---
type: article
status: Published
slug: "republic"
title: "Republic"
author: "Plato"
tradition: "greek"
language: "grc"
genre: "philosophical dialogue"
period: "c. 375 BCE"
source_url: "https://raw.githubusercontent.com/PerseusDL/canonical-greekLit/master/data/tlg0059/tlg030/tlg0059.tlg030.perseus-grc2.xml"
certainty: observed
source: "https://raw.githubusercontent.com/PerseusDL/canonical-greekLit/master/data/tlg0059/tlg030/tlg0059.tlg030.perseus-grc2.xml"
unknowns: none known
---
# Republic

## Original

### Book I, 327–334

[327a]
κατέβην χθὲς εἰς Πειραιᾶ μετὰ Γλαύκωνος τοῦ Ἀρίστωνος προσευξόμενός τε τῇ θεῷ καὶ ἅμα τὴν ἑορτὴν βουλόμενος θεάσασθαι τίνα τρόπον ποιήσουσιν ἅτε νῦν πρῶτον ἄγοντες. καλὴ μὲν οὖν μοι καὶ ἡ τῶν ἐπιχωρίων πομπὴ ἔδοξεν εἶναι, οὐ μέντοι ἧττον ἐφαίνετο πρέπειν ἣν οἱ Θρᾷκες ἔπεμπον. [327b] προσευξάμενοι δὲ καὶ θεωρήσαντες ἀπῇμεν πρὸς τὸ ἄστυ. κατιδὼν οὖν πόρρωθεν ἡμᾶς οἴκαδε ὡρμημένους Πολέμαρχος ὁ Κεφάλου ἐκέλευσε δραμόντα τὸν παῖδα περιμεῖναί ἑ κελεῦσαι. καί μου ὄπισθεν ὁ παῖς λαβόμενος τοῦ ἱματίου, κελεύει ὑμᾶς, ἔφη, Πολέμαρχος περιμεῖναι. καὶ ἐγὼ μετεστράφην τε καὶ ἠρόμην ὅπου αὐτὸς εἴη. οὗτος, ἔφη, ὄπισθεν προσέρχεται· ἀλλὰ περιμένετε. ἀλλὰ περιμενοῦμεν, ἦ δʼ ὃς ὁ Γλαύκων. [327c]
καὶ ὀλίγῳ ὕστερον ὅ τε Πολέμαρχος ἧκε καὶ Ἀδείμαντος ὁ τοῦ Γλαύκωνος ἀδελφὸς καὶ Νικήρατος ὁ Νικίου καὶ ἄλλοι τινὲς ὡς ἀπὸ τῆς πομπῆς.
ὁ οὖν Πολέμαρχος ἔφη· ὦ Σώκρατες, δοκεῖτέ μοι πρὸς ἄστυ ὡρμῆσθαι ὡς ἀπιόντες.
οὐ γὰρ κακῶς δοξάζεις, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ.
ὁρᾷς οὖν ἡμᾶς, ἔφη, ὅσοι ἐσμέν;
πῶς γὰρ οὔ;
ἢ τοίνυν τούτων, ἔφη, κρείττους γένεσθε ἢ μένετʼ αὐτοῦ.
οὐκοῦν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἔτι ἓν λείπεται, τὸ ἢν πείσωμεν ὑμᾶς ὡς χρὴ ἡμᾶς ἀφεῖναι;
ἦ καὶ δύναισθʼ ἄν, ἦ δʼ ὅς, πεῖσαι μὴ ἀκούοντας;
οὐδαμῶς, ἔφη ὁ Γλαύκων.
ὡς τοίνυν μὴ ἀκουσομένων, οὕτω διανοεῖσθε.

[328a]
καὶ ὁ Ἀδείμαντος, ἆρά γε, ἦ δʼ ὅς, οὐδʼ ἴστε ὅτι λαμπὰς ἔσται πρὸς ἑσπέραν ἀφʼ ἵππων τῇ θεῷ;
ἀφʼ ἵππων; ἦν δʼ ἐγώ· καινόν γε τοῦτο. λαμπάδια ἔχοντες διαδώσουσιν ἀλλήλοις ἁμιλλώμενοι τοῖς ἵπποις; ἢ πῶς λέγεις;
οὕτως, ἔφη ὁ Πολέμαρχος. καὶ πρός γε παννυχίδα ποιήσουσιν, ἣν ἄξιον θεάσασθαι· ἐξαναστησόμεθα γὰρ μετὰ τὸ δεῖπνον καὶ τὴν παννυχίδα θεασόμεθα. καὶ συνεσόμεθά τε πολλοῖς τῶν νέων αὐτόθι καὶ διαλεξόμεθα. ἀλλὰ μένετε [328b] καὶ μὴ ἄλλως ποιεῖτε.
