[Selected Works of Plato, Main Page]

[Stephanus Edition, Platonis opera quae extant omni, Volume 3, Title Page]

[Stephanus, Volume 3, page 167]

SYMPOSIUM

[OR]

[ON LOVE]

[Stephanus, page 172]

[Characters]

[APOLLODORUS, GLAUCON (the Companion of Apollodorus), ARISTODEMUS, SOCRATES, AGATHON, PHAEDRUS, PAUSANIAS, ERYXIMACHUS, ARISTOPHANES, DIOTIMA, ALCIBIADES]

[INTRODUCTION: APOLLODORUS TELLS OF THE DRINKING PARTY]

[Scene 1: Aristodemus Was of the Company There]

[Stephanus Reference: 172a]

I believe I have got the story you inquire of pretty well by heart. 

The day before yesterday I chanced to be going up to town from my house in Phalerum, when one of my acquaintance caught sight of me from behind, some way off, and called in a bantering tone Hullo, man of Phaleron! I say, Apollodorus, wait a moment. 

So, I stopped and waited. 

Then, Apollodorus, he said, do you know, I have just been looking for you, as I want to hear all about the banquet that brought together Agathon [172b] and Socrates and Alcibiades and the rest of that party, and what were the speeches they delivered upon Eros. For somebody else was relating to me the account he had from Phoenix, son of Philip, and he mentioned that you knew it too. But he could not tell it at all clearly—so, you must give me the whole story—for you are the most proper reporter of your dear friend’s discourses. But first, tell me this, he went on; were you at that party yourself, or not? 

To which my answer was: You have had anything but [172c] a clear account from your informant, if you suppose the party you are asking about to have been such a recent affair that I could be included. 

So, I did suppose, he said. 

How so, Glaucon? said I.

You must know it is many a year that Agathon has been away from home and country, and not yet three years that I have been consorting with Socrates and making it my daily care to know whatever he says or does. Before that time, [173a] what with running about at random and thinking I did things, I was the wretchedest man alive; just as you are at present, thinking philosophy is none of your business. 

Instead of jeering at me, he said, tell me when it was that this party took place. 

When you and I were only children, I told him; on the occasion of Agathon’s victory with his first tragedy: the day after that of the dedicatory feast which he and his players held for its celebration. Ah, quite a long while ago, it would seem, said he; but who gave you the account of it? Socrates himself? 

Goodness, no! I answered. It was the person who told Phoenix—[173b] Aristodemus of Cydathenaeum, a little man, who went always barefoot. He was of the company there, being one of the chief among Socrates' lovers at that time, I believe. But all the same, I have since questioned Socrates on some details of the story I had from his friend, and he acknowledged them to be in accordance with his reckoning. 

Come then, he said, let me have it now; and in fact the road up to town is well suited for telling and hearing as we go along.

So, on we went, discoursing the while of this affair; [173c] and hence, I began by saying, I have it pretty well by heart. So, friends, if you too must hear the whole story, I had better tell it:

[Scene 2: Apollodorus the Supple]

For my own part, indeed, I commonly find that, setting aside the benefit I conceive they do me, I take an immense delight in philosophic discourses, whether I speak them myself or hear them from others: whereas in the case of other sorts of talk—especially that of your wealthy, money-bag friends—I am not only annoyed myself but sorry for dear intimates like you, who think you are doing a great deal when you really do nothing at all. [173d] From your point of view, I daresay, I seem a hapless creature, and I think your thought is true. I, however, do not think it of you: I know it for sure.

GLAUCON. You’re always the same, Apollodorus! For you’re forever slandering yourself and others, and it seems to me you regard everyone as utterly wretched—except Socrates—starting with yourself. And how you ever got the moniker "Supple," I don’t know. In your arguments, you're always like this: harsh to yourself and everyone else—except Socrates. [173e]

APOLLODORUS. My dear friend, is it so obvious that I'm raving mad and staggering about, thinking this way about myself and all of you?

GLAUCON. It is a waste of time, Apollodorus, to wrangle about such matters now. Come, without more ado, comply with our request and relate how the speeches went.

APOLLODORUS. Well then, they were somewhat as follows,—but stay, I must try and tell you all in order from the beginning, [174a] just as my friend told it to me: 

[PART 1: THE ORDER OF THE DRINKING PARTY]

[CHAPTER 1: IF TWO GO ALONG TOGETHER, THERE'S ONE BEFORE THE OTHER]

[Scene 3: Socrates in Such Fine Trim]

He said that he met with Socrates fresh from the bath and wearing his best pair of slippers—quite rare events with him—and asked him whither he was bound in such fine trim.

To dinner at Agathon’s, he answered. I evaded him and his celebrations yesterday, fearing the crowd; but I agreed to be present today. So, I got myself up in this handsome style in order to be a match for my handsome host. Now tell me, said he, do you feel in the mood [174b] for going unasked to dinner?

For anything, he said he replied, that you may bid me do.

Come along then, he said; let us corrupt the proverb with a new version:

What if they go of their own accord,
The good men to our Goodman’s board?

Though indeed Homer may be said to have not merely corrupted the adage, but debauched it: for after setting forth Agamemnon as a man eminently good at warfare, [174c] and Menelaus as only 

a spearman soft, 

he makes the latter come unbidden to the banquet of the former, who was offering sacrifice and holding a feast; So, the worse man was the guest of the better. 

To this my friend’s answer, as he told me, was: I am afraid mine, most likely, is a case that fits not your version, Socrates, but Homer’s—a dolt coming unbidden to the banquet of a scholar. Be sure, then, to have your excuse quite ready when you bring me; for I shall not own to coming unasked, [174d] but only on your invitation.

If two go along together, 

he remarked,

there’s one before another 

in devising what we are to say. 

Well, off we go.

After some such conversation, he told me, they started off. Then Socrates, becoming absorbed in his own thoughts by the way, fell behind him as they went; and when my friend began to wait for him he bade him go on ahead. [174e] 

[Scene 4: And There He Stands]

So, he came to Agathon’s house, and found the door open; where he found himself in a rather ridiculous position. For he was met immediately by a servant from within, who took him where the company was reclining, and he found them just about to dine. 

However, as soon as Agathon saw him Ha, Aristodemus, he cried, right welcome to a place at table with us! If you came on some other errand, put it off to another time: only yesterday I went round to invite you, but failed to see you. But how is it you do not bring us Socrates? 

At that I turned back for Socrates, he said, but saw no sign of him coming after me: So, I told them how I myself had come along with Socrates, since he had asked me to dine with them. 

Very good of you to come, he said, but where is the man? [175a] 

He was coming in just now behind me: I am wondering myself where he can be. 

Go at once, said Agathon to the servant, and see if you can fetch in Socrates. You, Aristodemus, take a place by Eryximachus. 

So, the attendant washed him and made him ready for reclining, when another of the servants came in with the news that our good Socrates had retreated into their neighbors’ porch; there he was standing, and when bidden to come in, he refused. 

How strange! said Agathon, you must go on bidding him, and by no means let him go. [175b]

But this Aristodemus forbade: No, said he, let him alone; it is a habit he has. Occasionally he turns aside, anywhere at random, and there he stands. He will be here presently, I expect. So, do not disturb him; let him be.

Very well then, said Agathon, as you judge best. Come, boys, he called to the servants, serve the feast for the rest of us. You are to set on just whatever you please, now that you have no one to direct you (a method I have never tried before). Today you are to imagine that I and all the company here have come on your invitation. So, look after us, and earn our compliments. [175c]

Thereupon, he said, they all began dinner, but Socrates did not arrive; and though Agathon ever and anon gave orders that they should go and fetch him, my friend would not allow it. 

[Scene 5: So That by Contact with You I May Have Some Benefit from That Piece of Wisdom]

When he did come, it was after what, for him, was no great delay, as they were only about halfway through dinner. Then Agathon, who happened to be sitting alone in the lowest place, said: Here, Socrates, come sit by me, so that by contact with you [175d] I may have some benefit from that piece of wisdom that occurred to you there in the porch. Clearly you have made the discovery and got hold of it for you would not have come away before.

Then Socrates sat down, and How fine it would be, Agathon, he said, if wisdom were a sort of thing that could flow out of the one of us who is fuller into him who is emptier, by our mere contact with each other, as water will flow through wool from the fuller cup into the emptier. 

If such is indeed the case with wisdom, I set a great value on my sitting next to you: [175e] I look to be filled with excellent wisdom drawn in abundance out of you. My own is but meagre, as disputable as a dream; but yours is bright and expansive, as the other day we saw it shining forth from your youth, strong and splendid, in the eyes of more than thirty thousand Greeks. 

You rude mocker, Socrates! said Agathon. A little later on you and I shall go to law on this matter of our wisdom, and Dionysus shall be our judge. For the present, let the dinner be your first concern. [176a] 

After this, it seems, when Socrates had taken his place and had dined with the rest, they made libation and sang a chant to the god and so forth, as custom bids, till they betook them to drinking. 

[Scene 6: To Drink Only So Much as Each Wishes]

Then Pausanias opened a conversation after this manner: Well, gentlemen, what mode of drinking will suit us best? For my part, to tell the truth, I am in very poor form as a result of yesterday’s bout, and I claim a little relief; it is so, I believe, with most of you, for you were at yesterday’s party: So, consider what method [176b] of drinking would suit us best. 

On this Aristophanes observed: Now that, Pausanias, is a good suggestion of yours, that we make a point of consulting our comfort in our cups: for I myself am one of those who got such a soaking yesterday. 

When Eryximachus, son of Acumenus, heard this; You are quite right, sirs, he said; and there is yet one other question on which I request your opinion, as to what sort of condition Agathon finds himself in for drinking. 

No, no, said Agathon, I am not in good condition for it either. [176c] 

It would be a piece of luck for us, I take it, the other went on, that is, for me, Aristodemus, Phaedrus, and our friends here, if you who are the stoutest drinkers are now feeling exhausted. We, of course, are known weaklings. Socrates I do not count in the matter: he is fit either way, and will be content with whichever choice we make. Now as it appears that nobody here present is eager for copious draughts, perhaps it will be the less irksome to you if I speak of intoxication, and tell you truly what it is: 

The practice of medicine, I find, has made this clear to me— [176d] that drunkenness is harmful to mankind; and neither would I myself agree, if I could help it, to an excess of drinking, nor would I recommend it to another, especially when his head is still heavy from a bout of the day before. 

Here Phaedrus of Myrrhinus interrupted him, saying: Why, you know I always obey you, above all in medical matters; and so, now will the rest of us, if they are well advised. Then all of them, on hearing this, [176e] consented not to make their present meeting a tipsy affair, but to drink just as it might serve their pleasure. 

Since it has been resolved, then, said Eryximachus, that we are to drink only so much as each wishes, with no constraint on any, I next propose that the flute-girl who came in just now be dismissed: let her pipe to herself or, if she likes, to the women-folk within, but let us seek our entertainment today in conversation. I am ready, if you so wish, to suggest what sort of discussion it should be. 

They all said they did so wish, and bade him make his proposal. 

So, Eryximachus proceeded: 

[Scene 7: Each to Make a Speech Praising Eros]

The beginning of what I have to say is in the words of Euripides' Melanippe, 

not mine the tale

that I intend to tell; it comes from Phaedrus here. He is constantly complaining to me and saying,—Is it not a curious thing, Eryximachus, that while other gods have hymns and psalms indited in their honor by the poets, Eros—so ancient and so great— [177b] has had no song of praise composed for him by a single one of all the many poets that ever have been? And again, pray consider our worthy professors, and the eulogies they frame of Hercules and others in prose—for example, the excellent Prodicus. This indeed is not so surprising, but I recollect coming across a book by somebody, in which I found salt superbly lauded for its usefulness, and many more such matters [177c] I could show you celebrated there. To think of all this bustle about such trifles, and not a single man ever essaying till this day to make a fitting hymn to Love! So, great a god, and So, neglected! Now I think Phaedrus’s protest a very proper one. Accordingly, I am not only desirous of obliging him with a contribution of my own, but I also pronounce the present to be a fitting occasion for us here assembled to honor the god. [177d] 

So, if you on your part approve, we might pass the time well enough in discourses; for my opinion is that we ought each of us to make a speech in turn, from left to right, praising Eros as beautifully as he can. Phaedrus shall open first; for he has the topmost place at table, and besides is father of our debate. 

