Chapter XXII: Part 22

_Euth._ No, but for this.

_Socr._ And that which is led, because one leads it, and that which is seen, because one sees it?

_Euth._ Certainly.

_Socr._ One does not therefore see a thing because it is seen, but on the contrary it is seen because one sees it: nor does one lead a thing because it is led, but it is led because one leads it: nor does one carry a thing because it is carried, but it is carried because one carries it. Is my meaning clear, then, Euthyphron? I mean this, that if one does any thing, or suffers any thing, one does it not because it is done; but it is done because one does it; nor does one suffer any thing because it is suffered, but it is suffered because one suffers: do you not admit this to be the case?

_Euth._ I do.

_Socr._ Is not, then, the being loved, something either done or suffered by some one?

_Euth._ Certainly.

_Socr._ And is not the case the same with this as with all the former instances; those who love it do not love it because it is loved, but it is loved, because they love it?

_Euth._ Necessarily so.

_Socr._ What then do we say respecting holiness, Euthyphron? Do not all the gods love it according to your statement?

_Euth._ Yes.

_Socr._ Is it for this reason, because it is holy, or for some other reason?

_Euth._ No, but for this.

_Socr._ They love it then because it is holy, but it is not holy because they love it.

_Euth._ It seems so.

_Socr._ Therefore because the gods love it it is beloved, and that which is pleasing to the gods is pleasing to them.

_Euth._ How not?

_Socr._ That which is pleasing to the gods, therefore, is not holy, Euthyphron, nor is that holy which is pleasing to the gods, as you say, but one is different from the other.

_Euth._ How so, Socrates?

_Socr._ Because we agree that what is holy is therefore loved because it is holy, and that it is not holy because they love it; is it not so?

_Euth._ Yes.

_Socr._ But that which is pleasing to the gods because the gods love it, is from the very circumstance of their loving it pleasing to them; but they do not love it because it is pleasing to them.

_Euth._ You say truly.

_Socr._ But, my dear Euthyphron, if the being pleasing to the gods and being holy were the same thing, since that which is holy is loved because it is holy, that which is pleasing to the gods would also be loved because it is pleasing to them; and if that which is pleasing to the gods were pleasing to them because they love it, that which is holy would also be holy because they love it. Now, however, you see that they are contrary, as being altogether different from each other. For the one is such as is loved because they love it, but the other is loved because it is of such a character that it ought to be loved. And you appear, Euthyphron, when asked what holiness is, not to have been willing to make known to me its essence, but to have mentioned an affection to which this same holiness is subject, namely the being loved by all the gods; but what it is, you have not yet told me. If therefore it is agreeable to you, do not conceal it from me, but again say from the beginning what holiness is, whether it is loved by the gods, or is subject to any other affection: for we shall not differ about this. But tell me frankly what the holy is and what the impious.

_Euth._ But, Socrates, I know not how to tell you what I think. For whatever we put forward some how constantly moves from its position, and will not remain where we have placed it.

_Socr._ What you have advanced, Euthyphron, appears to resemble the statues of my ancestor Dædalus. And if I had said and laid down these things, you would probably have joked me, for that owing to my relationship to him, my works, by way of discussion, escape, and will not remain where one places them. But now, for the hypotheses are yours, there is need of some other raillery. For they will not remain with you, as you too perceive yourself.

_Euth._ But it appears to me, Socrates, that what has been said needs pretty much the same raillery. For I am not the person who causes them to shift about in this way and not remain in the same place, but you appear to me to be the Dædalus. For as far as I am concerned, they would have remained as they were.

_Socr._ I appear, then, my friend, to have become much more skilful than him in my art, in that he only made his own works moveable, but I besides my own, as it seems, make those of others so. And this, moreover, is the most wonderful thing in my art, that I am skilful against any will. For I should wish that my reasonings should remain and be immovably fixed, rather than have the riches of Tantalus, in addition to the skill of Dædalus. But enough of this. 13. Since, however, you appear to be too nice, I will assist you to shew how you may teach me respecting holiness, and not be tired before you have done. For see, whether it does not appear to you to be necessary that every thing that is holy should be just.

_Euth._ To me it does.

_Socr._ Is, then, every thing that is just also holy, or is every thing that is holy just, but not every thing that is just holy, but partly holy, and partly something else?

_Euth._ I do not follow your questions, Socrates.

_Socr._ And yet you are younger no less than wiser than I am; but, as I said, you are too delicate through abundance of wisdom. However, my blessed friend, exert yourself; for it is not difficult to understand what I mean. For I mean the contrary to what the poet said, who wrote, “You are unwilling to mention Jove the creator who made this universe: for where fear is there is also shame.” I, however, differ from this poet. Shall I tell you in what respect?

_Euth._ By all means.

_Socr._ It does not appear to me, that where fear is there is also shame. For there appear to me to be many who fearing diseases, poverty, and many other things of the kind, fear indeed but are by no means ashamed of what they fear. Does it not appear so to you?

_Euth._ Certainly.