καὶ ὁ Γλαύκων, ἔοικεν, ἔφη, μενετέον εἶναι.
ἀλλʼ εἰ δοκεῖ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, οὕτω χρὴ ποιεῖν.
ἦιμεν οὖν οἴκαδε εἰς τοῦ Πολεμάρχου, καὶ Λυσίαν τε αὐτόθι κατελάβομεν καὶ Εὐθύδημον, τοὺς τοῦ Πολεμάρχου ἀδελφούς, καὶ δὴ καὶ Θρασύμαχον τὸν Καλχηδόνιον καὶ Χαρμαντίδην τὸν Παιανιᾶ καὶ Κλειτοφῶντα τὸν Ἀριστωνύμου· ἦν δʼ ἔνδον καὶ ὁ πατὴρ ὁ τοῦ Πολεμάρχου Κέφαλος. καὶ μάλα πρεσβύτης μοι ἔδοξεν εἶναι· διὰ χρόνου γὰρ καὶ [328c] ἑωράκη αὐτόν. καθῆστο δὲ ἐστεφανωμένος ἐπί τινος προσκεφαλαίου τε καὶ δίφρου· τεθυκὼς γὰρ ἐτύγχανεν ἐν τῇ αὐλῇ. ἐκαθεζόμεθα οὖν παρʼ αὐτόν· ἔκειντο γὰρ δίφροι τινὲς αὐτόθι κύκλῳ.
εὐθὺς οὖν με ἰδὼν ὁ Κέφαλος ἠσπάζετό τε καὶ εἶπεν· ὦ Σώκρατες, οὐ δὲ θαμίζεις ἡμῖν καταβαίνων εἰς τὸν Πειραιᾶ. χρῆν μέντοι. εἰ μὲν γὰρ ἐγὼ ἔτι ἐν δυνάμει ἦ τοῦ ῥᾳδίως πορεύεσθαι πρὸς τὸ ἄστυ, οὐδὲν ἂν σὲ ἔδει δεῦρο [328d] ἰέναι, ἀλλʼ ἡμεῖς ἂν παρὰ σὲ ᾖμεν· νῦν δέ σε χρὴ πυκνότερον δεῦρο ἰέναι. ὡς εὖ ἴσθι ὅτι ἔμοιγε ὅσον αἱ ἄλλαι αἱ κατὰ τὸ σῶμα ἡδοναὶ ἀπομαραίνονται, τοσοῦτον αὔξονται αἱ περὶ τοὺς λόγους ἐπιθυμίαι τε καὶ ἡδοναί. μὴ οὖν ἄλλως ποίει, ἀλλὰ τοῖσδέ τε τοῖς νεανίσκοις σύνισθι καὶ δεῦρο παρʼ ἡμᾶς φοίτα ὡς παρὰ φίλους τε καὶ πάνυ οἰκείους.
καὶ μήν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὦ Κέφαλε, χαίρω γε διαλεγόμενος [328e] τοῖς σφόδρα πρεσβύταις· δοκεῖ γάρ μοι χρῆναι παρʼ αὐτῶν πυνθάνεσθαι, ὥσπερ τινὰ ὁδὸν προεληλυθότων ἣν καὶ ἡμᾶς ἴσως δεήσει πορεύεσθαι, ποία τίς ἐστιν, τραχεῖα καὶ χαλεπή, ἢ ῥᾳδία καὶ εὔπορος. καὶ δὴ καὶ σοῦ ἡδέως ἂν πυθοίμην ὅτι σοι φαίνεται τοῦτο, ἐπειδὴ ἐνταῦθα ἤδη εἶ τῆς ἡλικίας ὃ δὴ ἐπὶ γήραος οὐδῷ φασιν εἶναι οἱ ποιηταί, πότερον χαλεπὸν τοῦ βίου, ἢ πῶς σὺ αὐτὸ ἐξαγγέλλεις.