No one, Eryximachus, said Socrates, will vote against you: I do not see how I could myself decline, [177e] when I set up to understand nothing but erotic matters; nor could Agathon and Pausanias either, nor yet Aristophanes, who divides his time between Dionysus and Aphrodite; nor could any other of the persons I see before me. To be sure, we who sit at the bottom do not get a fair chance: but if the earlier speakers rise beautifully to the occasion, we shall be quite content. So, now let Phaedrus, with our best wishes, make a beginning and give us a encomium of Eros. 

To this they assented one and all, [178a] bidding him do as Socrates said. 

Now the entire speech in each case was beyond Aristodemus' recollection, and so too the whole of what he told me is beyond mine: but those parts which, on account also of the speakers, I deemed most memorable, I will tell you successively as they were delivered.

First then, as I said, he told me that the speech of Phaedrus began with points of this sort—that Eros was a great god, among men and gods a marvel; and this appeared in many ways, but notably in his birth. [178b]

[PART 2: EARLIER SPEECHES]

[CHAPTER 2: THE SPEECH OF PHAEDRUS]

[Scene 8: The Elder Lover is More Divine, Inspired by the Eldest God]

Of the ancient are the honors of this god, and the proof of it is this: parents of Eros there are none, nor are any recorded in either prose or verse. 

Hesiod says that Chaos came first into being—

and thereafter rose
Broad-breasted Gaia, sure seat of all for aye,
And Eros. 

Acusilaus also agrees with Hesiod, saying that after Chaos were born these two, Gaia and Eros. Parmenides says of Genesis that she

invented Eros before all other gods. [178c]

Thus, from many sources, it is agreed that Eros is among the oldest of beings. And being the oldest, he is the cause of our greatest goods. For I myself cannot name a greater blessing for a youth than a beautiful lover, or for a lover than a worthy young companion. What one must deem essential for a life well-lived—this neither kinship, nor honors, nor wealth, [178d] nor any other thing can instill so nobly as Eros. 

What, then, do I mean? —Shame felt toward shameful acts; and likewise, fondness of honor toward beautiful ones. Without these, neither a city nor a private person could achieve great and beautiful things. 

I assert then, that a lover, if caught doing or enduring something shameful, when failing to defending himself due to unmanliness, would feel less pain if seen by his father, friends, or anyone else—than by his young companion. [178e] We see the same thing in the childlike companion, who especially feels shame before his lovers when seen amidst something shameful. 

If a city or army could be formed of lovers and young companions, they would govern best by abstaining from all things shameful and loving honor with one another. [179a] Such men, few as they might be, would conquer—word be told—all humankind. 

For a man in love, being seen by his childlike companions—whether abandoning his post or discarding his weapons—he could far less endure that than being seen by all the others. Indeed, he would likely choose to have perished beforehand. And to abandon his childlike companions or fail to aid them in danger—no one is so evil that Eros himself would not inspire him with divinity toward excellence, making him resemble the most beautiful by nature. [179b] Simply put, as Homer said, the god

breathed fury

into some heroes. This is what Eros provides to lovers [ἐρῶσι], it arising from himself. 

Indeed, lovers alone are willing to die for others—not just men, but women too. Pelias’ daughter Alcestis provides sufficient testimony to this argument among the Greeks, as she alone chose to die for her husband despite him having a living father and mother. [179c] She so surpassed them in fond affection [philia] through her love [eros] that she revealed them as strangers to their son, related by name alone. Having done this beautiful deed, she seemed to have acted not just for humanity but for the gods. Though many have done great deeds, the gods granted this privilege to only a few: to release their souls from Hades. But hers they restored, marveling at her act. [179d] Thus, even the gods honor most the zeal and excellence arising from love.

But Orpheus, son of Oeagrus, the gods sent back from Hades unfulfilled, showing him a phantom of the woman he sought but denying her return—because he seemed to have become supple—while being a lyre-player!—not daring for the sake of love to die as Alcestis did, but contriving, while living, to enter into Hades. Therefore, because of these things, they imposed punishment upon him, and caused his death at the hands of women. [179e]

In contrast, they honored Achilles, son of Thetis, and sent him to the Isles of the Blessed—because having learned from his mother that he would die upon killing Hector, but if refraining he would return home and die old, he dared to choose aiding his lover Patroclus, [180a] and avenging him—not only dying for, but also dying after the one who had died. For this, the gods marveled and especially honored him—because he made so much of the lover. 

Aeschylus [Αἰσχύλος], however, speaks nonsense, claiming that Achilles loves Patroclus, who was more beautiful not only than Patroclus but also than all the heroes, and still beardless, then much younger, as Homer says. [180b] Actually, the gods honor most this excellence concerning eros: they admire, praise, and reward it most when the beloved cherishes the lover; rather than when the lover does his childlike companion. For the lover is more divine than the childlike companion; he is inspired by the god. For this reason, they honored Achilles even more than Alcestis, sending him to the Isles of the Blessed.

So, indeed, I declare that Eros is the eldest and most honored and most sovereign of the gods, giving possession of excellence, and happiness to humans—those both living and those brought to their end. [180c]

[Scene 9: Other Speeches Which Aristodemus Did Not Entirely Remember]

Such, more or less, was the speech of Phaedrus, as he [Aristodemus] told me. 

After Phaedrus, there were others, which he did not entirely remember. Passing over those, he proceeded to give the details of the speech of Pausanias, who spoke as follows: [§§] 

[CHAPTER 3: THE SPEECH OF PAUSANIAS]

[Scene 10: Praise of the Eros of the Elder Motherless Heavenly Aphrodite, Not of the Eros of the Younger Heterosexual Popular Aphrodite]

It doesn't seem beautiful to me, dear Phaedrus, the way the speech was proposed to us—having been instructed simply to praise Eros. For if there were only one Eros, this would possess beauty, but now there is not just one. And since there is not one, it is more right first to say up front what kind of eros we ought to approve of. [180d] Anyways, I myself will attempt to correct this, first by indicating which eros we ought to approve of, and then by approving of it in a manner worthy of the god. 

Now we are all sure that there is no Aphrodite without Eros. If there were only one Aphrodite, there would be only one Eros. But since there are two Aphrodites, there must necessarily be two Eroses. How could there not be two goddesses? The first is the elder and motherless daughter of Uranus [Heaven], whom we call Urania [Heavenly], while the second is the younger daughter of Dios [Zeus] and Dione, whom we call "Popular." It is perforce, then, to rightly call the one eros "popular," and the other "heavenly." 

We ought to approve of all the gods, but we must attempt to say what each has obtained by lot. For every practice is such that, in itself, it is neither beautiful nor shameful. Such as, that we are doing now—whether drinking or singing or conversing —none of these is itself beautiful, but depends on how it is performed in practice. For when done beautifully and rightly, it becomes beautiful; if not rightly, shameful. So too loving and Eros are not all beautiful or worthy of praise, but only that loving which urges forward beautifully. 

The so-called "Popular" Aphrodite is truly popular with all people, accomplishing whatever it might chance upon. This is the eros of easy people. They love women no less than childlike companions. [181c] Furthermore, they love bodies over souls—being capable of the most mindless things, looking only to consummation, heedless of whether something is beautiful or not. Thus, it comes together in that they effect whatever they may chance upon—good the same as its opposite. This love stems from the younger goddess, generated of both female and male. 

The heavenly, first, partakes of nothing of the female—being but male alone, and is the eros of childlike companions. Next, it is older, without a share in hubris—whence they turn to the male, inspired by this eros, cherishing that which by nature is stouter and more in possession of mind. 

And whoever might come to understand pederasty in itself must be impelled purely by this eros. For, they don't love childlike companions, but those who are beginning already to possess consciousnes—the one who is approaching beard growth. For I think those who begin here are prepared to love, so as to spend their whole life together and live in common—not deceitfully taking hold of a youth that is mindless, and then mocking and running off to another. 

There should also be a law against loving childlike companions, so that much exertion is not spent in uncertainty. For the end [or outcome] of childlike companions is uncertain—whether they will end up in evil or excellence concerning soul and body. The good willingly set this law for themselves, but these popular lovers must likewise be compelled, [182a] just as we force them not to love free women as much as we are able. For these are the ones who have brought reproach, so that some dare to say it is shameful to gratify lovers. They say this looking at them, observing their bad timing and injustice, since surely no deed done with order and lawfulness would justly incur blame. 

The law concerning eros is easy to discern in other cities—simply demarcated—but here and in Lacedaemonia [Sparta], it is intricate. In Elis and Boeotia, where they are not skilled in speaking, it is simply legislated as beautiful to gratify lovers—and no one, young or old, would call it shameful—all to avoid the trouble of persuading youths through speech, they being unable to speak. And in Ionia and many other places under barbarians, it is by custom shameful. For, among barbarians, due to their tyrannies, the fondness of wisdom [philosophy] and the fondness of gymnastics [philogymnastia] are deemed shameful. The rulers fear great minds arising among those they rule—and strong fondness [philias] or alliances, which eros most fosters. Tyrants here learned this by the deed: Aristogeiton's eros and Harmodius' steadfast fondness [philia] toppled their rule. Where gratifying lovers is deemed shameful, it stems from the lawmakers' evil—the greed of the rulers, and unmanliness of the ruled. Where it is beautiful by custom, it reflects the soul’s idleness. Here, a far finer law exists, yet as I said, it is not easy to be conscious down into it. 

For it is said that loving openly is more beautiful than doing so covertly—especially among the most suitably born and most excellent, even if they are uglier than others—and that encouragement to the lover is admired by all, not as doing something shameful—and that once having it in hand, it seems to be beautiful; and to not have done so a shameful thing. And the law grants the lover license to attempt capture, praising him for marvelous deeds. 

If anyone dared such acts for other ends—wealth, power, or fondness of wisdom—they would reap endless reproaches. For, if one begged, swore oaths, slept on doorsteps, or endured slavishness as lovers do for the childlike companion—friends and enemies alike would hinder him. Friends would call it flattery; enemies, servility. But the lover does all this under grace, and the law grants his acting this way without reproach, as accomplishing a completely beautiful deed. Now, the most fearsome thing is that everyone says that when it comes to swearing—he alone is forgiven by the gods for violating oaths "of Aphrodite"—that it isn't an oath, they say. Thus, gods and humans have granted the lover full license, as here in this city the law and everyone supposes loving to be completely beautiful, as well as being fond of lovers.

Sometimes fathers appoint pedagogues to prevent beloveds from conversing with lovers. The pedagogue is given the orders, peers and companions reproach such conduct when they see it, while elders do not stop or repremand the reproachers for not speaking rightly. Upon seeing this, someone might suppose that such a thing is considered here [in Athens] most shameful. But I think it is not that simple. As was said from the beginning, it is neither beautiful itself according to itself nor shameful—but being done beautifully, is beautiful; done shamefully, shameful. It is shameful to wickedly gratify him who is wicked; but is also beautiful when beautifully done for the beautiful. It is wicked that the popular lover loves the body, rather than the soul. For, he is not enduring, since the loving deed is not enduring. For, when the body's bloom ceases, which he once loved—he then flees, flying away, having put to shame many words and promises. The character of the real beautiful lover, however, remains throughout life, since the union is enduring. 