_Socr._ But wherever shame is, there is also fear: for is there any one who is ashamed of and blushes at any thing, that is not afraid of and does not fear the reputation of baseness?

_Euth._ Assuredly he does fear it.

_Socr._ It is not right, therefore, to say, that where fear is, there also is shame, but where shame is, there also is fear; not however, wherever there is fear, there is also shame. For I think that fear is more extensive than shame; for shame is a part of fear, as the odd is a part of number, so that it does not follow that wherever number is, there also is the odd, but wherever the odd is, there also is number. Do you follow me now?

_Euth._ Perfectly.

_Socr._ I asked you, then, about a thing of this kind above, whether where the just is, there also is the holy, or where the holy is, there also is the just, but wherever the just is, here is not always the holy: for the holy is a part of the just. Shall we say thus, or does it seem to you otherwise?

_Euth._ No, but thus. For you appear to me to speak correctly.

14. _Socr._ Observe then what follows. If the holy is a part of the just, it is necessary, as it seems, that we should find out what part of the just the holy is. If then you were to ask me about some of the things before mentioned, for instance, what part of number the even is, and what number it is, I should say that it is not scalene, but isosceles[165]. Does it not appear so to you?

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Footnote 165:

That is, it can be divided into equal parts, which the odd cannot.

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_Euth._ It does.

_Socr._ Do you, then, also endeavour in like manner to teach me what part of the just the holy is, that I may tell Melitus no longer to treat me unjustly nor indict me for impiety, since I have now sufficiently learnt from you what things are pious and holy, and what not.

_Euth._ That part of justice then, Socrates, appears to me to be pious and holy, which is concerned about our care for the gods; but that which is concerned about our care for mankind is the remaining part of justice.

15. _Socr._ You appear to me, Euthyphron, to speak well; but I still require a trifle further. For I do not yet understand what care you mean. For you surely do not mean such care is to be had for the gods as is employed about other things. For we say, for instance, not every one knows how to take care of horses, but a groom; do we not?

_Euth._ Certainly.

_Socr._ For surely the groom’s business is the taking care of horses.

_Euth._ Yes.

_Socr._ Nor does every one know how to take care of dogs, but a huntsman.

_Euth._ Just so.

_Socr._ For the huntsman’s business is the taking care of dogs.

_Euth._ Yes.

_Socr._ And the herdsman’s of cattle.

_Euth._ Certainly.

_Socr._ But holiness and piety of the gods, Euthyphron; do you say so?

_Euth._ I do.

_Socr._ All care, therefore, aims at the same thing, that is to say, it is for some good and advantage of that which is taken care of, as you see that horses, taken care of by one skilled in the groom’s business, are benefited and become better: do they not seem so to you?

_Euth._ They do.

_Socr._ Dogs also are benefited by one skilled in the huntsman’s business, and oxen by that of the herdsman, and all other things in like manner: do you think that the care is employed for the injury of that which is taken care of?

_Euth._ Not I, by Jupiter.

_Socr._ But for its advantage?

_Euth._ How should it not?

_Socr._ Is holiness, therefore, since it is a care for the gods, an advantage to the gods, and does it make the gods better? And would you admit this, that when you do any thing holy, you make some one of the gods better?

_Euth._ Not I, by Jupiter.

_Socr._ Nor do I think, Euthyphron, that you mean this; I am far from doing so: but for this reason I asked you what care for the gods you mean, not thinking that you mean such as this.

_Euth._ And rightly, Socrates; for I do not mean such as this.

_Socr._ Be it so: but what care for the gods will holiness be?

_Euth._ That, Socrates, which slaves take of their masters.

_Socr._ I understand: it will be a kind of service, as it seems, paid to the gods.

_Euth._ Certainly.

16. _Socr._ Can you then tell me, to the performance of what the service of physicians is subservient? Do you not think it is to health?

_Euth._ I do.

_Socr._ But what? to the performance of what work is the service of shipwrights subservient?

_Euth._ Clearly, Socrates, to that of a ship.

_Socr._ And that of architects, to houses?

_Euth._ Yes.

_Socr._ Tell me, then, my excellent friend; to the performance of what work will the service of the gods be subservient? For it is clear that you know, since you say that you have a knowledge of divine things beyond that of other men.

_Euth._ And I say truly, Socrates.

_Socr._ Tell me then, by Jupiter, what is that very beautiful work which the gods effect, by employing us as servants.

_Euth._ They are many and beautiful, Socrates.

_Socr._ So do generals, my friend; though you could easily tell the principal of them, that they effect victory in war; is it not so?

_Euth._ How should I not?

_Socr._ Husbandmen too, I think, effect many and beautiful things; but the principal thing they effect is the production of food from the earth.

_Euth._ Certainly.

_Socr._ What then? of the many and beautiful things which the gods effect, what is the principal?

_Euth._ I told you just now, Socrates, that it is a difficult matter to learn all these things accurately; this however I tell you simply, that if any one knows how to speak and do things grateful to the gods, by praying and sacrificing, these things are holy, and such things preserve both private houses and the general weal of cities; but the contraries to things acceptable to them are impious, which also subvert and ruin all things.