[329a]
ἐγώ σοι, ἔφη, νὴ τὸν Δία ἐρῶ, ὦ Σώκρατες, οἷόν γέ μοι φαίνεται. πολλάκις γὰρ συνερχόμεθά τινες εἰς ταὐτὸν παραπλησίαν ἡλικίαν ἔχοντες, διασῴζοντες τὴν παλαιὰν παροιμίαν· οἱ οὖν πλεῖστοι ἡμῶν ὀλοφύρονται συνιόντες, τὰς ἐν τῇ νεότητι ἡδονὰς ποθοῦντες καὶ ἀναμιμνῃσκόμενοι περί τε τἀφροδίσια καὶ περὶ πότους τε καὶ εὐωχίας καὶ ἄλλʼ ἄττα ἃ τῶν τοιούτων ἔχεται, καὶ ἀγανακτοῦσιν ὡς μεγάλων τινῶν ἀπεστερημένοι καὶ τότε μὲν εὖ ζῶντες, νῦν δὲ οὐδὲ ζῶντες. [329b] ἔνιοι δὲ καὶ τὰς τῶν οἰκείων προπηλακίσεις τοῦ γήρως ὀδύρονται, καὶ ἐπὶ τούτῳ δὴ τὸ γῆρας ὑμνοῦσιν ὅσων κακῶν σφίσιν αἴτιον. ἐμοὶ δὲ δοκοῦσιν, ὦ Σώκρατες, οὗτοι οὐ τὸ αἴτιον αἰτιᾶσθαι. εἰ γὰρ ἦν τοῦτʼ αἴτιον, κἂν ἐγὼ τὰ αὐτὰ ταῦτα ἐπεπόνθη, ἕνεκά γε γήρως, καὶ οἱ ἄλλοι πάντες ὅσοι ἐνταῦθα ἦλθον ἡλικίας. νῦν δʼ ἔγωγε ἤδη ἐντετύχηκα οὐχ οὕτως ἔχουσιν καὶ ἄλλοις, καὶ δὴ καὶ Σοφοκλεῖ ποτε τῷ ποιητῇ παρεγενόμην ἐρωτωμένῳ ὑπό τινος· πῶς, ἔφη, [329c] ὦ Σοφόκλεις, ἔχεις πρὸς τἀφροδίσια; ἔτι οἷός τε εἶ γυναικὶ συγγίγνεσθαι; καὶ ὅς, εὐφήμει, ἔφη, ὦ ἄνθρωπε· ἁσμενέστατα μέντοι αὐτὸ ἀπέφυγον, ὥσπερ λυττῶντά τινα καὶ ἄγριον δεσπότην ἀποδράς. εὖ οὖν μοι καὶ τότε ἔδοξεν ἐκεῖνος εἰπεῖν, καὶ νῦν οὐχ ἧττον. παντάπασι γὰρ τῶν γε τοιούτων ἐν τῷ γήρᾳ πολλὴ εἰρήνη γίγνεται καὶ ἐλευθερία· ἐπειδὰν αἱ ἐπιθυμίαι παύσωνται κατατείνουσαι καὶ χαλάσωσιν, παντάπασιν τὸ τοῦ Σοφοκλέους γίγνεται, [329d] δεσποτῶν πάνυ πολλῶν ἐστι καὶ μαινομένων ἀπηλλάχθαι. ἀλλὰ καὶ τούτων πέρι καὶ τῶν γε πρὸς τοὺς οἰκείους μία τις αἰτία ἐστίν, οὐ τὸ γῆρας, ὦ Σώκρατες, ἀλλʼ ὁ τρόπος τῶν ἀνθρώπων. ἂν μὲν γὰρ κόσμιοι καὶ εὔκολοι ὦσιν, καὶ τὸ γῆρας μετρίως ἐστὶν ἐπίπονον· εἰ δὲ μή, καὶ γῆρας, ὦ Σώκρατες, καὶ νεότης χαλεπὴ τῷ τοιούτῳ συμβαίνει.
καὶ ἐγὼ ἀγασθεὶς αὐτοῦ εἰπόντος ταῦτα, βουλόμενος ἔτι [329e] λέγειν αὐτὸν ἐκίνουν καὶ εἶπον· ὦ Κέφαλε, οἶμαί σου τοὺς πολλούς, ὅταν ταῦτα λέγῃς, οὐκ ἀποδέχεσθαι ἀλλʼ ἡγεῖσθαί σε ῥᾳδίως τὸ γῆρας φέρειν οὐ διὰ τὸν τρόπον ἀλλὰ διὰ τὸ πολλὴν οὐσίαν κεκτῆσθαι· τοῖς γὰρ πλουσίοις πολλὰ παραμύθιά φασιν εἶναι.