Our law sure wishes to test such well and beautifully: to gratify some and flee from others. Through these things, it exhorts pursuit of some and flight from others, judging both the lover and the beloved. Because of this, first, it has been established that to be captured quickly is shameful, in order that time might intervene—it seems so as to beautifully test various things. Next, to be captured by wealth or political power is shameful—whether because one cowers under evil suffering, and does not endure; or because he does not despise money  or political transactions. [184b] For none of these is steadfast or enduring—apart from a beautiful fondness not naturally arising from them. [184c]

One path remains for our law: if a lover is to properly gratify a childlike companion [παιδικά], there is a custom that willing servitude to childlike ones is not flattery or shameful. Similarly, another single voluntary servitude remains: that concerning excellence. For it is lawful if one willingly serves another, believing he will improve in wisdom or any part of excellence; this servitude is neither shameful nor flattery. The two laws—the one concerning pederasty, and and the other concerning both fondness for wisdom and excellence—must be in step together, if granting favor to a lover is to become beautiful. [184d] 

For whenever both a lover and a beloved should meet, each in possession of their respective law, each fulfills their role justly: the one justly serves by serving the favored beloved in all things; the other likewise assists the one making him wise and good by assisting in anything whatsoever—the one being able to contribute to mindfulness and other excellences; the other needing to acquire pedagogy and other wisdom. [184e] Then indeed, when these come together and meet, only here do the laws fall together and concur that the beautiful thing is for a childlike companion to gratify a lover; elsewhere, not. In this case, even to be deceived is nothing shameful; but in all other circumstances, for the one deceived, it brings shame—or it doesn't. [185a]

If someone were to gratify a lover under the pretense of his plenty and then be deceived, failing to gain the riches he expected once the lover proves to be poor, this would be utterly shameful. For such a man reveals himself as one who would serve anyone for money—not a beautiful thing. But if a man, believing his lover to be good, gratifies hoping to better himself through their fondness, and is deceived when the lover turns out to be evil and lacking in excellence, even falling for this trick is beautiful. [185b] For he has shown that, for the sake of excellence and self-improvement, he would eagerly do all things—and this is the most beautiful aim. Thus, to act sake of excellence is always beautiful. 

This is the eros of the heavenly god—heavenly and of great worth, both to the city and to private people—compelling much care to be taken toward excellence by both the lover himself and the beloved. [185c] But the others all belong to the other—to the popular. 

These things, dear Phaedrus, concering Eros, I throw together on the spot.

[Scene 11: Pausanias Pauses, But Not Aristophanes' Hiccup]

When Pausanias paused—for the wise teach me to speak in this way—Aristodemus declared that Aristophanes ought to speak. 

But a hiccup had seized him, either from fullness—or another cause—making speech impossible. So he said—since the physician Eryximachus reclined below him—Eryximachus, you must either cure my hiccup or speak for me until it pauses. [185d]

And Eryximachus said, I will do both. For I shall speak in your turn, and you, when you cease, in mine. While I speak, if the hiccup persists, gargle with water. [185e] If it is severe, take something to provoke a sneeze—even twice if needed—and it will stop.

Aristophanes replied, Proceed; I will follow your advice.

So Eryximachus spoke: 

[CHAPTER 4: THE SPEECH OF ERYXIMACHUS] 

[Scene 12: Harmonizing the Two Eroses]

It seems necessary to me, since Pausanias began his speech beautifully but did not fully complete it, that I should attempt to conclude it. [186a] For while he beautifully divided eros into two kinds, the inclination toward beauty is not only in human souls, but also extends to many other things—in the bodies of all living beings, in the things that grow in the earth, and—word be told—all really existing things. From medicine, our craft, it seems to me that this god is vast, wondrous, and governs both human and divine affairs. [186b]

I shall begin, then, speaking as a member of the medical community, so that we may honor the craft. For the nature of bodies has a double eros. For the healthy state of the body and the sick are agreed to be distinct and unlike, and what is distinct has a thymatic passion for and loves distinct things. Therefore, the eros directed toward the healthy is one, and that toward the diseased is another. Just as Pausanias said, it is beautiful to gratify good people; but shameful the licentious. [186c] So too, in the bodies themselves, it is beautiful and necessary to gratify the good and healthy parts of each body (this is what is called the medical craft), but shameful to gratify the evil and diseased parts. For medicine, in sum, is the epistemic knowledge of the body’s erotic passions concerning repletion and emptying. [186d]

He who discerns the noble and shameful eros in these is the most medical, and he who can effect a change, substituting one eros for another, and who knows how to implant eros where it is lacking, or remove it where it is present—such a man would be a good artisan. For it is necessary to make the most hostile elements in the body become fond ones and love one another. The most hostile are the most opposite: cold to hot, bitter to sweet, dry to wet, and all such pairs. By imposing eros and harmony upon these, our ancestor Asclepius, as the poets say and I am persuaded, established our craft. [186e]

Therefore, the medical craft, as I say, is wholly governed through this god, and likewise gymnastics and agriculture. Music, too, as is entirely evident to anyone who pays even slight attention to reason, operates in the same way as these—just as Heraclitus perhaps intends to say, though he does not phrase it well. [187a] For he states that the one thing, being at variance from itself, logically agrees with itself, like the harmony of a bow and lyre. It is highly illogical to claim that harmony is in conflict or exists through elements still in opposition. But perhaps he meant this: harmony arises from conflicting elements—first the high-pitched and low-pitched sounds, which later logically agree through the musical craft. [187b] For harmony cannot come from elements still in opposition: harmony is symphonious concord, and symphone is a kind of shared speech. But shared speech is impossible among elements that remain opposed. What is at variance and unaligned cannot be harmonized—just as rhythm arises from the fast and slow, which were first distinct but later agreed. [187c]

This agreement of speech among all these things—just as medicine does there, music implants here, producing eros and mutual harmony. And music is, again, epistemic knowledge concerning the erotic aspects of harmony and rhythm. In the very structure of harmony and rhythm, there is nothing difficult about discerning erotic matters, nor is the double eros yet present here. But when one must apply rhythm and harmony to humans—either by composing (what they call "song-making") or by correctly using existing "melodies" and "meters" (termed "pedegogy")—there difficulty arises, and a good artisan is needed. [187d]

For again the same speech returns: it is necessary to gratify and guard the eros of orderly humans, and to make those not yet orderly become more so. This is the beautiful, heavenly Eros of the Uranian Muse. [187e] But the Eros of Polyhymnia [She of Many Hymns], the popular, must be applied cautiously to whom it is applied, so that one may reap its pleasure without causing licentiousness—just as in our craft, it is a great task to rightly manage thymatic passions related to culinary craft, so that pleasure is reaped without disease. 

As in music and medicine, so in all other things, human and divine—as far as is fitting, each eros must be guarded; for both are present. [188a]

Since the composition of the seasons in the year is full of both of these eroses, when the orderly eros (as I just described) brings together hot, cold, dry, and wet elements into moderate harmony and balance, it yields prosperity and health for humans, animals, and plants, harming none. But when the Eros of hubris dominates the seasons, it destroys much and causes harm. [188b] For plagues are accustomed to arise from such things, and many other diseases for beasts and plants. Frosts, hailstones, and blights arise from excess and disorder of such erotic elements toward one another, of which the knowledge concerning the movements of astral things and seasons of the year is called "astronomy." 

Furthermore, all offerings and those over which prophecy presides—the communion between gods and humans—are about nothing else but the guarding and healing of Eros. [188c] For all irreverence tends to arise if one does not gratify the orderly Eros, honoring him, and prioritizing him in every work, but instead follows the other Eros. This applies to parents (living and dead) and gods. Prophecy is tasked to oversee erotic lovers and heal them, and prophecy is the artisan of fondness between gods and humans, knowing human erotic matters that align with established order and well-reverence. [188d]

Thus, Eros possesses great and mighty—no, total—power. The Eros directed toward the good with soundness of mind and justice, active among us and gods, holds supreme power and provides all happiness—enabling us to interact as fond ones and commune with our betters, the gods.

[Scene 13: Eryximachus to Guard the Speech of Aristophanes]

Perhaps I, in praising Eros, have omitted much—not willingly. [188e] But if I overlooked anything, Aristophanes, it is your task to fill in—or, if you have another way to praise the god, proceed, now that your hiccup has paused. 

Aristophanes, taking up the speech, said that his hiccup had indeed ceased—but not before the sneeze was applied to it. [189a] This makes me wonder if the orderly part of the body is thymatically passionate for such sounds and ticklings as a sneeze involves. For it stopped immediately once I applied the sneeze to it. 

And you, my dear good man, said Eryximachus to 'Aristophanes, see what you are doing?! You turn to comedy as you prepare to speak, forcing me to act as a guard over your speech, should you speak something laughable, when you could otherwise speak in peace. [189b]

And Aristophanes, laughing, said: You speak beautifully, Eryximachus, and let what I said go as unspoken. But do not guard me, for I don't fear that I might say something laughable—that would be a gain, and native to my muse—but that I might say something to scoff at.

Even if you try, Aristophanes, you think to escape? But pay attention and speak as one who will give account. Perhaps, however, if I see fit, I will let you go. [189c]

And Aristophanes said: 

[CHAPTER 5: THE SPEECH OF ARISTOPHANES] 

[Scene 14: Eros of One's Other Half] 

Truly, Eryximachus, I intend to speak differently from you and Pausanias. For humans seem wholly unaware of Eros' power. If they perceived it, they would build grand temples and altars, offer the greatest offerings—yet none of this is done for him now, though it should be above all. [189d] 

For he is the one most fond of humans among gods, a helper to humans [ἀνθρώπων] and a healer of those ailments which, when healed, would bring the greatest happiness to the human genus. I will therefore attempt to explain his power to you, and you will become teachers to others. But first, you must learn human nature and its sufferings. 

For our nature in ancient times was not as it is now, but different. [189e] First, there were three genuses of humans, not two as now—male and female—but also a third, common to both, whose name remains though the form itself has vanished. The androgynous, one in both perceptible form and name, combining male and female, existed then but now survives only as a term of reproach. 

Then, the whole perceptible form of each human was round, with back and sides circularly arranged. [190a] They had four hands, and legs equal in number to the hands, two faces on a circular neck, alike in every direction. One crown of the head topped both opposite faces with four ears, two sets of modest things [private parts], and everything else as one might infer. They moved upright as now, in any direction they wished. [190b] When rushing swiftly, like acrobats somersaulting in a circle, they propelled themselves swiftly on eight limbs. 

There were three genuses then: the male was the offspring of the sun; the female of the earth; and the third shared in the moon, which blended both. Their spherical form and movement mirrored their parents. Their strength and vigor were immense, and their ambitions grand. [190c] They attempted to assault the gods, as Homer speaks of Ephialtes and Otus, who tried to scale heaven and attack the gods.

Then Zeus and the other gods were deliberating what they should do, and they were perplexed. For they neither had a way to kill them, as they had destroyed the genus of giants with thunderbolts—since the honors and sacred rites from humans would then disappear—nor could they allow their wantonness. [190d]

At last Zeus, devising a plan, said: I think I have a contrivance so that humans may exist yet cease their licentiousnes, becoming weaker. For now, he said, I will cut each in half, making them weaker but more useful to us by increasing their number. They will walk upright on two legs. If they still act wantonly and refuse to be quiet, I will cut them again, so they hop on one leg. 

Having spoken, he cut humans in two, as one cuts pears for preservation or eggs with hairs. [190e] Whomever he cut, he ordered Apollo to turn their face and half their neck toward the cut, so that seeing their own wound, they might behave more orderly—and to heal the rest. 

So, he turned the face around and, drawing the skin from all sides to what is now called the belly—like drawstring pouches—he fashioned one opening at the center of the belly, which they call the navel. [191a] And as for the other wrinkles, he smoothed out most of them and shaped the chest, using a tool like cobblers use to drive out the wrinkles in hides on their foot shaped last. But he left a few around the belly and navel as a reminder of their ancient suffering. [191b]

When nature was thus split, each half yearned for its other, embracing and entwining with a desperate thymatic passion to come together in nature—perishing from hunger or inaction, refusing to act apart. And whenever one of the halves died, the remaining half sought another and entwined with it—whether encountering a woman's half (now called "woman") or a man's—until they too wasted away. [191c]

Taking pity, Zeus devised another plan: he moved their modest things to the front (previously, they were external, and they reproduced into the earth like cicadas). By placing them frontward, he enabled genesis through male and female intertwining, so that in intercourse, if a man met a woman, they might give birth. [191d] 

Thus, eros is innate in humans, the uniter of our ancient nature, striving to make one from two and heal humanity. Each of us is a symbol of the whole, split like flatfish from one into two, ever seeking our missing half. [191e] Those men from the common portion (once called "androgynous") are those fond of women and adulterers; women from this stock are those fond of men and adulteresses. Women split from women ignore men, turning toward women—these become female comrades [lesbian lovers]. 

