Let us consider then, I said, the further conclusion that lies before us. Since we are all eager to be happy, and since we were found to become so by not only using things but using them aright, while knowledge, we saw, was that which provided the rightness and good fortune, it seems that every man must prepare himself by all available means so that he may be as wise as possible. Is it not so? Yes, he said. And if a man thinks, as well he may, that he ought to get this endowment from his father much more than money, and also from his guardians and his ordinary friends, and from those who profess to be his lovers, whether strangers or fellow-citizens—praying and beseeching them to give him his share of wisdom; there is no disgrace, Cleinias, or reprobation in making this a reason for serving and being a slave to either one’s lover or any man, and being ready to perform any service that is honorable in one’s eagerness to become wise. Is not this your view? I asked. I think you are perfectly right, he replied. Yes, Cleinias, I went on, if wisdom is teachable, and does not present itself to mankind of its own accord—for this is a question that we have still to consider as not yet agreed on by you and me. For my part, Socrates, he said, I think it is teachable. At this I was glad, and said: Well spoken indeed, my excellent friend! How good of you to relieve me of a long inquiry into this very point, whether wisdom is teachable or not teachable! So now, since you think it is both teachable and the only thing in the world that makes man happy and fortunate, can you help saying that it is necessary to pursue wisdom or intending to pursue it yourself? Why, said he, I do say so, Socrates, with all my might. So I, delighted to hear this, said: There, Dionysodorus and Euthydemus, is my illustration of what I desire a hortatory argument to be—rough and ready, perhaps, and expressed at laborious length: now let either of you who wishes to do so give us an example of an artist’s handling of this same matter. If you do not wish to do that, let your display begin where I left off, and show the lad whether he ought to acquire every kind of knowledge, or whether there is a single sort of it which one must obtain if one is to be both happy and a good man, and what it is. For as I was saying at the outset, it really is a matter of great moment to us that this youth should become wise and good.

These were my words, Crito; and I set about giving the closest attention to what should follow, and observing in what fashion they would deal with the question, and how they would start exhorting the youth to practise wisdom and virtue. So then the elder of them, Dionysodorus, entered first upon the discussion, and we all turned our eyes on him expecting to hear, there and then, some wonderful arguments. And this result we certainly got; for wondrous, in a way, Crito, was the argument that the man then ushered forth, which is worth your hearing as a notable incitement to virtue. Tell me, Socrates, he said, and all you others who say you desire this youth to become wise, whether you say this in jest or truly and earnestly desire it. At this I reflected that previously, as it seemed, they took us to be jesting, when we urged them to converse with the youth, and hence they made a jest of it and did not take it seriously. This reflection therefore made me insist all the more that we were in deadly earnest. Then Dionysodorus said: Yet be careful, Socrates, that you do not have to deny what you say now. I know what I am about, I said: I know I shall never deny it. Well now, he proceeded; you tell me you wish him to become wise? Certainly. And at present, he asked, is Cleinias wise or not? He says he is not yet so—he is no vain pretender. And you, he went on, wish him to become wise, and not to be ignorant? We agreed. So you wish him to become what he is not, and to be no longer what he now is. When I heard this I was confused; and he, striking in on my confusion, said: Of course then, since you wish him to be no longer what he now is, you wish him, apparently, to be dead. And yet what valuable friends and lovers they must be, who would give anything to know their darling was dead and gone! Ctesippus, on hearing this, was annoyed on his favorite’s account, and said: Stranger of Thurii, were it not rather a rude thing to say, I should tell you, ill betide your design of speaking so falsely of me and my friends as to make out—what to me is almost too profane even to repeat—that I could wish this boy to be dead and gone!