17. _Socr._ You might, if you had pleased, Euthyphron, have told me the principal of what I asked in fewer words. But it is clear that you are not willing to teach me. For now when you were just upon the point of doing so, you turned aside; whereas if you had answered, I should by this time have sufficiently learnt from you what holiness is. But now (for it is necessary that he who asks questions should follow the person questioned wherever he may lead) what again do you say is the holy, and holiness? Do you not say it is a knowledge of sacrificing and praying?

_Euth._ I do.

_Socr._ Is not to sacrifice to offer gifts to the gods, and to pray to beg something of the gods?

_Euth._ Assuredly, Socrates.

_Socr._ From this statement it follows that holiness must be a knowledge of begging from and giving to the gods.

_Euth._ You quite understand what I mean, Socrates.

_Socr._ For I am very anxious, my friend, to obtain your wisdom, and I apply my mind to it: so that what you say will not fall to the ground. But tell me what this service of the gods is? Do you say it is to beg of them and to give to them?

_Euth._ I do.

18. _Socr._ Must we not then, therefore, to beg rightly, beg those things of them which we need from them?

_Euth._ What else?

_Socr._ And again to give rightly must we give them in return such things as they stand in need of from us? For surely it would not be suitable to offer those gifts to any one which he does not need.

_Euth._ You say truly, Socrates.

_Socr._ Holiness, therefore, Euthyphron, will be a kind of traffic between gods and men.

_Euth._ A kind of traffic, if it pleases you to call it so.

_Socr._ But it is not at all pleasing to me, unless it happens to be true. Tell me therefore, what advantage the gods derive from the gifts which they receive from us? For the advantage arising from what they give is clear to every one; for we have no good at all which they do not impart? but how are they benefited by what they receive from us? Do we get so much the advantage over them in this traffic, that we receive all good things from them, but they nothing from us?

_Euth._ But do you think, Socrates, that the gods are benefited by what they receive from us?

_Socr._ What is the use then, Euthyphron, of all our gifts to the gods?

_Euth._ What else do you think except honour and reverence, and, as I just now mentioned, gratitude?

_Socr._ Holiness then, Euthyphron, is that which is grateful, but not profitable or dear to the gods.

_Euth._ I for my part think it is of all things most dear to them.

_Socr._ This then again is, as it seems, holiness, that which is dear to the gods.

_Euth._ Most certainly.

19. _Socr._ Can you wonder then, when you say this, that your statements do not remain fixed, but move about, and can you accuse me as being the Dædalus that makes them move about, when you yourself are far more skilful than Dædalus, and make them go round in a circle? Do you not perceive that our discussion, turning round, comes to the same point? For you surely remember that in a former part of our discussion that which is holy and that which is acceptable to the gods appeared to us not to be the same, but different from each other: do you not remember?

_Euth._ I do.

_Socr._ Now, then, do you not perceive that you say that holiness is that which is dear to the gods? But is this any thing else than that which is acceptable to the gods? is it not so?

_Euth._ Certainly.

_Socr._ Either, therefore, we did not then admit that properly, or, if we did, our present statement is not correct?

_Euth._ It seems so.

_Socr._ From the beginning, therefore, we must consider again what holiness is; for I shall not willingly run away like a coward, until I have learnt it. Do not then despise me, but by all means apply your mind earnestly to it and tell me the truth. For you know it, if any man does; and I cannot let you go like Proteus, until you have told me. For if you had not known clearly both what is holy and what is impious, it is not possible that you could ever have attempted, for the sake of a hireling, to prosecute your aged father for murder; but you would have feared both to incur the anger of the gods, in case you should not act rightly in this matter, and would have been ashamed in the sight of men. But now I am sure that you think you clearly know both what is holy and what is not. Tell me, therefore, most excellent Euthyphron, and do not conceal from me what you believe it to be?

_Euth._ At some other opportunity then, Socrates: for now I am in haste to go somewhere, and it is time for me to depart.

_Socr._ What are you about, my friend? By going away you deprive me of the great hope I entertained that by learning from you what things are holy and what not, I might get rid of Melitus’s indictment, by shewing him that I had now become skilled in divine things by the aid of Euthyphron, and that I no longer through ignorance speak rashly, or introduce innovations respecting them, and that therefore I should lead a better life for the future.

INTRODUCTION TO THE LYSIS.