As for those who are portions of the masculine, they pursue males. [192a] While they are children, being fragments of the masculine, they are fond of men, delighting to lie and entwine with them. These are the finest of boys and striplings, as they are naturally most manly. Some falsely accuse them of being unashamed, but they act not from shamelessness but from courage, manliness, and masculinity, embracing what is akin to themselves. [192b]

A great marker of this is that when initiated, such men alone enter public life. Upon becoming men, they love boys and disregard marriage and the making of children by nature, compelled only by law. Unmarried life suffices them. Thus, such a man becomes a lover of boys and one who is fond of eros, ever embracing those of the same genus. [192c] When he meets his own half, both he and his boy lover are awestruck by fondness, affinity, and eros, refusing separation even briefly. 

Those who persist together through life cannot articulate what they truly want from one another. [192d] No one would mistake this for being together merely in some aphrodisian way. Their souls are obscurely but thymatically passionate for something deeper—to merge entirely. Imagine Hephaestus offering with great eagerness to melt them together into one being, inseparable in life and death. [192e] None would refuse this primal first longing—to melt into unity, fulfilling the original ache to become whole—because our original nature was like this, and we were whole. Thus, the pursuit and thymatic passion for wholeness is named eros. [193a]

And before, as I say, we were one—but now, because of injustice, we have been split apart by the god, just as were the Arcadians by the Lacedaemonians. Fear, therefore, exists—if we are not orderly toward the gods—lest we be split apart again, and will have to go about like those on stelae, carved inscriptions, split along our noses , having become splinters. [193b]

But for the sake of all these things, every man must urge forward all toward well-reverence concerning the gods, so that we may escape some things and obtain others, as Eros is our driver and general. Let no one act contrary to him—for whoever acts contrary to the gods is hated—but by becoming fond ones reconciled to the god we shall discover and encounter our own childlike ones, which few now do. [193c] And let not Eryximachus interrupt me by mocking my speech, as if I speak of Pausanias and Agathon—though perhaps they too belong to this class and are both masculine by nature—but I speak universally of all men—and women—that our genus would become happy, if we fulfilled eros and each obtained their own childlike ones, returning to our ancient nature. [193d]

If this is best, then those now present must also be closest to the best. And this is to obtain childlike ones [παιδικῶν] naturally suited to one's consciousness. Therefore, we would justly praise the god responsible for this—Eros—who being present, benefits us most by leading us to what is our own, and for the future provides the greatest hopes, as we offer well-reverence to the gods. Having restored us to our ancient nature and healed us, he makes us blessed and happy.

This, he said, dear Eryximachus, is my speech about Eros, different from yours. [193e] As I begged you, do not mock it, so that we may hear what each of the others—or rather, what each of the two remaining—Agathon and Socrates—will say. 

[Scene 15: Socrates Begins to Question Agathon] 

But I will obey you, Eryximachus said, for your speech was pleasingly delivered. If I didn't known Socrates and Agathon to be terrific in matters of eros, I would greatly fear they might lack speeches due to the many and varied things already said. Yet now I am confident. [194a]

Socrates then said: You have competed well, Eryximachus. But if you were in my place now—or rather, where I will be when Agathon also speaks well—you would indeed fear, and be as I am now.

Do you wish to charm me, Socrates, said Agathon, so that I become flustered because the audience expects me to speak well? [194b]

I would be forgetful, Agathon, Socrates replied, if, after seeing your manliness and magnanimity when you ascended the platform with the actors, faced such a vast theater, and prepared to deliver your speeches without faltering, I now thought you disturbed by us few people. 

What then, Socrates, said Agathon, do you think me so filled with theater that I’d fail to see a few sensible people are more fearsome than many mindless ones? [194c] 

Far be it from me, Agathon, to think you provential. I know well that if you met those you deem wise, you'd care more for them than the masses. But we are not those men—for we too were among the many. Yet if you met true wise ones, you might feel shame if you thought your actions shameful. How do you respond? 194d]

You speak truth.

But you’d feel no shame before the many, if you did something shameful?

Phaedrus interjected, Dear Agathon, if you answer Socrates, nothing will matter to him except having someone to converse with—especially someone beautiful. I delight in his conversations, but I must ensure we honor Eros with our speeches. For now, let each converse in returning to the god. [194e] 

You speak beautifully, Phaedrus. Nothing prevents me from speaking now, for I will converse thoroughly speak with Socrates again often. [§§] 

[CHAPTER 6: THE SPEECH OF AGATHON]

[Scene 16: Youngest and Most Tender Eros Makes Poets of All] 

I wish first to explain how I must speak, then to speak. For it seems to me all prior speakers praised not the god but the humans blessed by the good things which the god caused to come to them. But of what sort he who bestowed these things no one has said. [195a] The proper method of praise is to explain what he is and what he causes. Thus, we must first praise Eros himself, then his gifts. I declare Eros—if law permits—most haply spirited, most beautiful, and most excellent of all gods. 

That he really is the most beautiful—consider this: First, indeed, he is the youngest of the gods, dear Phaedrus. [195b] A great marker of this speech he himself furnishes, fleeing old age with flight, being swift—clearly; for he comes upon us much faster than needs be. Eros naturally hates that, and does not even come near. He is always with the young; for the old saying holds well, that "like to like always draws near." [195c] I myself, though agreeing with Phaedrus in many other things, do not agree that Eros is older than Cronus and Iapetus—but say he is youngest of the gods and ever young, and those ancient deeds among the gods which Hesiod and Parmenides relate happened by Coercion, not Eros, if they speak truly. For there would have been no castrations, or binding of one another, or those many other violent deeds if Eros were among them, but fondness and peace, as now, ever since Eros began to rule over the gods.

He is young, then, and tender. But he lacks the poet’s skill—such as that of Homer—to show a god’s tenderness. [195d] Homer calls Ate [Recklessnes] a goddess soft of foot:

Yet her feet are indeed tender; for not upon the ground
Does she walk, but upon the heads of men. 

A fine marker of tenderness: she walks not on hard ground but soft. [195e] Let us apply this marker to Eros: he walks not on ground or skulls (which are hard) but on the softest things. He dwells in the habits and souls of gods and humans. —Yet not all souls: he flees what is of hard habit, and settles only where it is supple. [196a] Touching always with feet and everywhere in the softest of the soft, Eros must be most tender. He is the youngest and most tender, with a fluid form—for he could not embrace all things or slip unnoticed into and out of souls if he were hard. His symmetry and fluid form are markers of his gracefulness, which Eros uniquely possesses. Ungracefulness and Eros are eternal foes. [196b] His beauty’s hue is marked by dwelling among flowers; he shuns barren bodies and souls, settling only where blooms and fragrance thrive. Concerning the beauty of the god, these points suffice, though much remains unsaid. 

But regarding the excellence of Eros this must be said: Eros neither does injustice nor suffers injusctice, whether by god or mortal. He suffers under no force, for force cannot touch him. [196c] Nor does he act by coercion—all serve Eros willingly. What two consenting wills agree to is declared by 

our city's chief, the laws, 

to be just. 

To justice, he adds abundant soundness of mind. Soundness of mind  is agreed to be mastery over pleasures and thymatic passions. No pleasure is greater than Eros—and since they are lesser, they must be ruled by Eros—while Eros, ruling pleasures and thymatic passions, thus must be supremely sound of mind. [196d] 

In manliness, 

not even Ares can resist 

Eros. For Ares does not possess Eros, but Eros possesses Ares [the god of war]—through Aphrodite, as the speech goes. The possessor is greater than the possessed; and ruling the most manly among all others, Eros must be the most manly of all. Concerning justice, soundness of mind, and manliness of the god, enough has been said. 

But wisdom is left. And as much as possible, we must try to not leave it behind. [196e] First, to honor our craft as Eryximachus honored his: Eros is a wise poet, making others poets. Everyone becomes a poet

even if lacking the muses before

when Eros touches them. We must testify that Eros excels in all music. [197a] 

Now, what one neither possesses nor knows, they can neither give nor teach to another. And who would deny that the creation of all living beings comes to be through the wisdom of Eros, by which living beings come to be and become productive? Do we not see that the artisanship of the crafts flourishes under the touch of Eros? Where Eros teaches, brilliance reigns; where he does not, darkness lingers. 

Apollo forged archery, medicine, and prophecy under the guidance of thymatic passion and erotic love. [197b] Thus, even he is the disciple of Eros; as are the Muses in music, Hephaestus in metalwork, Athena in weaving, and Zeus in 

the piloting of gods and humans.

When Eros arose, the affairs of the gods were thoroughly arranged. Beauty triumphed—for shame knows not eros. Before that, as I said in the beginning, many dreadful things happened to the gods under the reign of coercion. But once the god came into being from the love of the beautiful, all good things have come into being for gods and humans. [197c] 

Thus, dear Phaedrus, Eros, being himself first and most beautiful and best, becomes the cause of such qualities in others. Something metrical comes to mind, to say that it is he who makes

Peace among humans, to the sea still water and still air,
Of winds a bed of sleep amidst trouble. [197d]

Eros empties us of estrangement and fills us with kinship, ordaining all gatherings—festivals, dances, sacrifices—as our guide. He grants gentleness, banishes savagery—lavish in goodwill, sparing in malice— gracious and good, admired by the wise and gods, envied by the dispossessed in acquisition among the well-possessed—father of luxury, refinement, splendor, grace, longing, and yearning—careful of good, neglectful of evil. [197e] In toil, fear, yearning, and discourse, he is helmsman, soldier, defender, and best savior—the order of all gods and men—the most beautiful driver, whom all must follow, hymning rightly the song he sings, enchanting the things  consciousness among gods and humans. 

Let this speech, dear Phaedrus, be dedicated to the god, mingling childlike play and measured earnestness, as far as I am able. [198a] 

[PART 3: THE SPEECH OF SOCRATES]

[CHAPTER 7: EROS PROVED NOT A GOD BY THE SOCRATIC METHOD]

[Scene 17: Socrates Asks to Speak in His Own Way]

After Agathon spoke, Aristodemus reported that all present applauded vigorously, as the young man's speech seemed fitting both to himself and the god. 

Socrates, turning to Eryximachus, said: Son of Acumenus, do I seem to you to have feared in vain, or did I prophesy truly when I said Agathon would speak brilliantly and I would be at a loss? [198b]

Eryximachus replied: You spoke prophetically about Agathon’s excellence, but I doubt you’ll be at a loss.

And how, dear blessed one, said Socrates, could I—or anyone—not be at a loss when about to speak after such a beautiful and manifold speech? Though the rest was not equally marvelous, who would not be stunned by the beauty of the names and words at the end? [198c] Reflecting that I could say nothing near as fine, I nearly fled in shame. For his speech reminded me of Gorgias, making me fear Agathon would end by sending Gorgias' "terrifying head" against my speech, turning me to stone with voicelessness. [198d] 

And then I realized how absurd I was when I agreed to take my turn praising Eros with you, claiming expertise in erotic matters—though I knew nothing of how one ought to praise anything. In my folly, I thought one must speak the truth about the subject, selecting the finest truths and arranging them handsomely. I prided myself on speaking well, believing I understood the essence of praise. [198e]

But it seems beautiful praise isn't about truth—it's about lavishing the grandest and fairest attributes on the subject, even if they're false. For the task, it seems, was to seem to praise Eros, not to actually praise him. [199a] In this way, I guess, with stirring speech you are supposed to ascribe all to Eros, and say he is such and the cause of so many things, so that he might seem to be the most beautiful and best. It is clear that to those who do not know—for surely not to those who know—the praise is fitting and solemn. 

But I, it seems, did not know the method of praise, nor knowing did I agree with you to take my turn in praising. 

The tongue 

undertook;

the mind 

did not. So, farewell. For I no longer praise this turn. I could not. [199b]

The truth, however, if you wish, I am willing to speak in my own way in order to avoid ridicule—but not in accord with your speeches. Consider then, dear Phaedrus, if you need such a speech about Eros, telling the truth with whatever words and arrangement happen to come. 

Phaedrus and the others urged him to speak as he thought best. 

Then, he said, allow me, Phaedrus, to ask Agathon a few questions, so that, having agreed with him, I may proceed. [199c] 

I yield, said Phaedrus. Ask away.  

