When there is little.

And if you make a transition by small steps from anything to its opposite you will be more likely to escape detection than if you proceed by leaps and bounds.

Of course.

Then he who is to deceive another, and is not to be deceived himself, must know accurately the similarity and dissimilarity of things.

Yes, he must.

Now will he be able, not knowing the truth about a given thing, to recognize in other things the great or small degree of likeness to that which he does not know?

It is impossible.

In the case, then, of those whose opinions are at variance with facts and who are deceived, this error evidently slips in through some resemblances.

It does happen in that way.

Then he who does not understand the real nature of things will not possess the art of making his hearers pass from one thing to its opposite by leading them through the intervening resemblances, or of avoiding such deception himself?

Never in the world.

Then, my friend, he who knows not the truth, but pursues opinions, will, it seems, attain an art of speech which is ridiculous, and not an art at all.

Probably.

Shall we look in the speech of Lysias, which you have with you, and in what I said, for something which we think shows art and the lack of art?

By all means, for now our talk is too abstract, since we lack sufficient examples.

And by some special good fortune, as it seems, the two discourses contain an example of the way in which one who knows the truth may lead his hearers on with sportive words; and I, Phaedrus, think the divinities of the place are the cause thereof; and perhaps too, the prophets of the Muses, who are singing above our heads, may have granted this boon to us by inspiration; at any rate, I possess no art of speaking.

So be it; only make your meaning clear.

Read me the beginning of Lysias’ discourse.

You know what my condition is, and you have heard how I think it is to our advantage to arrange these matters. And I claim that I ought not to be refused what I ask because I am not your lover. For lovers repent of—

Stop. Now we must tell what there is in this that is faulty and lacks art, must we not?

Yes.

It is clear to everyone that we are in accord about some matters of this kind and at variance about others, is it not?

I think I understand your meaning, but express it still more clearly.

When one says iron or silver, we all understand the same thing, do we not?

Surely.

What if he says justice or goodness? Do we not part company, and disagree with each other and with ourselves?

Certainly.

Then in some things we agree and in others we do not.

True.

Then in which of the two are we more easy to deceive, and in which has rhetoric the greater power?

Evidently in the class of doubtful things.

Then he who is to develop an art of rhetoric must first make a methodical division and acquire a clear impression of each class, that in which people must be in doubt and that in which they are not.

He who has acquired that would have conceived an excellent principle.

Then I think when he has to do with a particular case, he will not be ignorant, but will know clearly to which of the two classes the thing belongs about which he is to speak.

Of course.

Well then, to which does Love belong? To the doubtful things or the others?

To the doubtful, surely; if he did not, do you think he would have let you say what you said just now about him, that he is an injury to the beloved and to the lover, and again that he is the greatest of blessings?

Excellent. But tell me this—for I was in such an ecstasy that I have quite forgotten—whether I defined love in the beginning of my discourse.

Yes, by Zeus, and wonderfully well.

Oh, how much more versed the nymphs, daughters of Achelous, and Pan, son of Hermes, are in the art of speech than Lysias, son of Cephalus! Or am I wrong, and did Lysias also, in the beginning of his discourse on Love, compel us to suppose Love to be some one thing which he chose to consider it, and did he then compose and finish his discourse with that in view? Shall we read the beginning of it again?

If you like; but what you seek is not in it.

Read, that I may hear Lysias himself.

You know what my condition is, and you have heard how I think it is to our advantage to arrange these matters. And I claim that I ought not to be refused what I ask because I am not your lover. For lovers repent of the kindnesses they have done when their passion ceases.

He certainly does not at all seem to do what we demand, for he does not even begin at the beginning, but undertakes to swim on his back up the current of his discourse from its end, and begins with what the lover would say at the end to his beloved. Am I not right, Phaedrus my dear?

Certainly that of which he speaks is an ending.

And how about the rest? Don’t you think the parts of the discourse are thrown out helter-skelter? Or does it seem to you that the second topic had to be put second for any cogent reason, or that any of the other things he says are so placed? It seemed to me, who am wholly ignorant, that the writer uttered boldly whatever occurred to him. Do you know any rhetorical reason why he arranged his topics in this order?

You flatter me in thinking that I can discern his motives so accurately.

But I do think you will agree to this, that every discourse must be organized, like a living being, with a body of its own, as it were, so as not to be headless or footless, but to have a middle and members, composed in fitting relation to each other and to the whole.

Certainly.

See then whether this is the case with your friend’s discourse, or not. You will find that it is very like the inscription that some say is inscribed on the tomb of Midas the Phrygian.

What sort of inscription is that, and what is the matter with it?

This is it: A bronze maiden am I; and I am placed upon the tomb of Midas. So long as water runs and tall trees put forth leaves, Remaining in this very spot upon a much lamented tomb, I shall declare to passers by that Midas is buried here; and you perceive, I fancy, that it makes no difference whether any line of it is put first or last.

You are making fun of our discourse, Socrates.

Then, to spare your feelings, let us say no more of this discourse—and yet I think there were many things in it which would be useful examples to consider, though not exactly to imitate—and let us turn to the other discourses; for there was in them, I think, something which those who wish to investigate rhetoric might well examine.