veins, strikes against each passage that is shut against it, so that the whole soul, being pricked all round, is frantic and in agony; but again retaining the memory of the beautiful one, it is filled with joy. 69. And from both these mingled together, it is tormented by the strangeness of the affection, and not knowing what to do becomes frenzied, and being in this frantic state it can neither sleep at night, nor remain quiet by day, but runs about with longing wherever it may hope to see the possessor of the beauty. And on beholding him and drawing in fresh supplies of desire, it loosens the parts that were closed up, and recovering breath has a respite from stings and throes, and again for the present enjoys this most exquisite pleasure. Wherefore, it never willingly leaves him, nor values any one more than the beautiful one, but forgets mothers and brothers and friends all alike, and if its substance is wasting through neglect, it reckons that as of no consequence, and despising all customs and decorums in which it formerly prided itself, it is ready to be a slave and to lie down wherever any one will allow it as near as possible to the object of its longing. For in addition to its reverence for the possessor of beauty, it has found that he is the only physician for its severest troubles. 70. Now this affection, my beautiful boy, you I mean to whom I am speaking, men call love, but when you hear what the gods designate it, you will probably laugh, on account of your youth. Some Homerics, I think, adduce out of their secret poems two verses on love, of which the second is very insolent, and not altogether delicate: they sing as follows: “Him mortals indeed call winged Eros, but immortals Pteros (Flyer) for his flighty nature[126].” ----- Footnote 126: I must own myself indebted to Mr. Wright’s version of this dialogue for this happy translation of these two lines. -----