After this, Socrates began thus: [§§] 

[Scene 18: Socrates Questions Agathon—Eros Neither Beautiful Nor Good]

Surely, my fond Agathon, you beautifully guided your speech, saying one must first show what Eros is, then his works. I admire this structure. [199d] Now, since you've so beautifully and magnificently described Eros, answer this: Is Eros the love of something or of nothing? I don't mean is he the love of a mother or of father. That would be laughable. But I'm asking—as with a father—is a father the father of someone? You would then say, Of a son or daughter, correct? Likewise, a mother is mother of someone. Do you agree? [199e] 

Further, then, said Socrates, answer a bit more, so you may better grasp my meaning. Suppose I asked: A brother, as such, is brother of someone or not? You'd say, Yes, of a brother or sister, agreed? Now apply this to Eros. Is Eros the love of nothing or something? [200a] 

It is of something.

Keep guard over yourself, said Socrates, remembering what Eros is of. Now answer: Does Eros have a thymatic passion for what he is the love of, or not?

He does, Agathon said.

Does he have a passion for and love what he already possesses, or what he does not possess?

What he does not possess, likely. [200b] 

Consider this, said Socrates: Does coercion dictate that a passion for something is for something that is lacking—and if there is no passion for something, then that something is not lacking? To me, this seems certain. What say you?

I agree, said Agathon.

You speak beautifully. Would someone who is great wish to be great, or strong to be strong? Impossible, given our agreement. For one who is these things cannot lack them. 

You speak truth. [200c] 

If a strong man wished to be strong, or a swift man swift, or a healthy man healthy, said Socrates, they might be thought to have a passion for what they already possess. To avoid deception, I say: Coercion dictates that each possesses their qualities now, whether they wish to or not. Who would have a passion for what they already possess? [200d] If someone says, I, being healthy, wish to be healthy, or wealthy to be wealthy, we reply: You wish to keep these things in the future, for you have them now. When you say you have a passion for present things, you mean you want them to remain present. Would he agree to anything else? 

Agathon assented. [200e] 

Socrates continued: Then, loving is of what is not yet ready to hand or possessed, even if wishing in the future for its preservation and presence then?

Exactly, said Agathon.

Thus, every passionate one has a passion for what is not ready to hand, not present, not possessed, not what he is himself, and lacking. Such are the objects of passion and love. 

Certainly, he agreed.

Then, said Socrates, let us reaffirm: First, is Eros of something, and then of those things which are lacking, while they might be present?

Yes, he said. [201a] 

Recall now what you claimed in your speech about Eros. If you wish, I’ll remind you. I believe you said: The affairs of the gods were ordered through the love of beautiful things, for there is no love of shame. Did you not say this?

I did, said Agathon.

And rightly so, dear comrade, said Socrates. If this holds, Eros must be love of beauty, not shame?

He agreed. [201b]

Thus, it's agreed: That which he lacks and does not possess—this is what is loved? 

Yes, said Agathon.

Then Eros lacks and does not possess beauty. 

Coercion makes it so. 

What? Do you call something lacking beauty, which has no share of beauty, beautiful?

No, indeed.

Then do you still agree Eros is beautiful, if this is so?

Socrates, I fear I knew nothing of what I said earlier. [201c] 

Yet you spoke beautifully, Agathon. Answer briefly: Does the good not also seem beautiful to you?

To me, yes. 

If Eros lacks beauty, and the good is beautiful, then he must also lack the good. 

I cannot contradict you, dear Socrates, said Agathon. Let it stand as you say. [201d] 

The truth, my fond Agathon, is what you cannot contradict. For Socrates is nothing challenging. 

[Scene 19: Socrates Introduces Diotima]

Now, I'll release you, and recount the speech on Eros I once heard from Diotima, a Mantinean woman, who was wise in these things and many others. She once came to Athens, and by making offerings delayed a plague by ten years, and she indeed taught me erotic things. I'll try to relate her words, building on the things Agathon and I agreed upon. [201e] I'm bound, dear Agathon, as you did, to go thoroughly into who Eros is, and after that get into his works. 

It’s easiest to go through it as once the examining stranger related it to me. Just like Agathon was saying to me just now, I was then saying such things to her—that Eros must be a great god, but that he is the love of beautiful things. She refuted me with the same words with which I refuted him—that he is neither beautiful nor good according to my own speech: 

[Scene 20: Diotima Questions Socrates—Eros Neither Shameful Nor Evil Nor a God]

What are you saying, dear Diotima? I said. Is Eros then shameful, and evil? 

And she said, Will you not use words of good omen?! Or do you think, she said, that whatever is not beautiful must by coercion be shameful? [202a] 

Most certainly.

Then, if not wise, is it ignorant? Or do you not perceive that there is something between wisdom and ignorance?

What is that?

Right opinion without the ability to give an account. Don't you know, she said, that this is neither epistemic knowledge—for how could that lacking an account be knowledge?—nor ignorance—for how could something hitting real existence be ignorance? Right opinion lies between mindfulness and ignorance.

True things you say, I said. [202b] 

Then do not force what is not beautiful to be shameful, nor what is not good to be evil. Since you agree Eros is neither good nor beautiful, do not think he must be shameful and evil, but something between the two, she said.

Yet, I replied, all agree he is a great god.

By those who do not perceive, she asked, or by those who perceive as well?

By all. [202c] 

Laughing, she said, How, Socrates, could those who say that he is not even a god agree that he is a great god?

Who are these? I asked. 

You for one, she said, and me for another. 

How can this be? I asked. 

Quite easily, she said. Tell me, do you not say all gods possess happiness and are beautiful? Or would you dare deny any god is beautiful and is happy? 

By Dios, not I, I said. 

And you say those enjoying happiness are those who have acquired the good and beautiful? 

Certainly. [202d] 

But you agreed Eros has a thymatic passion for these very things because he lacks them. 

I did. 

Then how could he be a god, if he has no share in beauty and goodness?

Not once, it seems. 

So you see, she said, you too don’t consider Eros a god. 

[CHAPTER 8: PHILOSOPHY AS A FORM OF EROS]

[Scene 21: Eros between Mortal and Immortal]

What then is Eros? Mortal? 

No. [202e] 

What then? 

Just as before: between mortal and immortal. 

What is that, dear Diotima?

A great spirit, dear Socrates. For, after all, a spirit is between a god and a mortal. 

What sort of power, I asked, does he have? 

Interpreting and carrying through to the gods things from humans; and to humans from gods—here entreaties and offerings; there recompenses and commands. By filling in the middle, he binds together all with themselves. [203a] 

Through this come all of prophecy, the craft of priests concerning offerings, rites, incantations, prophecy, and magic. A god does not mingle with humans. All communion and thorough speaking between gods and humans —awake or asleep—happens through this intermediary. The man wise in such matters is spiritual; others wise in crafts or handiworks are mechanical. These spirits are many and varied, and Eros is one. 

Of what father and mother is he? I asked. [203b] 

A longer tale, she said, but I’ll tell it. 

[Scene 22: Eros Born of Plenty and Poverty]

When Aphrodite [Ἀφροδίτη] was born, the gods [θεοὶ] feasted, including Plenty, son of Counsel. After dining, Poverty came begging to the feast and lingered at the door. Plenty, drunk on nectar (wine did not yet exist), wandered into the garden of Dios [Zeus], heavy with drink, and slept. 

Poverty, plotting in her own impass, sought to conceive a child with Plenty. [203c] She lay beside him and became pregnant with Eros. Hence, Eros became Aphrodite’s follower and attendant, being generated on her birthday—and a lover of beauty, since Aphrodite herself is beautiful. As the son of Plenty and Poverty, Eros exists in a middle state. [203d] He is ever poor, far from tender or beautiful as many imagine. Hard, squalid, barefoot, homeless, he sleeps lying on the ground, blanketless in doorways or along roads under the sky, inheriting his mother’s nature, always lacking a domestic partner. [203e] Yet, like his father, he is a plotter against beauty and goodness—manily, headlong, a terrific hunter, always weaving some mechanism—having a thymatic passion for mindfulness, resourceful, fond of wisdom throughout his life—a terrific magician and pharmacist, and a master of wisdom. Neither immortal nor mortal, one day he blooms and lives when prosperous, and afterward dies when not—then coming back to life through his father's nature. His means ever slip away, so he is neither destitute nor rich, but in the middle between wisdom and ignorance. 

[Scene 23: Eros between Wisdom and Ignorance]

For this is how it is: No god has a fondness for wisdom or has a passion for becoming wise. [204a] For they already are. Nor does any wise person have a fondness for wisdom. Neither are the ignorant fond of wisdom, nor do they have a passion for becoming wise. The thing is, ignorance is difficult to bear—one being neither beautiful nor good, nor mindful, but seeming to oneself sufficient. One does not have a passion for what one supposes they are not in want of. 

Who are they then, I asked, dear Diotima, that are fond of wisdom [philosophers], if neither the wise nor the ignorant? [204b] 

Clearly, she said, as a child could tell by now, those in between both of these things, among whom is Eros. Wisdom being among the most beautiful things, and Eros being the love of the beautiful—he is bound to be the fondness of wisdom [philosophy], in between wisdom and ignorance. 

His parentage explains this: his father is wise and resourceful; his mother not wise and resourceless. [204c] This, my fond Socrates, is the nature of the spirit—whereas you were under a wonderous false impression about who Eros is. You supposed, as I infer from what you have said, that Eros was the beloved, not the lover. Because of this, I think Eros appeared to you as being all-beautiful. But it is the beloved that is beautiful, graceful, perfect and blessed; the lover having quite another form as I have gone through. 

And I said, So be it, dear stranger, for you speak beautifully. Being such, what use does Eros have for humans? [204d]  

Regarding this, she said, dear Socrates, I will attempt to teach you. 

[CHAPTER 9: FOR THE SAKE OF IMMORTALITY]

[Scene 24: Love of the Good Is for It to Be Theirs Always]

Having come into being thus and such, Eros is "of" beautiful things, as you say. What if someone were to ask us, How is Eros "of" beautiful things, dear Socrates and Diotima? Put more clearly: What does the lover of beautiful things love? 

I said, That they become his. 

But the answer still yearns, she said, for this question: What will he get when they become his? 

I said, I can't readily answer this question. [204e] 

But, she said, what if someone were to ask using "good" in place "beautiful?" Come dear Socrates: What does the lover of good things love? 

That they become his, I said. 

And what will he get when they become his? 

This was well-passable to answer, I said. He will be happy. [205a] 

For, she said, through procurement of good things, the happy are happy. And there is no further need to ask why he wishes to be happy. The answer seems to be final. 

True things you say, I said. 

Do you think this wishing and erotic love are common to all—that all always wish for the good? —Or what do you say? 

Just so, I said—common to all. [205b] 

Then why, she asked, dear Socrates, do we say that some love, and some do not, if all always love the same things?

I am wondering myself, I replied. 

Don't wonder! she said. For we have taken aside a certain perceptible form of eros, applying the name of the whole to it, calling it love. And we misuse other names as well. 

Like what? I asked. 

Like this: You know that poetics [literally "making"] is many things. [205c] When anything goes from not really existing into really existing, it is all poetics—so that even all the works of the crafts are poetic creations, and the artisans of these are all poetic creators. 

That's true. 

Yet, she said, you know that they are not called poets, but have other names. And one portion being separated out, that concerning music and measure, is called by the name of the whole. For only this is called poetry; and only those possessing this portion poets. 

True, I said. 

So too with erotic love. [205d] The head of the matter is that all have a thymatic passion for good things and happiness—eros being the greatest, and deceptive to all. But those turning to it in many ways, either according to money making, or according to fondness of gymnastics, or according to fondness of wisdom [philosophy]—these are not called "loving," and they are not called "lovers." Only those coming to and eager for one form hold the name of the whole: "love," "loving," and "lovers."

You dare to say true things, I said. [205e] 

And it is said, she continued, that some love the half of themselves that they seek. But acccording to my account, it is neither the half, nor the whole—if what they meet with is not, dear comrade, really good. For people are willing to cut off their feet and hands, if they seem painful to them. [206a] Every person will not embrace for themselves their own things except, I suppose, if they call that which is good their own, and that which is evil as belonging to another—since people, in fact, love nothing other than the good. Or do they seem otherwise to you? 

By Dios! Not to me, I said. 

Then can we say that howsoever people love it is simply of the good? 