As Socrates was one day going from the Academy to the Lyceum he met with Hippothales, Ctesippus, and other youths, who were on that day celebrating the Hermæan festival in a newly-erected palæstra hard by. They invite him to come in and join their conversation; he promises to do so on condition that they will first tell him who is the beauty among them. Hippothales, to whom he first puts the question, shews, by his embarrassment, that he is himself far gone in love; and on being taxed with it by Socrates blushes still more, whereupon Ctesippus says that he is constantly overwhelming them with his poems and speeches on his favourite Lysis. Socrates, on hearing this, begs Hippothales to inform him how a lover ought to speak of or address his favourite. Hippothales, though he does not deny his being in love, does deny that he makes verses or speeches; but Ctesippus shews that he is constantly giving utterance to the most extravagant praises of his favourite and his family; on which Socrates remarks that he should not celebrate his victory before it is won; for that it is not wise to praise the object of one’s affection before a return of affection on his part is secured, and moreover such as are beautiful when highly praised are apt to become arrogant, and so are more difficult to be won. Hippothales takes these suggestions in good part, and begs Socrates to advise him how to address his favourite so as to win his affection, which Socrates readily promises to do if they will give him an opportunity of conversing with Lysis. To this end they all enter the palæstra, and almost as soon as Socrates, Ctesippus, Menexenus and others had seated themselves down in a quiet corner, Lysis, who is very fond of listening to conversations, comes and takes his seat next his friend Menexenus, while Hippothales is concealed in the back-ground out of sight of his favourite[166].

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Footnote 166:

§ 1-10.

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Socrates begins by addressing a few words to the latter, but on Menexenus being called out by the master of the palæstra, he turns to Lysis, and asks him whether his parents do not love him very much. On Lysis replying that they certainly do, Socrates shews him that though, since they love him, they must needs wish to make him as happy as possible, yet they are so far from letting him do whatever he pleases, that they put him under the government of others, even of slaves, and this not on account of his youth, but because he has not yet acquired sufficient experience and knowledge to be entrusted with the government of himself; but that whenever he is wise enough, not only his father, but all others, will entrust him with the management of themselves and their affairs[167].

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Footnote 167:

§ 10-18.

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At this point of the conversation Menexenus returned and resumed his seat near Lysis, who begs of Socrates to say over again to Menexenus what he had been saying to him; but Socrates desires him to tell it himself on some future occasion, and for the present engages to converse on some other subject with Menexenus. Having observed, therefore, the friendship that subsisted between Lysis and Menexenus, he asks the latter, when any one loves another, which of the two becomes a friend of the other, the lover or the beloved? Menexenus replies that there is no difference. But Socrates shews that it frequently happens that a lover is not only not loved in turn, but is even hated. In that case, then, which is the friend? Menexenus is forced to admit that unless both love neither can be a friend to the other. But here Socrates interposes this difficulty; he remarks that men often love horses, dogs, and other things which cannot love in turn; and the poet, as Menexenus admits, speaks truly who says, “Happy the man who has boys for his friends and horses and dogs,” so that the beloved now appears to be a friend of the lover, and not the lover of the beloved; and by the same reasoning he who is hated is an enemy, and not he who hates, whence the absurd conclusion follows that people are beloved by their enemies and hated by their friends. This, however, is impossible; therefore the reverse must be the case, and the lover must be a friend of the beloved. “If, then, neither those who love are to be friends, nor those who are loved, nor yet those who both love and are loved,” who are to be called friends? Lysis interposes with the remark that they do not appear to him to have conducted their enquiries aright; so Socrates avails himself of the opportunity thus offered him, and directs his discourse to Lysis[168].

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Footnote 168:

§ 18-24.

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“The poets say,” he observes, that “God ever conducts like to like,” and the wisest among men say the same, “that like must ever needs be friendly to like.” Lysis agrees to this. But, objects Socrates, only half of this appears to be true, for the more wicked men are the more hostile are they to each other; so that it appears that the good man only is a friend to the good man only, but that the bad man never arrives at true friendship. But here again a new doubt is started.

The like can derive no benefit from the like; how, therefore, can they be held in regard by each other? and how can that which is not held in regard be a friend? In like manner, the good man is sufficient for himself; but he who is sufficient needs nothing, and so will not regard any thing, and therefore not love. So that from this it appears, that not even the good will be friends to each other[169].

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Footnote 169:

§ 24-27.

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Socrates then remarks, that he once heard some one say that like is most hostile to like, and the good to the good; and generally that things most like each other are most full of envy, strife and hatred, but such as are most unlike are most disposed to friendship, just as the dry desires the moist, the cold heat, and so on. Menexenus admits the truth of this, and of its consequence, that the contrary is most friendly to its contrary. But again Socrates drives him to this absurd conclusion, that since enmity is most contrary to friendship, therefore an enemy must be a friend to a friend, or a friend a friend to an enemy[170].

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Footnote 170:

§ 27-29.

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Since it appears, then, that neither is the like friendly to the like, nor the contrary to the contrary, Socrates next proposes to enquire whether that which is neither good nor evil can be the friend of the good. According to an ancient proverb, the beautiful is friendly, and the good is beautiful, whence he would conclude that that which is neither good nor evil is friendly to the beautiful and the good. There are three several classes of things, he says, the good, the evil, and that which is neither good nor evil. It has already been proved that the good is not friendly to the good, nor the evil to the evil, nor yet the good to the evil, nor the evil to the good; it remains, therefore, that that which is neither good nor evil must be friendly to the good. But a little further discussion leads to the more narrow conclusion, that that which is neither evil nor good is friendly to the good, on account of the presence of evil[171].

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Footnote 171:

§ 29-33.

