"Euthydemus is a child to me," said Philip contemptuously. "But, Philip, if I confess I know nothing?" said Socrates, when the laughter failed a little. "Why, then, Socrates, I shall not argue the question with you; though I could easily prove to you that if you knew nothing you would know everything." "Philip, I have always asserted my ignorance. It is my ignorance which causes me to ask questions. And now, as you have proved that you know everything, I want to ask you what knowledge is. Can you tell me?" "This talking has made me thirsty, Socrates, and I am going to seek for truth in the wine, where the proverb says it may be found. I shall talk no more." "Well, then, I shall ask my question of Euripides, if you will allow me." "Ask, by all means!" said Philip; "but if your questions are to be about knowledge and virtue I shall go and sit with the flute-girls, and we shall talk of something that we can understand." Socrates settled himself more comfortably upon the couch, and, taking up one of the ribbons which Lysis had brought, turned it about his fingers. "Protagoras is going to tell us whether we can have any knowledge of the gods or not," he said; "but let us enquire into their nature, assuming that we know them, for the present. Shall we examine your own conception of God, Euripides? It will clear matters up if we are able to say what the gods whom we seek to know are like." "Very well, Socrates," said Euripides. "You live at the centre of things, Euripides," said Socrates; "and every aspect of our modern thought is clearly reflected in your work. This is one reason why I have always been an admirer of your plays; but it has its drawbacks, for sometimes you reflect two distinct and opposed theories, so that your meaning is not quite clear. Your treatment of the myths is, in reality, a criticism of the myths, is it not?" "Yes."