Yes, I said. 

Must it be added that, howsoever they love the good, it is for it to be theirs? 

This must be added. 

Is it then, she said, not only that it be so, but also that it be so always? 

And this also must be added. 

Therefore, in sum, she said, the love of the good is for it to be theirs always. 

Most true, I said. [206b] 

Now, if love is for always, she said, then what is the manner of persuing it, and in what action could eagerness and strain be called "love?" What is the work that this meets with? Do you possess something to say? 

Not at all, I said. Dear Diotima, I marveled at your wisdom and came to learn this. 

[Scene 25: Giving Birth in Beauty]

Well then, I will tell you, she said. It is surely giving birth in beauty—both down within the body, and down within the soul. 

Prophecy is needed, I said, because I don't understand whatsoever you say. [206c] 

I will, she said, speak more clearly. For, dear Socrates, all people are pregnant down within the body, and down within the soul. And at some point in life it is our nature to begin to have a passion for giving birth. To give birth in shame is not possible; but only in beauty. For the communion of the man and woman is giving birth. It is a divine affair. And while it is in the mortal living being, it really dwells in immortality—this genesis and pregnacy. It is impossible for it to come about in disharmony. [206d] Disharmony is shameful to all that is divine—that which is beautiful being harmonious. Thus genesis is attended by Kallone [Beauty] as well as Eileithyia [she who comes to the aid of women], and of course Moira [Fate]. 

Through these things, when a pregnancy approaches beauty, it becomes propitious. Being of good cheer, it disperses, gives birth, and generates—though when it approaches shame it contracts, turns, and shrinks away—and does not generate, but holding back, it bears that with which it is pregnant painfully. [206e] Hence, when a pregancy involves much swelling, it is accompanied by an intense emotion about beauty, through which its possessor is released from the great pang of travail. It is not, dear Socrates, she said, that love is of the beautiful, as you suppose. 

What is it then? 

It is of genesis and giving birth in beauty. 

So be it, I said. 

Altogether so, she said. 

[Scene 26: Love of Immortality]

What then of genesis? It is evergenerating and immortal, while being a mortal genesis. [207a] One is bound to have a passion for immortality along with the good—if, as was agreed, love of the good is for it to be one's always. From this account, love is bound to be also of immortality. 

All these things she would teach me whenever she made a speech about erotic things. 

And once she asked, What do you suppose, dear Socrates, is the cause of this love and thymatic passion? [207b] Or have you not perceived how terrifically all the animals are disposed whenever they have a passion for generation, whether they be those on foot or those on wing—all sick and erotically disposed first about mingling together with one another; next about the nourishment of those that have come into being? For the sake of these, they are ready to die, fighting even as the weakest against the strongest—enduring hunger themselves in order to rear them.  Now humans, she said, might do all these things, one might suppose, from reckoning. [207c] But what is the cause of animals being erotically disposed in this way? Do you have an explaination? 

I again said that I did not know. 

She asked, How will you ever come to understand something howsoever terrific as erotic things, if you don't reason within concerning them? 

But through these things then, dear Diotima—which I just now said—I have come to you, knowing that I am in need of teachers. But please tell me the cause of these things, and other matters about erotic things. 

She said, If you trust that eros is by nature what we’ve many times agreed, you shouldn't wonder. [207d] For here, on that same account, mortal nature always seeks, as far as possible, to be immortal. It is able to do this only by genesis, by which it always leaves behind another living being in place of the old. 

Even within the life of each one of the living beings it is called and is "the same"—for example, from when a child until becoming an elder. [207e] This one, however, never possessing the same in itself, is yet called the same, but always becoming new while perishing down within the hairs, flesh, bones, blood, and the entire body. And not only down within the body, but also down within the soul—the tropes, habits of ethos, opinions, passions, pleasures, sorrows, fears—these, each never the same, are present to each other—but each comes into being; each perishes. [208a] 

But what is still much stranger than these various things are those various epistemic sciences, where some come to be; others persih for us. And we are never the self-same—nor down within the sciences—but each one of the sciences also undergoes the same thing. For what is called "studying" is an exiting of epistemic knowledge. For study is a forgetful exodus of scientific knowledge—yet again, by making within something new in place of the memory that is going away, it saves the knowledge—so that it seems to be the self-same. [208b]

For by this turn every mortal is saved—not all in every way like something divine—but that which is going away and growing old leaves behind something such as it was. By this mechanism, dear Socrates, she said, a mortal thing partakes in immortality—the body and all other things; the immortal otherwise. So don't wonder if every thing by nature honors its own offshoot. For all follow after this eagerness and love—for the sake of immortality. [208c] 

When I heard this account, I both wondered and said, Can it truly be so, my most wise Diotima, concerning these things? 

[CHAPTER 10: EROTIC ASCENT]

[Scene 27: Children More Beautiful, and More Immortal than Human Ones]

And she, just like those perfect sophistic masters, said, You know well, dear Socrates—since, in fact, if you wish to look into the fondness people have of honor, you might wonder concerning the irrationality about which I have spoken—if you don't mull it over within your thymatic passion—because they are terrifically disposed to the love of becoming one of the renowned, and to lay down immortal fame for themselves forever into time. [208d] For the sake of this, they are all ready to risk risky dangers, even more than for the sake of their children—and to spend needful wealth—and to endure any labors whatsoever—and to die away supremely. 

Do you suppose Alcestis might die for Admetus; or Achilles die after Patroclus; or your own Codrus die before his children for the sake of their kingship—lest they supposed there would be the immortal memory of excellence about them, which we now hold? —In fact it is bound to be, she said. [208e] But I suppose they do all things for the sake of immortal excellence, and for such opinions of good fame. And to the extent they might be better, so much more do they love immortality. 

Those then, who are pregnant down within the body, she said, turn themselves really more toward women. And by this, they are lovers—making a way, through the genesis of children, to immortality, to memory, to happiness, and as they suppose, to all things for themselves afterward into time. [209a] Those, however, down within the soul—those who are pregnant in their souls even more than in their bodies—they are pregnant with and give birth to that which belongs to the soul. And what then belongs? —Both mindfulness, and another excellence—that, surely, of all genetive poets and artisans—to the extent that they are said to be "well-inventive." [209b] The greatest and fairest, however, she said, among the types of mindfulness concerning the thorough ordering of both cities and households, is surely named both "sound-mindedness" and "justice." 

Whenever, again, the soul of someone from youth is pregnant with these—being unwed and having reached age—having a thymatic passion for giving birth and generating—they go about, I perceive, seeking beauty in which they might generate. For in shame they will never generate. They welcome, because pregnant, beautiful bodies more than shameful ones. And might they happen upon a soul that is beautiful, [noble] genus'ed, and naturally-well-grown, they welcome both together as a whole. [209c] Towards this, the person well-straightway of well-means with accounts about excellence, and about what sort of things need to be pursued in order to be a good man, puts a hand upon pedagogizing. 

For touching beauty, as I see it, and communing with it, with which one has been pregnant for a long time, they give birth and generate. When present or absent, having remembered, they nourish out together the generated thing commonly—so that they maintain with each other a much greater commonality of their children, and a more secure fraternal fondness, because they have shared more beautiful, and more immortal children. [209d] 

Everyone would choose having such children for themselves more than human ones—being zealous, having looked to Homer, Hesiod, and the other good poets, who leave behind such offspring of themselves, which provides them immortal fame and memory that are real. [209e] —Or, if you like, she said, take the sort of children that Lycurgus left behind in Lacedaemon, saviors of Lacedaemon and, word be told, of Hellas—or someone honored among you, Solon, because of the genesis of the laws—or other men that have produced beautiful works elsewhere in many places in Hellas, or among barbarian ones—those who have generated all kinds of excellence—by which many holy things have come to exist already through such children, but none yet through human ones. 

[Scene 28: Final Things]

Surely therefore, even you may perhaps be mystically initiated into these erotic things, dear Socrates. [210a] But the "final things"—the things of the [fully initiated] "overseer"—which are for someone who has rightly pursued them—I don't know if you might be such a one. So, I will speak—and I will drop nothing requiring a ready thymatic passion. You just try to follow. Perhaps you might be such a one. 

For, she said, it is bound to be that the right way to go upon this affair is indeed really to begin as a young person going upon beautiful bodies. And if the drive rightly drives them, they will love one body—and here give genesis to beautiful speeches. [210b] But thereupon, whatever beauty there may be upon [the surface of] a body will bring them down into the [inward] consciousness that it is a sibling of that upon [the surface of] another body—and that if they are bound to chase the beauty [that is] upon a [particular] appearance, it is much folly not to presume one and the same beauty upon all bodies. [210c]

Hence, having become conscious within of this, they will establish the fact that they are a lover of all beautiful bodies—and boldly slacken the tether to the former [particular] body, looking down upon it, and presuming it a small thing. But along with these things, they will presume the beauty in souls more honorable than the beauty in bodies. Thereby, if someone is pleasing upon the soul, and yet has a small blossom, that will suffice to love, to be troubled for, and to give birth to such speeches—to seek after those who will make the young better. Thereby they are then again compelled to see beauty in studies and the laws, and to see all of this whatsoever as akin to themselves. And thereby, they may presume the beauty of the body a small thing. But with the studies leading them to epistemic sciences, they thereby shall then again perceive the beauty of the sciences. [210d] At this point, gazing upon the beauty of so many things, they will no longer, like a slave, look as well upon a single thing, cherishing the beauty of a boy, or the beauty of some person, or the beauty of a former study, serving what is trivial, and reckoning trifles—but being turned toward the great sea of beauty and viewing it, one may give birth abundantly to many beautiful speeches and thoughts in the fondness of wisdom—until at this point, having been strengthened and made large, they may look down within some one epistemic science which is that of such beauty. [210e] 

Now try, she said, your very utmost, to hold your consciousness to me. For up to this point they are nearly educated in the erotic, gazing at beautiful things in succession and also rightly. And by this time, nearing the end, they will suddenly look down within something wondrous, beautiful in its nature. [211a] This, dear Socrates, is that which all the previous toils were for—that which, first, is always really existing—neither coming to be, nor being destroyed—neither growing, nor decaying—not something that is now beautiful; now shameful—not now one thing; now another—and indeed, not now nearing the beautiful; now nearing the shameful—and indeed, not there beautiful; there shameful—because being beautiful to some; but shameful to others. [211b] And again, neither will appear beautiful to them as some face, nor as hands, nor as any other part of a body they partake of—neither as some speech, nor some science—neither as really existing anywhere in something other than what it is, such as in a living being, or in the earth, or in heaven, or anything else. But down within itself it is always really existing as a single perceptible form, while all other beautiful things partake of it by some turn such that, while those other things are engendered and utterly destroyed, it neither becomes more nor less, and is affected by nothing. 

Now when someone returns to these things through rightly loving children, they begin to see the beautiful, and they might almost ever touch the final things [of the mysterious rites]. [211c] For now this is the right way to go, or be led by another, upon the erotic—originating from beautiful things, always to return for the sake of the beautiful, like ascending steps—from one up to two, and from two up to all beautiful bodies—and from beautiful bodies up to beautiful studies—and from those studies up to beautiful teachings—and from those teachings up to the completion of that teaching which is not of anything other than the teaching of the beautiful itself. [211d] Finally coming to the end, they may know that which is beauty itself. Here is a life, dear fond Socrates, said the Mantinean stranger, more than anywhere else, that is livable for a human, gazing upon the beautiful itself. 

