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.
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