the days of old, as I began by saying,
dreadful deeds were done among the gods, for they were ruled by Necessity;
but now since the birth of Love, and from the Love of the beautiful, has
sprung every good in heaven and earth. Therefore, Phaedrus, I say of Love
that he is the fairest and best in himself, and the cause of what is fairest
and best in all other things. And there comes into my mind a line of poetry
in which he is said to be the god who

Gives peace on earth and calms the stormy deep,

Who stills the winds and bids the sufferer sleep. This is he who empties
men of disaffection and fills them with affection, who makes them to meet
together at banquets such as these: in sacrifices, feasts, dances, he is
our lord-who sends courtesy and sends away discourtesy, who gives kindness
ever and never gives unkindness; the friend of the good, the wonder of
the wise, the amazement of the gods; desired by those who have no part
in him, and precious to those who have the better part in him; parent of
delicacy, luxury, desire, fondness, softness, grace; regardful of the good,
regardless of the evil: in every word, work, wish, fear-saviour, pilot,
comrade, helper; glory of gods and men, leader best and brightest: in whose
footsteps let every man follow, sweetly singing in his honour and joining
in that sweet strain with which love charms the souls of gods and men.
Such is the speech, Phaedrus, half-playful, yet having a certain measure
of seriousness, which, according to my ability, I dedicate to the
god.

When Agathon had done speaking, Aristodemus said that there was
a general cheer; the young man was thought to have spoken in a manner worthy
of himself, and of the god. And Socrates, looking at Eryximachus, said:
Tell me, son of Acumenus, was there not reason in my fears? and was I not
a true prophet when I said that Agathon would make a wonderful oration,
and that I should be in a strait?

The part of the prophecy which concerns Agathon, replied Eryximachus,
appears to me to be true; but, not the other part-that you will be in a
strait.

Why, my dear friend, said Socrates, must not I or any one be in
a strait who has to speak after he has heard such a rich and varied discourse?
I am especially struck with the beauty of the concluding words-who could
listen to them without amazement? When I reflected on the immeasurable
inferiority of my own powers, I was ready to run away for shame, if there
had been a possibility of escape. For I was reminded of Gorgias, and at
the end of his speech I fancied that Agathon was shaking at me the Gorginian
or Gorgonian head of the great master of rhetoric, which was simply to
turn me and my speech, into stone, as Homer says, and strike me dumb. And
then I perceived how foolish I had been in consenting to take my turn with
you in praising love, and saying that I too was a master of the art, when
I really had no conception how anything ought to be praised. For in my
simplicity I imagined that the topics of praise should be true, and that
this being presupposed, out of the true the speaker was to choose the best
and set them forth in the best manner. And I felt quite proud, thinking
that I knew the nature of true praise, and should speak well. Whereas I
now see that the intention was to attribute to Love every species of greatness
and glory, whether really belonging to him not, without regard to truth
or falsehood-that was no matter; for the original, proposal seems to have
been not that each of you should really praise Love, but only that you
should appear to praise him. And so you attribute to Love every imaginable
form of praise which can be gathered anywhere; and you say that “he is
all this,” and “the cause of all that,” making him appear the fairest and
best of all to those who know him not, for you cannot impose upon those
who know him. And a noble and solemn hymn of praise have you rehearsed.
But as I misunderstood the nature of the praise when I said that I would
take my turn, I must beg to be absolved from the promise which I made in
ignorance, and which (as Euripides would say) was a promise of the lips
and not of the mind. Farewell then to such a strain: for I do not praise
in that way; no, indeed, I cannot. But if you like to here the truth about
love, I am ready to speak in my own manner, though I will not make myself
ridiculous by entering into any rivalry with you. Say then, Phaedrus, whether
you would like, to have the truth about love, spoken in any words and in
any order which may happen to come into my mind at the time. Will that
be agreeable to you?

Aristodemus said that Phaedrus and the company bid him speak in
any manner which he thought best. Then, he added, let me have your permission
first to ask Agathon a few more questions, in order that I may take his
admissions as the premisses of my discourse.

I grant the permission, said Phaedrus: put your questions. Socrates
then proceeded as follows:-

In the magnificent oration which you have just uttered, I think
that you were right, my dear Agathon, in proposing to speak of the nature
of Love first and afterwards of his works-that is a way of beginning which
I very much approve. And as you have spoken so eloquently of his nature,
may I ask you further, Whether love is the love of something or of nothing?
And here I must explain myself: I do not want you to say that love is the
love of a father or the love of a mother-that would be ridiculous; but
to answer as you would, if I asked is a father a father of something? to
which you would find no difficulty in replying, of a son or daughter: and
the answer would be right.