This, when once beheld, will outshine your gold and your vesture, your beautiful boys and striplings, whose aspect now so astounds you and makes you and many another, at the sight and constant society of your darlings, ready to do without either food or drink if that were any way possible, and only gaze upon them and have their company. [211e] But tell me, what would happen if one of you had the fortune to look upon essential beauty entire, pure and unalloyed; not infected with the flesh and color of humanity, and ever so much more of mortal trash? What if he could behold the divine beauty itself, in its unique form? [212a]

Do you call it a pitiful life for a man to lead—looking that way, observing that vision by the proper means, and having it ever with him? Do but consider, she said, that there only will it befall him, as he sees the beautiful through that which makes it visible, to breed not illusions but true examples of virtue, since his contact is not with illusion but with truth. So, when he has begotten a true virtue and has reared it up he is destined to win the friendship of Heaven; he, above all men, is immortal. [212b]

This, Phaedrus and you others, is what Diotima told me, and I am persuaded of it; in which persuasion I pursue my neighbors, to persuade them in turn that towards this acquisition the best helper that our human nature can hope to find is Love. Wherefore I tell you now that every man should honor Eros, as I myself do honor all erotic-matters with especial devotion, and exhort all other humans to do the same; both now and always do I glorify Eros' power and valor [212c] as far as I am able. So, I ask you, Phaedrus, to be so good as to consider this account as a eulogy bestowed on Eros, or else to call it by any name that pleases your fancy. [§]

[PART 4: THE BACCHIC FRENZY OF PHILOSOPHIC MANIA]

[CHAPTER 11: THE ODD QUALITIES OF THIS PERSON]

[Scene 29: A Knocking at the Outer Door]

After Socrates had thus spoken, there was applause from all the company except Aristophanes, who was beginning to remark on the allusion which Socrates' speech had made to his own; when suddenly there was a knocking at the outer door, which had a noisy sound like that of revellers, and they heard notes of a flute-girl. 

Go and see to it, [212d] said Agathon to the servants; and if it be one of our intimates, invite him in: otherwise, say we are not drinking, but just about to retire.

A few moments after, they heard the voice of Alcibiades in the forecourt, very drunken and bawling loud, to know where Agathon was, and bidding them bring him to Agathon. So, he was brought into the company by the flute-girl and some others of his people supporting him: he stood at the door, [212e] crowned with a bushy wreath of ivy and violets, and wearing a great array of ribands on his head. 

Good evening, sirs, he said; will you admit to your drinking a fellow very far gone in liquor, or shall we simply set a wreath on Agathon—which indeed is what we came for—and so away? I tell you, sir, I was hindered from getting to you yesterday; but now I am here with these ribands on my head, so that I can pull them off mine and twine them about the head of the cleverest, the handsomest, if I may speak the—see, like this! Ah, you would laugh at me because I am drunk? [213a] Well, for my part, laugh as you may, I am sure I am speaking the truth. Come, tell me straight out, am I to enter on the terms stated or not? Will you take a cup with me or no?

At this they all boisterously acclaimed him, bidding him enter and take a seat, and Agathon also invited him. 

So, he came along with the assistance of his people and while unwinding the ribands for his purpose of wreathing his friend he so held them before his eyes that he failed to notice Socrates, and actually took a seat next to Agathon, [213b] between Socrates and him: for Socrates had moved up when he caught sight of Alcibiades. So, there he sat, and he saluted Agathon and began to twine his head.

Then Agathon said to the servants, Take off Alcibiades’ shoes, So, that he can recline here with us two.

By all means, said Alcibiades; but who is our third at table? With that he turned about and saw Socrates, and the same moment leapt up and cried, Save us, what a surprise! Socrates here?! So, it was to lie in wait for me again that you were sitting there—[213c] your old trick of turning up on a sudden where least I expected you! Well, what are you after now? Tell me, I say, why you took a seat here and not by Aristophanes or some one else who is absurd and means to be? Why did you intrigue to get a seat beside the handsomest person in the room?

Then Socrates said, Agathon, do your best to protect me, for I have found my love for this fellow no trifling affair. From the time when I fell in love with him I have not had a moment's liberty [213d] either to look upon or converse with a single handsome person, but the fellow flies into a spiteful jealousy which makes him treat me in a monstrous fashion, girding at me and hardly keeping his hands to himself. So, take care that he does no mischief now: pray reconcile us; or if he sets about using force, protect me, for I shudder with alarm at his amorous frenzy. 

No, said Alcibiades; no reconcilement for you and me. I will have my revenge on you for this another time: for the present, Agathon, give me some of your ribands, [213e] that I may also deck this person’s head, this astonishing head. He shall not reproach me with having made a garland for you and then, though he conquers every one in discourse—not once in a while, like you the other day, but always—bestowing none upon him. So, saying he took some of the ribands and, after decking the head of Socrates, resumed his seat.

Reclining there, he proceeded: Now then, gentlemen, you look sober: I cannot allow this; you must drink, and fulfil our agreement. So, I appoint as president of this bout, till you have had a reasonable drink—myself. Agathon, let the boy bring me as large a goblet as you have. Ah well, do not trouble, he said; boy, bring me that cooler there,— [214a] for he saw it would hold a good half-gallon and more. This he got filled to the brim, and after quaffing it off himself bade them fill up for Socrates, saying, Against Socrates, sirs, my crafty plan is as nought. However large the bumper you order him, he will quaff it all off and never get tipsy with it.

Socrates drank as soon as the boy had filled.  

But what procedure is this, Alcibiades? asked Eryximachus. Are we to have nothing to say [214b] or sing over the cup? Are we going to drink just like any thirsty folk? 

To this Alcibiades answered: Ha, Eryximachus, 

of most beautiful, soberest sire most noble son; all hail!

And the same to you, said Eryximachus: but what are we to do?

Whatever you command, for we are bound to obey you:

One learned leech is worth the multitude. 

So, prescribe what you please. 

Then listen, said Eryximachus. We resolved, before your arrival, that each in order from left to right should make the finest speech he could upon Eros, [214c] and glorify his name. Now all of us here have spoken; so, you, since you have made no speech and have drained the cup, must do your duty and speak. This done, you shall prescribe what you like for Socrates, and he for his neighbor on the right, and so on with the rest. 

Very good, Eryximachus, said Alcibiades; but to pit a drunken man against sober tongues is hardly fair. [214d] Besides, my gifted friend, you are surely not convinced by anything that Socrates has just told you? You must know the case is quite the contrary of what he was saying. It is he who, if I praise any god in his presence of any person other than himself, will not keep his hands off me.

Come, enough of this, said Socrates.

On the honor of a gentleman, said Alcibiades, it is no use your protesting, for I could not praise anyone else in your presence. 

Well, do that if you like, said Eryximachus; praise Socrates.

You mean it? said Alcibiades; you think I had better, Eryximachus? Am I to set upon the fellow and have my revenge before you all? [214e] 

Here, said Socrates; what are you about,—to make fun of me with your praises, or what?

I shall speak the truth; now, will you permit me? 

Ah well, so long as it is the truth, I permit you and command you to speak. 

You shall hear it this moment, said Alcibiades; but there is something you must do. 

If I say anything that is false, [215a] have the goodness to take me up short and say that there I am lying; for I will not lie if I can help it. Still, you are not to be surprised if I tell my reminiscences at haphazard; it is anything but easy for a man in my condition to give a fluent and regular enumeration of your oddities. 

[Scene 30: The Speech of Alcibiades]

The way I shall take, gentlemen, in my praise of Socrates, is by similitudes. Probably he will think I do this for derision; but I choose my similitude for the sake of truth, not of ridicule. For I say [215b] he is likest to the Silenus-figures that sit in the statuaries' shops; those, I mean, which our artisans make with pipes or flutes in their hands: when their two halves are pulled open, they are found to contain images of gods. And I further suggest that he resembles the satyr Marsyas. 

Now, as to your likeness, Socrates, to these in figure, I do not suppose even you yourself will dispute it; but I have next to tell you that you are like them in every other respect. You are a fleering fellow, eh? If you will not confess it, I have witnesses at hand. Are you not a piper? [215c] Why, yes, and a far more marvellous one than the satyr. 

His lips indeed had power to entrance mankind by means of instruments; a thing still possible today for anyone who can pipe his tunes: for the music of Olympus’ flute belonged, I may tell you, to Marsyas his teacher. So, that if anyone, whether a fine flute-player or paltry flute-girl, can but flute his tunes, they have no equal for exciting a ravishment, and will indicate by the divinity that is in them who are apt recipients of the deities and their sanctifications. You differ from him in one point only—that you produce the same effect with simple prose unaided by instruments. 

For example, when we hear any other person— [215d] quite an excellent orator, perhaps—pronouncing one of the usual discourses, no one, I venture to say, cares a jot; but so soon as we hear you, or your discourses in the mouth of another,—though such person be ever so poor a speaker, and whether the hearer be a woman or a man or a youngster—we are all astounded and entranced. 

As for myself, gentlemen, were it not that I might appear to be absolutely tipsy, I would have affirmed on oath all the strange effects I personally have felt from his words, and still feel even now. For when I hear him [215e] I am worse than any wild fanatic; I find my heart leaping and my tears gushing forth at the sound of his speech, and I see great numbers of other people having the same experience. When I listened to Pericles and other skilled orators I thought them eloquent, but I never felt anything like this; my spirit was not left in a tumult and had not to complain of my being in the condition of a common slave: whereas the influence of our Marsyas here has often thrown me into such a state [216a] that I thought my life not worth living on these terms.

In all this, Socrates, there is nothing that you can call untrue. Even now I am still conscious that if I consented to lend him my ear, I could not resist him, but would have the same feeling again. For he compels me to admit that, sorely deficient as I am, I neglect myself while I attend to the affairs of Athens. So, I withhold my ears perforce as from the Sirens, and make off as fast as I can, for fear I should go on sitting beside him till old age was upon me. [216b]

And there is one experience I have in presence of this man alone, such as nobody would expect in me; and that is, to be made to feel ashamed; he alone can make me feel it. For he brings home to me that I cannot disown the duty of doing what he bids me, but that as soon as I turn from his company I fall a victim to the favors of the crowd. So, I take a runaway’s leave of him and flee away; [216c] when I see him again I think of those former admissions, and am ashamed. Often I could wish he had vanished from this world; yet again, should this befall, I am sure I should be more distressed than ever. So, I cannot tell what to do with the fellow at all.

Such then is the effect that our satyr can work upon me and many another with his piping; but let me tell you how like he is in other respects to the figures of my comparison, and what a wondrous power he wields. I assure you, not one of you knows him; [216d] well, I shall reveal him, now that I have begun. 

Observe how Socrates is amorously inclined to handsome persons; with these he is always busy and enraptured. Again, he is utterly stupid and ignorant, as he affects. Is not this like a Silenus? Exactly. It is an outward casing he wears, similarly to the sculptured Silenus. But if you opened his inside, you cannot imagine how full he is, good cup-companions, of sobriety. I tell you, all the beauty a man may have is nothing to him; he despises it [216e] more than any of you can believe; nor does wealth attract him, nor any sort of honor that is the envied prize of the crowd. All these possessions he counts as nothing worth, and all of us as nothing, I assure you; he spends his whole life in chaffing and making game of his fellow-men. 

Whether anyone else has caught him in a serious moment and opened him, and seen the images inside, I know not; but I saw them one day, and thought them so [217a] divine and golden, so perfectly fair and wondrous, that I simply had to do as Socrates bade me. And believing he had a serious affection for my youthful bloom, I supposed I had here a godsend and a rare stroke of luck, thinking myself free at any time by gratifying his desires to hear all that our Socrates knew; for I was enormously proud of my youthful charms. 

So, with this design [217b] I dismissed the attendant whom till then I invariably brought to my meetings with Socrates, and I would go and meet him alone: I am to tell you the whole truth; you must all mark my words, and, Socrates, you shall refute me if I lie. Yes, gentlemen, I went and met him, and the two of us would be alone; and I thought he would seize the chance of talking to me as a lover does to his dear one in private, and I was glad. But nothing of the sort occurred at all: he would merely converse with me in his usual manner, and when he had spent the day with me he would leave me and go his way. 

After that I proposed he should go with me to the trainer’s, [217c] and I trained with him, expecting to gain my point there. So, he trained and wrestled with me many a time when no one was there. The same story! I got no further with the affair. 

Then, as I made no progress that way, I resolved to charge full tilt at the man, and not to throw up the contest once I had entered upon it: I felt I must clear up the situation. Accordingly I invited him to dine with me, for all the world [217d] like a lover scheming to ensnare his favorite. Even this he was backward to accept; however, he was eventually persuaded. The first time he came, he wanted to leave as soon as he had dined. On that occasion I was ashamed and let him go. The second time I devised a scheme: when we had dined I went on talking with him far into the night, and when he wanted to go I made a pretext of the lateness of the hour and constrained him to stay. So, he sought repose on the couch next to me, on which he had been sitting at dinner, and no one was sleeping in the room but ourselves. [217e]

Now up to this point my tale could fairly be told to anybody; but from here onwards I would not have continued in your hearing were it not, in the first place, that wine, as the saying goes, whether you couple children with it or no, is truthful; and in the second, I consider it dishonest, when I have started on the praise of Socrates, to hide his deed of lofty disdain. 

