360 BC
SYMPOSIUM
by Plato
translated by Benjamin Jowett

 

PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE:
APOLLODORUS, who repeats to his companion the dialogue which he had
heard from Aristodemus, and had already once narrated to Glaucon;
PHAEDRUS;
PAUSANIAS;
ERYXIMACHUS;
ARISTOPHANES;
AGATHON;
SOCRATES;
ALCIBIADES;
A TROOP OF REVELLERS.
SCENE: The House of Agathon.

 

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 yo