O Hippothales, I said, if you have ever made any verses or songs in
honour of your favourite, I do not want to hear them; but I want to
know the purport of them, that I may be able to judge of your mode of
approaching your fair one.
Ctesippus will be able to tell you, he said; for if, as he avers, the
sound of my words is always dinning in his ears, he must have a very
accurate knowledge and recollection of them.
Yes, indeed, said Ctesippus; I know only too well; and very ridiculous
the tale is: for although he is a lover, and very devotedly in love,
he has nothing particular to talk about to his beloved which a child
might not say. Now is not that ridiculous? He can only speak of the
wealth of Democrates, which the whole city celebrates, and grandfather
Lysis, and the other ancestors of the youth, and their stud of horses,
and their victory at the Pythian games, and at the Isthmus, and at
Nemea with four horses and single horses-these are the tales which he
composes and repeats. And there is greater twaddle still. Only the day
before yesterday he made a poem in which he described the
entertainment of Heracles, who was a connexion of the family, setting
forth how in virtue of this relationship he was hospitably received by
an ancestor of Lysis; this ancestor was himself begotten of Zeus by
the daughter of the founder of the deme. And these are the sort of old
wives' tales which he sings and recites to us, and we are obliged to
listen to him.
When I heard this, I said: O ridiculous Hippothales! how can you be
making and singing hymns in honour of yourself before you have won?
But my songs and verses, he said, are not in honour of myself,
Socrates.
You think not? I said.
Nay, but what do you think? he replied.
Most assuredly, I said, those songs are all in your own honour; for if
you win your beautiful love, your discourses and songs will be a
glory, to you, and may be truly regarded as hymns of praise composed
in honour of you who have conquered and won such a love; but if he
slips away from you, the more you have praised him, the more
ridiculous you will look at having lost this fairest and best of
blessings; and therefore the wise lover does not praise his beloved
until he has won him, because he is afraid of accidents. There is also
another danger; the fair, when any one praises or magnifies them, are
filled with the spirit of pride and vain-glory. Do you not agree with
me?
Yes, he said.
And the more vain-glorious they are, the more difficult is the capture
of them?
I believe you.
What should you say of a hunter who frightened away his prey, and made
the capture of the animals which he is hunting more difficult?
He would be a bad hunter, undoubtedly.
Yes; and if, instead of soothing them, he were to infuriate them with
words and songs, that would show a great want of wit: do you not
agree.
Yes.
And now reflect, Hippothales, and see whether you are not guilty of
all these errors in writing poetry. For I can hardly suppose that you
will affirm a man to be a good poet who injures himself by his poetry.
Assuredly not, he said; such a poet would be a fool. And this is the
reason why I take you into my counsels, Socrates, and I shall be glad
of any further advice which you may have to offer. Will you tell me by
what words or actions I may become endeared to my love?
That is not easy to determine, I said; but if you will bring your love
to me, and will let me talk with him, I may perhaps be able to show
you how to converse with him, instead of singing and reciting in the
fashion of which you are accused.
There will be no difficulty in bringing him, he replied; if you will
only go with Ctesippus into the Palaestra, and sit down and talk, I