if you imagine that the occasion was recent; or that I could have been
of the party.

Why, yes, he replied, I thought so.

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

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

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

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

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

COMPANION: I see, Apollodorus, that you are just the same--always
speaking evil of yourself, and of others; and I do believe that you pity
all mankind, with the exception of Socrates, yourself first of all, true
in this to your old name, which, however deserved, I know not how you
acquired, of Apollodorus the madman; for you are