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Both Lysis and Menexenus agree to this conclusion; but Socrates soon raises new difficulties, and shews the fallaciousness of their former reasoning. A friend, he says, is a friend to some one, and for the sake of something, and on account of something; for a rich man is a friend to a physician on account of disease, which is an evil, and for the sake of health, which is a good, so that that which is friendly is a friend for the sake of a friend, on account of an enemy. By proceeding in this way, he argues, we shall at length arrive at some principle, which will not have to be referred to another friend, but will arrive at the first friend, for the sake of which all other things are friends, and which is friendly for its own sake. Now it has already appeared that we are friendly to that which is good, and that we love the good on account of evil; if, therefore, evil were to be done away with the good would be of no use to us, and we should not love it. In this, too, his young friends are willing to acquiesce, but Socrates dispels this delusion also, and shews that evil cannot be the cause of love, since if evil were done away with the desires would still remain, which in reality are the causes of friendship; for that which desires desires what it stands in need of, and that which stands in need is friendly to that of which it stands in need: and so love, desire, and friendship respect that which, in a manner, belongs to a man; but then evil belongs to evil and good to good, consequently they will each severally be friendly to their fellow, and the evil will be no less a friend to the evil than the good to the good; but both these positions have already been shewn to be erroneous, and so no positive solution of the question proposed is arrived at[172].

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Footnote 172:

§ 34-43.

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LYSIS,

OR

ON FRIENDSHIP.

SOCRATES, HIPPOTHALES, CTESIPPUS, MENEXENUS, AND LYSIS.

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I was going from the Academy straight to the Lyceum on the road outside the wall close to the wall itself, but when I reached the little gate, where is the fountain of the Panops, I there met with Hippothales son of Hieronymus, Ctesippus the Pæanian, and other young men with them standing together in a group. And Hippothales seeing me approach said, “Socrates, whither are you going, and whence come you?”

“From the Academy,” I replied, “and am going straight to the Lyceum.”

“Hither, then,” said he, “straight to us. Won’t you come here? it is worth while.”

“Where do you mean,” said I, “and whom do you mean by ‘you’?”

“Hither,” he replied, shewing me an enclosure opposite the wall and an open gate, “there we are passing away our time, we and a good many other fine fellows.”

“And what is this, and what your occupation?”

“A palæstra,” he said, “lately built; our occupation consists chiefly in conversation, which we would gladly share with you.”

“You do well,” said I. “But who teaches there?”

“Your friend and encomiast,” said he, “Miccus.”

“By Jupiter,” said I, “he is no mean person, but an apt sophist.”

“Will you follow us then,” said he, “that you may see those that are there?”

2. “I should be glad to hear this first, and on that condition I enter, who is the beauty?”

“To some of us,” said he, “Socrates, one appears so, to some, another.”

“But who appears so to you, Hippothales? Tell me this.” Then he blushed at the question. And I said, “Hippothales, son of Hieronymus, you need no longer tell me this, whether you are in love with any one or not: for I know that you are not only in love, but are already pretty far gone in love. I, for my part, am in other matters poor and useless, but this somehow has been given me by the deity, to be able quickly to discern both a lover, and one that is beloved.”

On hearing this, he blushed still more. Whereupon Ctesippus said, “It is a fine thing in you to blush, Hippothales, and hesitate to tell Socrates the name, though if he were to stay here with you even for a short time he would be tired to death with hearing you frequently telling it. 3. He has certainly deafened our ears, Socrates, and filled them with the name of Lysis: and if he is somewhat tipsy, it is easy for us, even when we awake out of sleep, to fancy that we hear the name of Lysis. And what he tells of him in his ordinary talk, though wearisome, is not so very much so; but when he attempts to overwhelm us with his poems and set-speeches! and what is still more wearisome than these, is that he sings about his favourite with a wonderful voice, which we must endure to listen to. But now when questioned by you, he blushes.”

“This Lysis, then,” said I, “is a youth, as it seems. I conjecture this, because on hearing the name I did not know it.”

“They don’t often call him by his own name,” said he, “but he still goes by his father’s name, because his father is so very well known. For I am very sure, that you are far from being unacquainted with the form of the youth; for he may be sufficiently known from this only.”

4. “Tell me then,” said I, “whose son he is.”

“The eldest son of Democrates, of Æxone,” he replied.

“Well done, Hippothales,” said I, “what a noble and in every way admirable love is this you have met with! Come then, display to me what you display to these also, that I may discover whether you know what a lover ought to say about his favourite, either to himself or to others.”

“Do you really put any weight, Socrates,” said he, “on any thing that he says?”

“Do you deny,” said I, “that you are in love with the person whom he speaks of?”

“I do not,” said he, “but I do deny that I make verses on my favourite or compose speeches.”

“He is not in his right senses,” said Ctesippus, “but is delirious and mad.”

Upon this I said, “Hippothales, I do not wish to hear your verses, nor any song that you may have made on the youth, but their meaning, that I may know in what way you behave towards your favourite.”