ἀληθῆ, ἔφη, λέγεις· οὐ γὰρ ἀποδέχονται. καὶ λέγουσι μέν τι, οὐ μέντοι γε ὅσον οἴονται· ἀλλὰ τὸ τοῦ Θεμιστοκλέους εὖ ἔχει, ὃς τῷ Σεριφίῳ λοιδορουμένῳ καὶ λέγοντι

[330a]
ὅτι οὐ διʼ αὑτὸν ἀλλὰ διὰ τὴν πόλιν εὐδοκιμοῖ, ἀπεκρίνατο ὅτι οὔτʼ ἂν αὐτὸς Σερίφιος ὢν ὀνομαστὸς ἐγένετο οὔτʼ ἐκεῖνος Ἀθηναῖος. καὶ τοῖς δὴ μὴ πλουσίοις, χαλεπῶς δὲ τὸ γῆρας φέρουσιν, εὖ ἔχει ὁ αὐτὸς λόγος, ὅτι οὔτʼ ἂν ὁ ἐπιεικὴς πάνυ τι ῥᾳδίως γῆρας μετὰ πενίας ἐνέγκοι οὔθʼ ὁ μὴ ἐπιεικὴς πλουτήσας εὔκολός ποτʼ ἂν ἑαυτῷ γένοιτο.
πότερον δέ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὦ Κέφαλε, ὧν κέκτησαι τὰ πλείω παρέλαβες ἢ ἐπεκτήσω; [330b]
ποῖʼ ἐπεκτησάμην, ἔφη, ὦ Σώκρατες; μέσος τις γέγονα χρηματιστὴς τοῦ τε πάππου καὶ τοῦ πατρός. ὁ μὲν γὰρ πάππος τε καὶ ὁμώνυμος ἐμοὶ σχεδόν τι ὅσην ἐγὼ νῦν οὐσίαν κέκτημαι παραλαβὼν πολλάκις τοσαύτην ἐποίησεν, Λυσανίας δὲ ὁ πατὴρ ἔτι ἐλάττω αὐτὴν ἐποίησε τῆς νῦν οὔσης· ἐγὼ δὲ ἀγαπῶ ἐὰν μὴ ἐλάττω καταλίπω τούτοισιν, ἀλλὰ βραχεῖ γέ τινι πλείω ἢ παρέλαβον.
οὗ τοι ἕνεκα ἠρόμην, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὅτι μοι ἔδοξας οὐ σφόδρα [330c] ἀγαπᾶν τὰ χρήματα, τοῦτο δὲ ποιοῦσιν ὡς τὸ πολὺ οἳ ἂν μὴ αὐτοὶ κτήσωνται· οἱ δὲ κτησάμενοι διπλῇ ἢ οἱ ἄλλοι ἀσπάζονται αὐτά. ὥσπερ γὰρ οἱ ποιηταὶ τὰ αὑτῶν ποιήματα καὶ οἱ πατέρες τοὺς παῖδας ἀγαπῶσιν, ταύτῃ τε δὴ καὶ οἱ χρηματισάμενοι περὶ τὰ χρήματα σπουδάζουσιν ὡς ἔργον ἑαυτῶν, καὶ κατὰ τὴν χρείαν ᾗπερ οἱ ἄλλοι. χαλεποὶ οὖν καὶ συγγενέσθαι εἰσίν, οὐδὲν ἐθέλοντες ἐπαινεῖν ἀλλʼ ἢ τὸν πλοῦτον.
ἀληθῆ, ἔφη, λέγεις. [330d]
πάνυ μὲν οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ. ἀλλά μοι ἔτι τοσόνδε εἰπέ· τί μέγιστον οἴει ἀγαθὸν ἀπολελαυκέναι τοῦ πολλὴν οὐσίαν κεκτῆσθαι;
ὅ, ἦ δʼ ὅς, ἴσως οὐκ ἂν πολλοὺς πείσαιμι λέγων. εὖ γὰρ ἴσθι, ἔφη, ὦ Σώκρατες, ὅτι, ἐπειδάν τις ἐγγὺς ᾖ τοῦ οἴεσθαι τελευτήσειν, εἰσέρχεται αὐτῷ δέος καὶ φροντὶς περὶ ὧν ἔμπροσθεν οὐκ εἰσῄει. οἵ τε γὰρ λεγόμενοι μῦθοι περὶ τῶν ἐν Ἅιδου, ὡς τὸν ἐνθάδε ἀδικήσαντα δεῖ ἐκεῖ διδόναι [330e] δίκην, καταγελώμενοι τέως, τότε δὴ στρέφουσιν αὐτοῦ τὴν ψυχὴν μὴ ἀληθεῖς ὦσιν· καὶ αὐτός—ἤτοι ὑπὸ τῆς τοῦ γήρως ἀσθενείας ἢ καὶ ὥσπερ ἤδη ἐγγυτέρω ὢν τῶν ἐκεῖ μᾶλλόν τι καθορᾷ αὐτά—ὑποψίας δʼ οὖν καὶ δείματος μεστὸς γίγνεται καὶ ἀναλογίζεται ἤδη καὶ σκοπεῖ εἴ τινά τι ἠδίκησεν.
