Then tell me, he asked, do you count those things yours which you control and are free to use as you please? For instance, an ox or a sheep,would you count these as yours, if you were free to sell or bestow them, or sacrifice them to any god you chose? And things which you could not treat thus are not yours? Hereupon, since I knew that some brilliant result was sure to bob up from the mere turn of the questions, and as I also wanted to hear it as quickly as possible, I said: It is precisely as you say; only such things are mine. Well now, he went on: you call those things animals which have life? Yes, I said. And you admit that only those animals are yours which you are at liberty to deal with in those various ways that I mentioned just now? I admit that. Then—after a very ironical pause, as though he were pondering some great matter—he proceeded: Tell me, Socrates, have you an ancestral ZeusZeus was the ancestral or tutelary god of the Dorians? Here I suspected the discussion was approaching the point at which it eventually ended, and so I tried what desperate wriggle I could to escape from the net in which I now felt myself entangled. My answer was: I have not, Dionysodorus. What a miserable fellow you must be, he said, and no Athenian at all, if you have neither ancestral gods, nor shrines, nor anything else that denotes a gentleman! Enough, Dionysodorus; speak fair words, and don’t browbeat your pupil! For I have altars and shrines, domestic and ancestral, and everything else of the sort that other Athenians have. Then have not other Athenians, he asked, their ancestral Zeus? None of the Ionians, I replied, give him this title, neither we nor those who have left this city to settle abroad: they have an ancestral Apollo, because of Ion’s parentage.Cf. Eur. Ion 64-75. Apollo begot Ion upon Creusa, daughter of Erechtheus. Among us the name ancestral is not given to Zeus, but that of houseward and tribal, and we have a tribal Athena. That will do, said Dionysodorus; you have, it seems, Apollo and Zeus and Athena. Certainly, I said. Then these must be your gods? he said. My ancestors, I said, and lords. Well, at least, you have them, he said: or have you not admitted they are yours? I have admitted it, I replied: what else could I do? And are not these gods animals? he asked: you know you have admitted that whatever has life is an animal. Or have these gods no life? They have, I replied. Then are they not animals? Yes, animals, I said. And those animals, he went on, you have admitted to be yours, which you are free to bestow and sell and sacrifice to any god you please. I have admitted it, I replied; there is no escape for me, Euthydemus.

Come then, tell me straight off, he said; since you admit that Zeus and the other gods are yours, are you free to sell or bestow them or treat them just as you please, like the other animals? Well, Crito, here I must say I was knocked out, as it were, by the argument, and lay speechless; then Ctesippus rushed to the rescue and—Bravo, Hercules! he cried, a fine argument! Whereat Dionysodorus asked: Now, do you mean that Hercules is a bravo, or that bravo is Hercules? Ctesippus replied: Poseidon, what a frightful use of words! I give up the fight: these two are invincible. Hereupon I confess, my dear Crito, that everyone present without exception wildly applauded the argument and the two men, till they all nearly died of laughing and clapping and rejoicing. For their previous successes had been highly acclaimed one by one, but only by the devotees of Euthydemus; whereas now almost the very pillars of the Lyceum took part in the joyful acclamations in honor of the pair. For myself, I was quite disposed to admit that never had I set eyes on such clever people, and I was so utterly enthralled by their skill that I betook myself to praising and congratulating them, and said: Ah, happy pair! What amazing genius, to acquire such a great accomplishment so quickly and in so short a time! Among the many fine points in your arguments, Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, there is one that stands out in particular magnificence—that you care not a jot for the multitude, or for any would-be important or famous people, but only for those of your own sort. And I am perfectly sure that there are but a few persons like yourselves who would be satisfied with these arguments: the rest of the world regard them only as arguments with which, I assure you, they would feel it a greater disgrace to refute others than to be refuted themselves. And further, there is at the same time a popular and kindly feature in your talk: when you say there is nothing either beautiful, or good, or white, and so on, and no difference of things at all, in truth you simply stitch up men’s mouths, as you expressly say you do; while as to your apparent power of stitching up your own mouths as well, this is a piece of agreeable manners that takes off any offence from your talk. But the greatest thing of all is, that this faculty of yours is such, and is so skilfully contrived, that anyone in the world may learn it of you in a very short time; this fact I perceived myself by watching Ctesippus and observing how quickly he was able to imitate you on the spot.