“He doubtless will tell you,” said he, “for he knows and remembers it well, since, as he says, he has been stunned by constantly hearing it from me.”

5. “By the gods,” said Ctesippus, “assuredly I do; and ridiculous it is too, Socrates. For that being a lover, and devoting himself to the youth beyond all others, he should have nothing of his own to say, that even a boy might not say, how can it be otherwise than ridiculous? For what the whole city resounds with about Democrates and Lysis the boy’s grandfather, and all his ancestors, their wealth, their breed of horses, and their victories in the Pythian, Isthmian, and Nemean games, with four horses and with one, these things he puts into poems and speeches, and besides these, things still more absurd: for he lately described to us in a poem, the entertainment of Hercules, how an ancestor of theirs received Hercules on account of his relationship to him, being himself sprung from Jupiter and the daughter of the founder of his borough, such things as old women sing, and many others of the same kind, Socrates. 6. These are the things that he speaks of and sings and compels us to listen to.”

Upon hearing this, I said, “O ridiculous Hippothales, before you have gained the victory do you compose and sing an encomium on yourself?”

“But I neither compose nor sing on myself, Socrates.”

“You do not think so,” I replied.

“How is that?” said he.

“These songs,” said I, “most of all relate to you. For if you gain your favourite being such as you describe, what you have said and sung will be an honour to you, and in reality an encomium on yourself as victorious in having won such a favourite. But if he should escape you, by how much greater the encomiums are which you uttered on your favourite, by so much the more ridiculous will you appear in being deprived of greater blessings. Whoever therefore, my friend, is skilled in matters of love, does not praise his beloved before he has caught him, fearing how the event will turn out. Moreover such as are beautiful when any one praises and extols them, are filled with pride and arrogance. Do you not think so?”

“I do,” he replied.

7. “And by how much the more arrogant they are, are they not more difficult to be caught?”

“That is probable at least.”

“What sort of huntsman, then, would he appear to you to be, who in hunting should scare away his prey, and make it more difficult to be caught?”

“Without doubt, a bad one.”

“And by speeches and songs not to soothe but exasperate, shews a great want of skill; does it not?”

“It appears so to me.”

“Consider then, Hippothales, whether you will not expose yourself to all these charges by your poetry. Though I think you would not be willing to allow that a man who harms himself by his poetry can be a good poet, in that he harms himself.”

“No, by Jupiter,” said he, “for that would be a great piece of folly. But on this very account, Socrates, I communicate the matter to you, and if you have any thing else to suggest, advise me, by saying what or by doing what one may win the affections of one’s favourite.”

“It is not easy to say,” I replied: “but if you will make Lysis himself converse with me, I could perhaps shew you what you ought to say to him, instead of the things which your friends allege that you say and sing.”

8. “There is no difficulty in that,” he replied. “For if you will enter with Ctesippus here, and sit down and converse, I think that he will join you of his own accord, for he is exceedingly fond of listening, Socrates, and moreover, as they are celebrating the Hermæa, young men and boys are all mixed up together. He will therefore join you: but if not, he is intimate with Ctesippus, through his cousin Menexenus; for Menexenus is his most particular friend. Let him call him, therefore, if he does not join you of his own accord.”

“This,” said I, “we must do.” And at the same time, laying hold of Ctesippus, I entered the palæstra, and the others came after us.

On entering there, we found that the boys had finished their sacrifices, and, the ceremonies being now nearly ended, playing at dice, and all full dressed. 9. Many of them were playing in the court outside, but some in a corner of the dressing-room were playing at odd and even with a great number of dice which they drew out of certain little baskets. Others stood round these, looking on; and among them was Lysis, and he stood in the midst of the boys and youths, crowned, and surpassing them in form, so as not only to deserve to be called beautiful, but beautiful and noble. Then we withdrawing to the opposite side sat down, (for it was quiet there,) and entered into conversation with each other. Lysis, thereupon, turning round, frequently looked at us, and was evidently anxious to come to us; but for some time he hesitated, and was averse to approach alone. Then, Menexenus comes in, in the midst of his game from the court, and as soon as he saw me and Ctesippus, came and seated himself by us. 10. Lysis, therefore, seeing him, followed, and sat down by the side of Menexenus. Others likewise came up, and moreover Hippothales, when he saw a good many standing round, concealing himself behind them, took up a position where he thought Lysis could not see him, fearing lest he should give him offence, and in this position he listened to our discourse. And I, looking towards Menexenus, said, “Son of Demophon, which of you is the elder?”

“We are in doubt,” he replied.

“Should you not also contend which of you is the more noble?” said I.

“Certainly,” said he.

“And in like manner, which of you is the more beautiful?”

Hereupon they both laughed. “However,” said I, “I will not ask which of you is the more rich, for you are friends; are you not?”

“Certainly,” they replied.

“Now the property of friends is said to be common, so that in this respect there will be no difference between you if what you say about friendship is true.”

They assented.