ὁ μὲν οὖν εὑρίσκων ἑαυτοῦ ἐν τῷ βίῳ πολλὰ ἀδικήματα καὶ ἐκ τῶν ὕπνων, ὥσπερ οἱ παῖδες, θαμὰ ἐγειρόμενος δειμαίνει

[331a]
καὶ ζῇ μετὰ κακῆς ἐλπίδος· τῷ δὲ μηδὲν ἑαυτῷ ἄδικον συνειδότι ἡδεῖα ἐλπὶς ἀεὶ πάρεστι καὶ ἀγαθὴ γηροτρόφος, ὡς καὶ Πίνδαρος λέγει. χαριέντως γάρ τοι, ὦ Σώκρατες, τοῦτʼ ἐκεῖνος εἶπεν, ὅτι ὃς ἂν δικαίως καὶ ὁσίως τὸν βίον διαγάγῃ,
γλυκεῖά οἱ καρδίαν
ἀτάλλοισα γηροτρόφος συναορεῖ
ἐλπὶς ἃ μάλιστα θνατῶν πολύστροφον
γνώμαν κυβερνᾷ.
εὖ οὖν λέγει θαυμαστῶς ὡς σφόδρα. πρὸς δὴ τοῦτʼ ἔγωγε τίθημι τὴν τῶν χρημάτων κτῆσιν πλείστου ἀξίαν εἶναι, οὔ [331b] τι παντὶ ἀνδρὶ ἀλλὰ τῷ ἐπιεικεῖ καὶ κοσμίῳ. τὸ γὰρ μηδὲ ἄκοντά τινα ἐξαπατῆσαι ἢ ψεύσασθαι, μηδʼ αὖ ὀφείλοντα ἢ θεῷ θυσίας τινὰς ἢ ἀνθρώπῳ χρήματα ἔπειτα ἐκεῖσε ἀπιέναι δεδιότα, μέγα μέρος εἰς τοῦτο ἡ τῶν χρημάτων κτῆσις συμβάλλεται. ἔχει δὲ καὶ ἄλλας χρείας πολλάς· ἀλλὰ ἕν γε ἀνθʼ ἑνὸς οὐκ ἐλάχιστον ἔγωγε θείην ἂν εἰς τοῦτο ἀνδρὶ νοῦν ἔχοντι, ὦ Σώκρατες, πλοῦτον χρησιμώτατον εἶναι. [331c]
παγκάλως, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, λέγεις, ὦ Κέφαλε. τοῦτο δʼ αὐτό, τὴν δικαιοσύνην, πότερα τὴν ἀλήθειαν αὐτὸ φήσομεν εἶναι ἁπλῶς οὕτως καὶ τὸ ἀποδιδόναι ἄν τίς τι παρά του λάβῃ, ἢ καὶ αὐτὰ ταῦτα ἔστιν ἐνίοτε μὲν δικαίως, ἐνίοτε δὲ ἀδίκως ποιεῖν; οἷον τοιόνδε λέγω· πᾶς ἄν που εἴποι, εἴ τις λάβοι παρὰ φίλου ἀνδρὸς σωφρονοῦντος ὅπλα, εἰ μανεὶς ἀπαιτοῖ, ὅτι οὔτε χρὴ τὰ τοιαῦτα ἀποδιδόναι, οὔτε δίκαιος ἂν εἴη ὁ ἀποδιδούς, οὐδʼ αὖ πρὸς τὸν οὕτως ἔχοντα πάντα ἐθέλων τἀληθῆ λέγειν. [331d]
ὀρθῶς, ἔφη, λέγεις.
οὐκ ἄρα οὗτος ὅρος ἐστὶν δικαιοσύνης, ἀληθῆ τε λέγειν καὶ ἃ ἂν λάβῃ τις ἀποδιδόναι.
πάνυ μὲν οὖν, ἔφη, ὦ Σώκρατες, ὑπολαβὼν ὁ Πολέμαρχος, εἴπερ γέ τι χρὴ Σιμωνίδῃ πείθεσθαι.
καὶ μέντοι, ἔφη ὁ Κέφαλος, καὶ παραδίδωμι ὑμῖν τὸν λόγον· δεῖ γάρ με ἤδη τῶν ἱερῶν ἐπιμεληθῆναι.