Besides, I share the plight of the man who was bitten by the snake: you know it is related of one in such a plight that he refused [218a] to describe his sensations to any but persons who had been bitten themselves, since they alone would understand him and stand up for him if he should give way to wild words and actions in his agony. Now I have been bitten by a more painful creature, in the most painful way that one can be bitten: in my heart, or my soul, or whatever one is to call it, I am stricken and stung by his philosophic discourses, which adhere more fiercely than any adder when once they lay hold of a young and not ungifted soul, and force it to do or say whatever they will; I have only to look around me, and there is a Phaedrus, an Agathon, an Eryximachus, [218b] a Pausanias, an Aristodemus, and an Aristophanes—I need not mention Socrates himself—and all the rest of them; every one of you has had his share of the Bacchic frenzy of philosophic mania. So, all of you shall hear. You shall stand up alike for what then was done and for what now is spoken. But the domestics, and all else profane and clownish, must clap the heaviest of doors upon their ears.

Well, gentlemen, when the lamp had been put out [218c] and the servants had withdrawn, I determined not to mince matters with him, but to speak out freely what I intended. So, I shook him and said, Socrates, are you asleep? 

Why, no, he replied.

Let me tell you what I have decided.

What is the matter? he asked.

I consider, I replied, that you are the only worthy lover I have had, and it looks to me as if you were shy of mentioning it to me. My position is this: I count it sheer folly not to gratify you in this as in any other need you may have [218d] of either my property or that of my friends. To me nothing is more important than the attainment of the highest possible excellence, and in this aim I believe I can find no abler ally than you. So, I should feel a far worse shame before sensible people for not gratifying such a friend than I should before the senseless multitude for gratifying him. 

When he heard this, he put on that innocent air which habit has made so characteristic of him, and remarked: My dear Alcibiades, I daresay you are not really a dolt, if what you say of me is the actual truth, [218e] and there is a certain power in me that could help you to be better; for then what a stupendous beauty you must see in me, vastly superior to your comeliness! And if on espying this you are trying for a mutual exchange of beauty for beauty, it is no slight advantage you are counting on—you are trying to get genuine in return for reputed beauties, [219a] and in fact are designing to fetch off the old bargain of 

gold for bronze.

But be more wary, my gifted friend: you may be deceived and I may be worthless. Remember, the intellectual sight begins to be keen when the visual is entering on its wane; but you are a long way yet from that time. 

To this I answered: You have heard what I had to say; not a word differed from the feeling in my mind: it is for you now to consider what you judge to be best for you and me. 

Ah, there you speak to some purpose, he said: for in the days that are to come [219b] we shall consider and do what appears to be best for the two of us in this and our other affairs. 

Well, after I had exchanged these words with him and, as it were, let fly my shafts, I fancied he felt the wound: So, up I got, and without suffering the man to say a word more I wrapped my own coat about him—it was winter-time; drew myself under his cloak, so; [219c] wound my arms about this truly spiritual and miraculous creature; and lay thus all the night long. 

Here too, Socrates, you are unable to give me the lie. 

When I had done all this, he showed such superiority and contempt, laughing my youthful charms to scorn, and flouting the very thing on which I prided myself, gentlemen of the jury—for you are here to try Socrates for his lofty disdain: you may be sure, by gods—and goddesses—that when I arose I had in no more particular sense slept a night [219d] with Socrates than if it had been with my father or my elder brother.

After that, you can imagine what a state of mind I was in, feeling myself affronted, yet marvelling at the sobriety and integrity of his nature: for I had lighted on a man such as I never would have dreamt of meeting—So, sensible and So, resolute. Hence I could find neither a reason for being angry and depriving myself of his society nor a ready means [219e] of enticing him. For I was well aware that he was far more proof against money on every side than Ajax against a spear; and in what I thought was my sole means of catching him he had eluded me. So, I was at a loss, and wandered about in the most abject thraldom to this man that ever was known. 

Now all this, you know, had already happened to me when we later went on a campaign together to Potidaea; and there we were messmates. Well, first of all, he surpassed not me only but every one else in bearing hardships; whenever we were cut off in some place [220a] and were compelled, as often in campaigns, to go without food, the rest of us were nowhere in point of endurance. Then again, when we had plenty of good cheer, he alone could enjoy it to the full, and though unwilling to drink, when once overruled he used to beat us all; and, most surprising of all, no man has ever yet seen Socrates drunk. Of this power I expect we shall have a good test in a moment. But it was in his endurance of winter— [220b] in those parts the winters are awful—that I remember, among his many marvellous feats, how once there came a frost about as awful as can be: we all preferred not to stir abroad, or if any of us did, we wrapped ourselves up with prodigious care, and after putting on our shoes we muffled up our feet with felt and little fleeces. But he walked out in that weather, clad in just such a coat as he was always wont to wear, and he made his way more easily over the ice unshod than the rest of us did in our shoes. The soldiers looked askance at him, thinking that he despised them. [220c] 

So, much for that: 

but next, the valiant deed our
strong-souled hero dared 

on service there one day, is well worth hearing. Immersed in some problem at dawn, he stood in the same spot considering it; and when he found it a tough one, he would not give it up but stood there trying. The time drew on to midday, and the men began to notice him, and said to one another in wonder: Socrates has been standing there in a study ever since dawn! The end of it was that in the evening some of the Ionians after they had supped— [220d] this time it was summer—brought out their mattresses and rugs and took their sleep in the cool; thus they waited to see if he would go on standing all night too. He stood till dawn came and the sun rose; then walked away, after offering a prayer to the Sun. 

Then, if you care to hear of him in battle—for there also he must have his due—on the day of the fight in which I gained my prize for valor from our commanders, [220e] it was he, out of the whole army, who saved my life: I was wounded, and he would not forsake me, but helped me to save both my armor and myself. I lost no time, Socrates, in urging the generals to award the prize for valor to you; and here I think you will neither rebuke me nor give me the lie. For when the generals, out of regard for my consequence, were inclined to award the prize to me, you outdid them in urging that I should have it rather than you.

And further let me tell you, gentlemen, [221a] what a notable figure he made when the army was retiring in flight from Delium: I happened to be there on horseback, while he marched under arms. The troops were in utter disorder, and he was retreating along with Laches, when I chanced to come up with them and, as soon as I saw them, passed them the word to have no fear, saying I would not abandon them. Here, indeed, I had an even finer view of Socrates than at Potidaea—for personally I had less reason for alarm, as I was mounted; and I noticed, first, how far he outdid Laches in collectedness, [221b] and next I felt—to use a phrase of yours, Aristophanes—how there he stepped along, as his wont is in our streets, 

strutting like a proud marsh-goose,
with ever a side-long glance, 

turning a calm sidelong look on friend and foe alike, and convincing anyone even from afar that whoever cares to touch this person will find he can put up a stout enough defence. The result was that both he and his comrade got away unscathed: for, as a rule, people will not lay a finger on those [221c] who show this disposition in war; it is men flying in headlong rout that they pursue. 

There are many more quite wonderful things that one could find to praise in Socrates: but although there would probably be as much to say about any other one of his habits, I select his unlikeness to anybody else, whether in the ancient or in the modern world, as calling for our greatest wonder. You may take the character of Achilles and see his parallel in Brasidas or others; you may couple [221d] Nestor, Antenor, or others I might mention, with Pericles; and in the same order you may liken most great men; but with the odd qualities of this person, both in himself and in his conversation, you would not come anywhere near finding a comparison if you searched either among men of our day or among those of the past, unless perhaps you borrowed my words and matched him, not with any human being, but with the Silenuses and satyrs, in his person and his speech.

For there is a point I omitted when I began—how his talk most of all resembles the Silenuses [221e] that are made to open. If you chose to listen to Socrates’ discourses you would feel them at first to be quite ridiculous; on the outside they are clothed with such absurd words and phrases—all, of course, the gift of a mocking satyr. His talk is of pack-asses, smiths, cobblers, and tanners, and he seems always to be using the same terms for the same things; So, that anyone inexpert and thoughtless might laugh his speeches to scorn. [222a] But when these are opened, and you obtain a fresh view of them by getting inside, first of all you will discover that they are the only speeches which have any sense in them; and secondly, that none are so divine, so rich in images of virtue, so largely—nay, so completely—intent on all things proper for the study of such as would attain both grace and worth. 

This, gentlemen, is the praise I give to Socrates: at the same time, I have seasoned it with a little fault-finding, and have told you his rude behavior towards me. [222b] However, I am not the only person he has treated thus: there are Charmides, son of Glaucon, Euthydemus, son of Diocles, and any number of others who have found his way of loving so deceitful that he might rather be their childlike beloved than their lover. I tell you this, Agathon, to save you from his deceit, that by laying our sad experiences to heart you may be on your guard and escape learning by your own pain, like the loon in the adage. [222c] 

[Scene 31: The Whole Place Was in an Uproar]

When Alcibiades had thus spoken, there was some laughter at his frankness, which showed him still amorously inclined to Socrates; who then remarked: I believe you are sober, Alcibiades; else you would never have enfolded yourself so charmingly all about, trying to screen from sight your object in all this talk, nor would have put it in as a mere incident at the end. The true object of all you have said [222d] was to stir up a quarrel between me and Agathon: for you think you must keep me as your undivided lover, and Agathon as the undivided object of your love. But now you are detected: your Satyric or Silenic play-scene is all shown up. 

Dear Agathon, do not let the plot succeed, but take measures to prevent anyone from setting you and me at odds. [222e]

To which Agathon replied: Do you know, Socrates, I fancy you have hit on the truth. Besides, I take his sitting down between us two as an obvious attempt to draw us apart. See, he shall not gain his point: I will come and sit by your side. 

By all means, said Socrates; here is a place for you beyond me. 

Good God! said Alcibiades, here’s the fellow at me again. He has set his heart on having the better of me every way. But at least, you surprising person, do allow Agathon to sit between us. 

That cannot be, said Socrates: you have praised me, and so it behoves me to praise my neighbor on the right. 

Thus if Agathon sits beyond you, he must surely be praising me again, before receiving his due praises from me. So, let him be, my good soul, and [223a] do not grudge the lad those praises of mine: for I am most eager to pronounce his eulogy. 

Ha, ha! Alcibiades, said Agathon; there can be no question of my staying here: I shall jump up and at once, if that will make Socrates praise me. 

There you are, said Alcibiades; just as usual: when Socrates is present, nobody else has a chance with the handsome ones. You see how resourceful he was in devising a plausible reason why our young friend should sit beside him. [223b] 

So, Agathon was getting up in order to seat himself by Socrates, when suddenly a great crowd of revellers arrived at the door, which they found just opened for some one who was going out. They marched straight into the party and seated themselves: the whole place was in an uproar and, losing all order, they were forced to drink a vast amount of wine. 

Then, as Aristodemus related, Eryximachus, Phaedrus, and some others took their leave and departed; [223c] while he himself fell asleep, and slumbered a great while, for the nights were long. 

[Scene 32: Drinking Towards Dawn]

He awoke towards dawn, as the cocks were crowing; and immediately he saw that all the company were either sleeping or gone, except Agathon, Aristophanes, and Socrates, who alone remained awake and were drinking out of a large vessel, from left to right; and Socrates was arguing with them. As to most of the talk, Aristodemus had no recollection, [223d] for he had missed the beginning and was also rather drowsy; but the substance of it was, he said, that Socrates was driving them to the admission that the same man could have the knowledge required for writing comedy and tragedy—that the fully skilled tragedian could be a comedian as well. 

While they were being driven to this, and were but feebly following it, they began to nod; first Aristophanes dropped into a slumber, and then, as day began to dawn, Agathon also. 

When Socrates had seen them comfortable, he rose and went away,—followed in the usual manner by my friend. 

On arriving at the Lyceum, he washed himself, and then spent the rest of the day in his ordinary fashion; and so, when the day was done, he went home for the evening and reposed.