After this, I was purposing to ask, which of them was the more just and the more wise; but in the meanwhile some one came and made Menexenus get up, saying that the master of the palæstra called him; for he appeared to me to be one concerned in the sacrifices. He therefore left us; and I questioned Lysis: 11. “Doubtless,” said I, “Lysis, your father and mother love you very much?”

“Certainly,” he replied.

“Would they not, then, wish you to be as happy as possible?”

“How not?”

“Does a man appear to you to be happy who is a slave, and who is not permitted to do any thing he desires?”

“By Jupiter, no,” said he.

“If, therefore, your father and mother love you and wish that you may be happy, this is quite evident, that they endeavour to make you happy?”

“How should they not?” said he.

“Do they, therefore, permit you to do what you please, and in no respect find fault with you or hinder you from doing whatever you desire?”

“By Jupiter, Socrates,” said he, “they do indeed hinder me in very many things.”

“How say you?” I asked, “wishing you to be happy do they hinder you from doing whatever you please? Answer me thus; If you should desire to mount on one of your father’s chariots, and to take the reins when a race is to be run, would he not allow you, but hinder you?”

“By Jupiter,” said he, “he would not allow me.”

“Whom would he then?”

“There is a charioteer who receives pay from my father.”

12. “How say you? Do they suffer a hired servant rather than you to do what he pleases with the horses, and moreover pay him money for so doing?”

“Why not?” said he.

“But I suppose they suffer you to drive the pair of mules and, if you wish to take the whip and beat them, they would allow you.”

“Why allow me?” said he.

“But what?” said I, “is no one allowed to beat them?”

“Certainly,” said he, “the mule-driver.”

“Is he a slave, or free?”.

“A slave,” he replied.

“They think more of a slave then, as it seems, than of you, their son, and commit their property to him rather than to you, and allow him to do what he pleases, but you they hinder. Tell me this too. Do they allow you to govern yourself; or do they not even suffer this?”

“How should they suffer it?” he said.

“Who then governs you?”

“My pædagogue here,” said he.

“Is he a slave?”

“How should he be otherwise? ours though,” said he.

“It is shameful, surely,” said I, “that a freeman should be governed by a slave. And by doing what does this pædagogue govern you?”

“Of course,” said he, “he conducts me to my masters.”

“And do they too govern you, the masters?

“Assuredly.”

13. “Your father, then, voluntarily sets over you many rulers and governors. But when you return home to your mother, does she allow you to do whatever you please, that you may be happy as far as she is concerned, either with her wool or her loom when she is spinning? She surely does not hinder you from touching the comb or the shuttle, or any other of her spinning instruments.”

Whereupon, he laughing replied, “By Jupiter, Socrates, she not only hinders me, but I should be beaten too if I touched them.”

“By Hercules,” said I, “have you in any way injured your father or your mother?”

“By Jupiter, not I,” he said.

“For what reason, then, do they so shamefully hinder you from being happy and doing what you please, and bring you up throughout the whole day in subjection to some one, and in a word let you do scarcely any thing that you wish? So that, as it seems, neither have you any advantage from such great riches, but any one manages them rather than you, nor from your person, which is so noble, but this too another tends and takes care of: but you, Lysis, neither govern any thing, nor do any thing that you wish.”

14, “For I am not yet old enough, Socrates,” said he.

“That should not hinder you, son of Democrates: since thus far, I think, both your father and mother permit you and do not wait till you are old enough: for when they wish any thing to be read to or written for them, they appoint you, I think, first of all in the house to this office; do they not?”

“Certainly,” said he.

“Are you allowed then, in this case, to write whichever letter you please first, and which second, and are you allowed to read in like manner? And when you take the lyre, I think, neither your father nor your mother hinder you from tightening and loosening any string you please, and from twanging and striking them with the quill; do they hinder you?”

“By no means.”

“What then can be the cause, Lysis, that in these cases they do not hinder you, but do hinder you in those that we just now mentioned?”

“Because, I think,” said he, “I know the one, but not the other.”

15. “Be it so,” said I, “my excellent youth; your father, then, is not waiting for your being old enough to entrust every thing to you, but on the very day that he shall think you are wiser than he is, he will entrust to you both himself and his property?”

“I think he will,” said he.

“Be it so,” said I, “what then? Will not your neighbour follow the same rule as your father respecting you? Do you think he will entrust you with the management of his household when he thinks you are wiser than himself with respect to household-management, or will he preside over it himself?”

“I think he will entrust it to me.”

“But what? do you think the Athenians will entrust their affairs to you, when they perceive that you are wise enough?”

“I do.”

“By Jupiter,” said I, “what then as to the great king? Would he suffer his eldest son, who will succeed to the government of Asia, when his meat is being cooked, to throw into the sauce whatever he pleases, rather than us, if we should go to him and shew that we are more skilled in the preparation of dishes than his son?”

“Us, clearly,” he replied.

16. “And he would not allow him to throw any thing in, however trifling, but us he would allow, even if we wished to throw in salt by the handful.”

“How not?”

“But what if his son should be diseased in his eyes, would he allow him to touch his own eyes, not considering him a physician, or would he hinder him?”

“He would hinder him.”