οὐκοῦν, ἔφη, ἐγώ, ὁ Πολέμαρχος, τῶν γε σῶν κληρονόμος;
πάνυ γε, ἦ δʼ ὃς γελάσας, καὶ ἅμα ᾔει πρὸς τὰ ἱερά. [331e]
λέγε δή, εἶπον ἐγώ, σὺ ὁ τοῦ λόγου κληρονόμος, τί φῂς τὸν Σιμωνίδην λέγοντα ὀρθῶς λέγειν περὶ δικαιοσύνης;
ὅτι, ἦ δʼ ὅς, τὸ τὰ ὀφειλόμενα ἑκάστῳ ἀποδιδόναι δίκαιόν ἐστι· τοῦτο λέγων δοκεῖ ἔμοιγε καλῶς λέγειν.
ἀλλὰ μέντοι, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, Σιμωνίδῃ γε οὐ ῥᾴδιον ἀπιστεῖν—σοφὸς γὰρ καὶ θεῖος ἀνήρ—τοῦτο μέντοι ὅτι ποτὲ λέγει, σὺ μέν, ὦ Πολέμαρχε, ἴσως γιγνώσκεις, ἐγὼ δὲ ἀγνοῶ· δῆλον γὰρ ὅτι οὐ τοῦτο λέγει, ὅπερ ἄρτι ἐλέγομεν, τό τινος παρακαταθεμένου τι ὁτῳοῦν μὴ σωφρόνως ἀπαιτοῦντι

[332a]
ἀποδιδόναι. καίτοι γε ὀφειλόμενόν πού ἐστιν τοῦτο ὃ παρακατέθετο· ἦ γάρ;
ναί.
ἀποδοτέον δέ γε οὐδʼ ὁπωστιοῦν τότε ὁπότε τις μὴ σωφρόνως ἀπαιτοῖ;
ἀληθῆ, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
ἄλλο δή τι ἢ τὸ τοιοῦτον, ὡς ἔοικεν, λέγει Σιμωνίδης τὸ τὰ ὀφειλόμενα δίκαιον εἶναι ἀποδιδόναι.
ἄλλο μέντοι νὴ Δίʼ, ἔφη· τοῖς γὰρ φίλοις οἴεται ὀφείλειν τοὺς φίλους ἀγαθὸν μέν τι δρᾶν, κακὸν δὲ μηδέν.
μανθάνω, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ—ὅτι οὐ τὰ ὀφειλόμενα ἀποδίδωσιν ὃς ἄν τῳ χρυσίον ἀποδῷ παρακαταθεμένῳ, ἐάνπερ ἡ ἀπόδοσις [332b] καὶ ἡ λῆψις βλαβερὰ γίγνηται, φίλοι δὲ ὦσιν ὅ τε ἀπολαμβάνων καὶ ὁ ἀποδιδούς—οὐχ οὕτω λέγειν φῂς τὸν Σιμωνίδην;
πάνυ μὲν οὖν.
τί δέ; τοῖς ἐχθροῖς ἀποδοτέον ὅτι ἂν τύχῃ ὀφειλόμενον;
παντάπασι μὲν οὖν, ἔφη, ὅ γε ὀφείλεται αὐτοῖς, ὀφείλεται δέ γε οἶμαι παρά γε τοῦ ἐχθροῦ τῷ ἐχθρῷ ὅπερ καὶ προσήκει, κακόν τι.
ἠινίξατο ἄρα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὡς ἔοικεν, ὁ Σιμωνίδης ποιητικῶς [332c] τὸ δίκαιον ὃ εἴη. διενοεῖτο μὲν γάρ, ὡς φαίνεται, ὅτι τοῦτʼ εἴη δίκαιον, τὸ προσῆκον ἑκάστῳ ἀποδιδόναι, τοῦτο δὲ ὠνόμασεν ὀφειλόμενον.
ἀλλὰ τί οἴει; ἔφη.
ὦ πρὸς Διός, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, εἰ οὖν τις αὐτὸν ἤρετο· ὦ Σιμωνίδη, ἡ τίσιν οὖν τί ἀποδιδοῦσα ὀφειλόμενον καὶ προσῆκον τέχνη ἰατρικὴ καλεῖται; τί ἂν οἴει ἡμῖν αὐτὸν ἀποκρίνασθαι;
δῆλον ὅτι, ἔφη, ἡ σώμασιν φάρμακά τε καὶ σιτία καὶ ποτά.
ἡ δὲ τίσιν τί ἀποδιδοῦσα ὀφειλόμενον καὶ προσῆκον τέχνη μαγειρικὴ καλεῖται; [332d]
ἡ τοῖς ὄψοις τὰ ἡδύσματα.
εἶεν· ἡ οὖν δὴ τίσιν τί ἀποδιδοῦσα τέχνη δικαιοσύνη ἂν καλοῖτο;
εἰ μέν τι, ἔφη, δεῖ ἀκολουθεῖν, ὦ Σώκρατες, τοῖς ἔμπροσθεν εἰρημένοις, ἡ τοῖς φίλοις τε καὶ ἐχθροῖς ὠφελίας τε καὶ βλάβας ἀποδιδοῦσα.