Very true, said Agathon.

And you would say the same of a mother?

He assented.

Yet let me ask you one more question in order to illustrate my meaning:
Is not a brother to be regarded essentially as a brother of
something?

Certainly, he replied.

That is, of a brother or sister?

Yes, he said.

And now, said Socrates, I will ask about Love:-Is Love of something
or of nothing?

Of something, surely, he replied.

Keep in mind what this is, and tell me what I want to know-whether
Love desires that of which love is.

Yes, surely.

And does he possess, or does he not possess, that which he loves and
desires?

Probably not, I should say.

Nay, replied Socrates, I would have you consider whether “necessarily”
is not rather the word. The inference that he who desires something is
in want of something, and that he who desires nothing is in want of nothing,
is in my judgment, Agathon absolutely and necessarily true. What do you
think?

I agree with you, said Agathon.

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, 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. As you, Agathon, suggested, 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 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 dearly, 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 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
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 dearer,” 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 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 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 dear 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 crown, 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?
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, Agathoron, 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 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?

I am going to speak the truth, if you will permit me.
I not only permit, but exhort you to speak the truth.
Then I will begin at once, said Alcibiades, and if I say anything
which is not true, you may interrupt me if you will, and say “that
is a lie,” though my intention is to speak the truth. But you must
not wonder if I speak any how as things come into my mind; for the
fluent and orderly enumeration of all your singularities is not a
task which is easy to a man in my condition.

And now, my boys, I shall praise Socrates in a figure which will appear
to him to be a caricature, and yet I speak, not to make fun of him,
but only for the truth’s sake. I say, that he is exactly like the
busts of Silenus, which are set up in the statuaries, shops, holding
pipes and flutes in their mouths; and they are made to open in the
middle, and have images of gods inside them. I say also that hit is
like Marsyas the satyr. You yourself will not deny, Socrates, that
your face is like that of a satyr. Aye, and there is a resemblance
in other points too. For example, you are a bully, as I can prove
by witnesses, if you will not confess. And are you not a flute-player?
That you are, and a performer far more wonderful than Marsyas. He
indeed with instruments used to charm the souls of men by the powers
of his breath, and the players of his music do so still: for the melodies
of Olympus are derived from Marsyas who taught them, and these, whether
they are played by a great master or by a miserable flute-girl, have
a power which no others have; they alone possess the soul and reveal
the wants of those who have need of gods and mysteries, because they
are divine. But you produce the same effect with your words only,
and do not require the flute; that is the difference between you and
him. When we hear any other speaker, even very good one, he produces
absolutely no effect upon us, or not much, whereas the mere fragments
of you and your words, even at second-hand, and however imperfectly
repeated, amaze and possess the souls of every man, woman, and child
who comes within hearing of them. And if I were not, afraid that you
would think me hopelessly drunk, I would have sworn as well as spoken
to the influence which they have always had and still have over me.
For my heart leaps within me more than that of any Corybantian reveller,
and my eyes rain tears when I hear them. And I observe that many others
are affected in the same manner. I have heard Pericles and other great
orators, and I thought that they spoke well, but I never had any similar
feeling; my soul was not stirred by them, nor was I angry at the thought
of my own slavish state. But this Marsyas has often brought me to
such pass, that I have felt as if I could hardly endure the life which
I am leading (this, Socrates, you will admit); and I am conscious
that if I did not shut my ears against him, and fly as from the voice
of the siren, my fate would be like that of others,-he would transfix
me, and I should grow old sitting at his feet. For he makes me confess
that I ought not to live as I do, neglecting the wants of my own soul,
and busying myself with the concerns of the Athenians; therefore I
hold my ears and tear myself away from him. And he is the only person
who ever made me ashamed, which you might think not to be in my nature,
and there is no one else who does the same. For I know that I cannot
answer him or say that I ought not to do as he bids, but when I leave
his presence the love of popularity gets the better of me. And therefore
I run away and fly from him, and when I see him I am ashamed of what
I have confessed to him. Many a time have I wished that he were dead,
and yet I know that I should be much more sorry than glad, if he were
to die: so that am at my wit’s end.

And this is what I and many others have suffered, from the flute-playing
of this satyr. Yet hear me once more while I show you how exact the
image is, and. how marvellous his power. For let me tell you; none
of you know him; but I will reveal him to you; having begun, I must
go on. See you how fond he is of the fair? He is always with them
and is always being smitten by them, and then again he knows nothing
and is ignorant of all thing such is the appearance

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