“But if he supposed we were good physicians, even if we wished to open his eyes and sprinkle them with ashes, I think he would not hinder us, considering we judged rightly.”

“You say true.”

“Would he not entrust every thing else to us rather than to himself or his son, with respect to which we appeared to him to be wiser than either of them?”

“Necessarily so, Socrates,” he replied.

“This, then, is the case,” said I, “my dear Lysis, all persons, both Greeks and barbarians, men and women, will entrust us with those things with respect to which we are found to be wise, and we shall do in them whatever we please, nor will any one purposely hinder us, but we shall both be free ourselves in these matters, and governors over others, and these things will be our own, for we shall derive benefit from them. 17. But those things about which we have no knowledge no one will suffer us to do as we think proper, but all men will hinder us as much as they are able, not only strangers, but even our own father and mother, and any one else who is more nearly related to us than them, and in these matters we ourselves shall be subject to others, and they will be strange to us, for we shall derive no benefit from them. Do you admit that this is the case?”

“I do.”

“Shall we, then, be friends to any one, and will any one love us in those things in which we are of no use?”

“No, surely,” said he.

“Now, then, neither does your father love you, nor does any one else love another person, in so far as he is useless?”

“It appears not,” he said.

“If, then, you become wise, my boy, all men will be your friends, and all men will be attached to you, for you will be useful and good. But if not, neither will any one else, nor your father be a friend to you, nor your mother, nor any of your kindred. Is it possible, then, Lysis, that any one can deem himself wise in those things of which as yet he has no knowledge at all?”

“How can he?” said he.

“If, then, you require a teacher, you are not yet wise?”

18. “True.”

“Neither, then, are you very wise, if you are still unwise?”

“By Jupiter,” said he, “Socrates, I do not think that I can be.”

Then I, upon hearing this, looked at Hippothales, and almost committed a blunder, for it occurred to me to say, “Thus, Hippothales, we ought to converse with favourites, humbling and checking them, and not, as you do, puffing them up and filling them with vanity.” However, perceiving him anxious and disturbed at what was said, I recollected that, although he was standing near, he wished to escape the observation of Lysis; I therefore recovered myself, and restrained my speech.

At this moment Menexenus came again, and sat down by Lysis, whence he had risen before. Lysis, then, in a very boyish and affectionate manner, unobserved by Menexenus, talking to me a little while, said, “Socrates, say over again to Menexenus what you have been saying to me.”

And I replied, “Do you tell it him, Lysis, for you paid very great attention.”

“I certainly did,” he replied.

“Endeavour, then,” said I, “to remember it as well as you can, that you may tell him all clearly; but if you forget any thing, ask me again the first time you meet me.”

19. “I will most certainly do so, Socrates,” said he, “be well assured. But say something else to him, that I too may hear, until it is time for me to go home.”

“I must do so,” said I, “since you bid me; but take care that you assist me, if Menexenus should attempt to confute me. Do you not know that he is fond of disputing?”

“By Jupiter,” said he, “very much so; and for this reason I wish you to converse with him.”

“That I may make myself ridiculous?” said I.

“No, by Jupiter,” said he, “but that you may punish him.”

“How so,” said I, “that’s not an easy matter, for the man is clever, a disciple of Ctesippus. And besides, he is here in person, do not you see Ctesippus?”

“Don’t concern yourself about that, Socrates,” said he, “but come, converse with him.”

“We must converse, then,” I replied.

While we were speaking thus to each other, Ctesippus said, “What are you two feasting on by yourselves, without letting us share in the conversation?”

“But indeed,” said I, “you shall have a share, for Lysis here does not understand something that I have said, but says he thinks Menexenus knows it, and bids me ask him.”

20. “Why then,” said he, “do you not ask him?”

“But I will ask him,” I replied. “Answer me, then, Menexenus, what I shall ask you; for from my childhood I happen to have had a desire for a certain thing, as another person may have of something else: for one desires to possess horses, another dogs, another gold, and another honours; but I, for my part, am indifferent about these things, but have a fond desire for the possession of friends, and I had rather have a good friend than the best quail or cock in the world; and, by Jupiter, than the best horse or dog, and I think, by the dog, that I should much rather prefer the possession of an intimate, than the gold of Darius, or even than Darius himself, so fond am I of intimate friends. Seeing you, therefore, and Lysis, I was amazed, and pronounced you happy, because, young as you are, you have been able so quickly and easily to acquire this possession, and you have so quickly and sincerely acquired him for your friend, and again he you. But I am so far from making this acquisition, that I do not even know in what way one man becomes the friend of another; but I wish to ask this very thing of you, as being an experienced person. 21. Tell me, then, when any one loves another, which of the two becomes a friend, the lover of the beloved, or the beloved of the lover? or is there no difference?”

“It appears to me,” said he, “that there is no difference.”

“How say you?” I replied, “Do both then become friends of each other, if one alone loves the other?”

“To me it appears so,” said he.

“But what? Is it not possible for one who loves not to be loved in turn by the object of his love?”

“It is.”