τὸ τοὺς φίλους ἄρα εὖ ποιεῖν καὶ τοὺς ἐχθροὺς κακῶς δικαιοσύνην λέγει;
δοκεῖ μοι.
τίς οὖν δυνατώτατος κάμνοντας φίλους εὖ ποιεῖν καὶ ἐχθροὺς κακῶς πρὸς νόσον καὶ ὑγίειαν;
ἰατρός. [332e]
τίς δὲ πλέοντας πρὸς τὸν τῆς θαλάττης κίνδυνον;
κυβερνήτης.
τί δὲ ὁ δίκαιος; ἐν τίνι πράξει καὶ πρὸς τί ἔργον δυνατώτατος φίλους ὠφελεῖν καὶ ἐχθροὺς βλάπτειν;
ἐν τῷ προσπολεμεῖν καὶ ἐν τῷ συμμαχεῖν, ἔμοιγε δοκεῖ.
εἶεν· μὴ κάμνουσί γε μήν, ὦ φίλε Πολέμαρχε, ἰατρὸς ἄχρηστος.
ἀληθῆ.
καὶ μὴ πλέουσι δὴ κυβερνήτης.
ναί.
ἆρα καὶ τοῖς μὴ πολεμοῦσιν ὁ δίκαιος ἄχρηστος;
οὐ πάνυ μοι δοκεῖ τοῦτο.
χρήσιμον ἄρα καὶ ἐν εἰρήνῃ δικαιοσύνη;

[333a]
χρήσιμον.
καὶ γὰρ γεωργία· ἢ οὔ;
ναί.
πρός γε καρποῦ κτῆσιν;
ναί.
καὶ μὴν καὶ σκυτοτομική;
ναί.
πρός γε ὑποδημάτων ἂν οἶμαι φαίης κτῆσιν;
πάνυ γε.
τί δὲ δή; τὴν δικαιοσύνην πρὸς τίνος χρείαν ἢ κτῆσιν ἐν εἰρήνῃ φαίης ἂν χρήσιμον εἶναι;
πρὸς τὰ συμβόλαια, ὦ Σώκρατες.
συμβόλαια δὲ λέγεις κοινωνήματα ἤ τι ἄλλο;
κοινωνήματα δῆτα. [333b]
ἆρʼ οὖν ὁ δίκαιος ἀγαθὸς καὶ χρήσιμος κοινωνὸς εἰς πεττῶν θέσιν, ἢ ὁ πεττευτικός;
ὁ πεττευτικός.
ἀλλʼ εἰς πλίνθων καὶ λίθων θέσιν ὁ δίκαιος χρησιμώτερός τε καὶ ἀμείνων κοινωνὸς τοῦ οἰκοδομικοῦ;
οὐδαμῶς.
ἀλλʼ εἰς τίνα δὴ κοινωνίαν ὁ δίκαιος ἀμείνων κοινωνὸς τοῦ οἰκοδομικοῦ τε καὶ κιθαριστικοῦ, ὥσπερ ὁ κιθαριστικὸς τοῦ δικαίου εἰς κρουμάτων;
εἰς ἀργυρίου, ἔμοιγε δοκεῖ.
πλήν γʼ ἴσως, ὦ Πολέμαρχε, πρὸς τὸ χρῆσθαι ἀργυρίῳ, ὅταν δέῃ ἀργυρίου κοινῇ πρίασθαι ἢ ἀποδόσθαι ἵππον· τότε [333c] δέ, ὡς ἐγὼ οἶμαι, ὁ ἱππικός. ἦ γάρ;
φαίνεται.
καὶ μὴν ὅταν γε πλοῖον, ὁ ναυπηγὸς ἢ ὁ κυβερνήτης;
ἔοικεν.
ὅταν οὖν τί δέῃ ἀργυρίῳ ἢ χρυσίῳ κοινῇ χρῆσθαι, ὁ δίκαιος χρησιμώτερος τῶν ἄλλων;
ὅταν παρακαταθέσθαι καὶ σῶν εἶναι, ὦ Σώκρατες.
οὐκοῦν λέγεις ὅταν μηδὲν δέῃ αὐτῷ χρῆσθαι ἀλλὰ κεῖσθαι;
πάνυ γε.
ὅταν ἄρα ἄχρηστον ᾖ ἀργύριον, τότε χρήσιμος ἐπʼ αὐτῷ [333d] ἡ δικαιοσύνη;
κινδυνεύει.
