His performances in prose
are bad enough, but nothing at all in comparison with his verse; and
when he drenches us with his poems and other compositions, it is
really too bad; and worse still is his manner of singing them to his
love; he has a voice which is truly appalling, and we cannot help
hearing him: and now having a question put to him by you, behold he is
blushing.
Who is Lysis? I said: I suppose that he must be young; for the
name does not recall any one to me.
Why, he said, his father being a very well known man, he retains his
patronymic, and is not as yet commonly called by his own name; but,
although you do not know his name, I am sure that you must know his
face, for that is quite enough to distinguish him.
But tell me whose son he is, I said.
He is the eldest son of Democrates, of the deme of Aexone.
Ah, Hippothales, I said; what a noble and really perfect love you
have found! I wish that you would favour me with the exhibition
which you have been making to the rest of the company, and then I
shall be able to judge whether you know what a lover ought to say
about his love, either to the youth himself, or to others.
Nay, Socrates, he said; you surely do not attach any importance to
what he is saying.
Do you mean, I said, that you disown the love of the person whom
he says that you love?
No; but I deny that I make verses or address compositions to him.
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