Soc. Tell me, said Euthydemus, 

 do the Scythians and men in general see things possible of sight, or things impossible? 

 Possible, I presume. 

 And you do so too? 

 I too. 

 Then you see our cloaks? 

 Yes. 

 And have they power of sight? The quibble is on the double meaning of δυνατὰ ὁρᾶν —(a) possible, and (b) able to see. So in what follows, σιγῶντα λέγειν may mean both the speaking of a silent person, or speaking of silent things. 

 Quite extraordinarily, said Ctesippus.

 What do they see? he asked.

 Nothing. Perhaps you do not think they see—you are such a sweet innocent. I should say, Euthydemus, that you have fallen asleep with your eyes open and, if it be possible to speak and at the same time say nothing, that this is what you are doing. 

 Why, asked Dionysodorus, may there not be a speaking of the silent? 

 By no means whatever, replied Ctesippus.

 Nor a silence of speaking? 

 Still less, he said.

 Now, when you speak of stones and timbers and irons, are you not speaking of the silent? 

 Not if I walk by a smithy, for there, as they say, the irons speak and cry aloud, when they are touched; so here your wisdom has seduced you into nonsense. But come, you have still to propound me your second point, how on the other hand there may be a silence of speaking. (It struck me that Ctesippus was specially excited on account of his young friend’s presence.)

 When you are silent, said Euthydemus, are you not making a silence of all things? 

 Yes, he replied.

 Then it is a silence of speaking things also, if the speaking are among all things. 

 What, said Ctesippus, are not all things silent? 

 I presume not, said Euthydemus.

 But then, my good sir, do all things speak? 

 Yes, I suppose, at least those that speak. 

 But that is not what I ask, he said: are all things silent or do they speak? 

 Neither and both, said Dionysodorus, snatching the word from him: I am quite sure that is an answer that will baffle you! 

 At this Ctesippus, as his manner was, gave a mighty guffaw, and said: Ah, Euthydemus, your brother has made the argument ambiguous with his both, and is worsted and done for. 

 Then Cleinias was greatly delighted and laughed, so that Ctesippus felt his strength was as the strength of ten: but I fancy Ctesippus—he is such a rogue—had picked up these very words by overhearing the men themselves, since in nobody else of the present age is such wisdom to be found. So I remarked: Why are you laughing, Cleinias, at such serious and beautiful things?

 What, have you, Socrates, ever yet seen a beautiful thing? asked Dionysodorus.

 Yes, I have, I replied, and many of them, Dionysodorus. Soc. Did you find them different from the beautiful, he said, 

 or the same as the beautiful? 

 Here I was desperately perplexed, and felt that I had my deserts for the grunt I had made: however, I replied that they were different from the beautiful itself, though each of them had some beauty present with it.

 So if an ox is present with you, he said, you are an ox, and since I am now present with you, you are Dionysodorus. 

 Heavens, do not say that! I cried.

 But in what way can one thing, by having a different thing present with it, be itself different? 
						 
						
						 Are you at a loss there? I asked: already I was attempting to imitate the cleverness of these men, I was so eager to get it.

 Can I help being at a loss, he said, I and likewise everybody else in the world, in face of what cannot be? 

 What is that you say, Dionysodorus? I asked: is not the beautiful beautiful, and the ugly ugly?

 Yes, if it seems so to me, he replied.

 Then does it seem so?

 Certainly, he said.

 Then the same also is the same, and the different different? For I presume the different cannot be the same; nay, I thought not even a child would doubt that the different is different. But, Dionysodorus, you have deliberately passed over this one point; though, on the whole, I feel that, like craftsmen finishing off each his special piece of work, you two are carrying out your disputation in excellent style.

 Well, he asked, do you know what is each craftsman’s special piece of work? First of all, whose proper task is it to forge brass? Can you tell? 

 I can: a brazier’s.

 Well, again, whose to make pots? 

 A potter’s.

 Once more, whose to slaughter and skin, and after cutting up the joints to stew and roast? 

 A caterer’s, I said.

 Now, if one does one’s proper work, he said, one will do rightly? 

 Yes, to be sure.

 And is it, as you say, the caterer’s proper work to cut up and skin? Did you admit this or not? 

 I did so, I replied, but pray forgive me.

 It is clear then, he proceeded, that if someone slaughters the caterer and cuts him up, and then stews or roasts him, he will be doing his proper work; and if he hammers the brazier himself, and moulds the potter, he will be doing his business likewise. 
						
						 Poseidon! I exclaimed, there you give the finishing touch to your wisdom. I wonder if this skill could ever come to me in such manner as to be my very own.

 Would you recognize it, Socrates, he asked, if it came to be your own? 

 Yes, if only you are agreeable, I replied, without a doubt.

 Why, he went on, do you imagine you perceive what is yours? 

 Yes, if I take your meaning aright: for all my hopes arise from you, and end in Euthydemus here. The Greek works follow a usual form of prayer or hymn to the gods.