καὶ ὅταν δὴ δρέπανον δέῃ φυλάττειν, ἡ δικαιοσύνη χρήσιμος καὶ κοινῇ καὶ ἰδίᾳ· ὅταν δὲ χρῆσθαι, ἡ ἀμπελουργική;
φαίνεται.
φήσεις δὲ καὶ ἀσπίδα καὶ λύραν ὅταν δέῃ φυλάττειν καὶ μηδὲν χρῆσθαι, χρήσιμον εἶναι τὴν δικαιοσύνην, ὅταν δὲ χρῆσθαι, τὴν ὁπλιτικὴν καὶ τὴν μουσικήν;
ἀνάγκη.
καὶ περὶ τἆλλα δὴ πάντα ἡ δικαιοσύνη ἑκάστου ἐν μὲν χρήσει ἄχρηστος, ἐν δὲ ἀχρηστίᾳ χρήσιμος;
κινδυνεύει. [333e]
οὐκ ἂν οὖν, ὦ φίλε, πάνυ γέ τι σπουδαῖον εἴη ἡ δικαιοσύνη, εἰ πρὸς τὰ ἄχρηστα χρήσιμον ὂν τυγχάνει. τόδε δὲ σκεψώμεθα. ἆρʼ οὐχ ὁ πατάξαι δεινότατος ἐν μάχῃ εἴτε πυκτικῇ εἴτε τινὶ καὶ ἄλλῃ, οὗτος καὶ φυλάξασθαι;
πάνυ γε.
ἆρʼ οὖν καὶ νόσον ὅστις δεινὸς φυλάξασθαι, καὶ λαθεῖν οὗτος δεινότατος ἐμποιήσας;
ἔμοιγε δοκεῖ.

[334a]
ἀλλὰ μὴν στρατοπέδου γε ὁ αὐτὸς φύλαξ ἀγαθός, ὅσπερ καὶ τὰ τῶν πολεμίων κλέψαι καὶ βουλεύματα καὶ τὰς ἄλλας πράξεις;
πάνυ γε.
ὅτου τις ἄρα δεινὸς φύλαξ, τούτου καὶ φὼρ δεινός.
ἔοικεν.
εἰ ἄρα ὁ δίκαιος ἀργύριον δεινὸς φυλάττειν, καὶ κλέπτειν δεινός.
ὡς γοῦν ὁ λόγος, ἔφη, σημαίνει.
κλέπτης ἄρα τις ὁ δίκαιος, ὡς ἔοικεν, ἀναπέφανται, καὶ κινδυνεύεις παρʼ Ὁμήρου μεμαθηκέναι αὐτό· καὶ γὰρ ἐκεῖνος [334b] τὸν τοῦ Ὀδυσσέως πρὸς μητρὸς πάππον Αὐτόλυκον ἀγαπᾷ τε καί φησιν αὐτὸν πάντας ἀνθρώπους κεκάσθαι κλεπτοσύνῃ θʼ ὅρκῳ τε. ἔοικεν οὖν ἡ δικαιοσύνη καὶ κατὰ σὲ καὶ καθʼ Ὅμηρον καὶ κατὰ Σιμωνίδην κλεπτική τις εἶναι, ἐπʼ ὠφελίᾳ μέντοι τῶν φίλων καὶ ἐπὶ βλάβῃ τῶν ἐχθρῶν. οὐχ οὕτως ἔλεγες;
οὐ μὰ τὸν Δίʼ, ἔφη, ἀλλʼ οὐκέτι οἶδα ἔγωγε ὅτι ἔλεγον· τοῦτο μέντοι ἔμοιγε δοκεῖ ἔτι, ὠφελεῖν μὲν τοὺς φίλους ἡ δικαιοσύνη, βλάπτειν δὲ τοὺς ἐχθρούς. [334c]
φίλους δὲ λέγεις εἶναι πότερον τοὺς δοκοῦντας ἑκάστῳ χρηστοὺς εἶναι, ἢ τοὺς ὄντας, κἂν μὴ δοκῶσι, καὶ ἐχθροὺς ὡσαύτως;
εἰκὸς μέν, ἔφη, οὓς ἄν τις ἡγῆται χρηστοὺς φιλεῖν, οὓς δʼ ἂν πονηροὺς μισεῖν.
ἆρʼ οὖν οὐχ ἁμαρτάνουσιν οἱ ἄνθρωποι περὶ τοῦτο, ὥστε δοκεῖν αὐτοῖς πολλοὺς μὲν χρηστοὺς εἶναι μὴ ὄντας, πολλοὺς δὲ τοὐναντίον;
ἁμαρτάνουσιν.
τούτοις ἄρα οἱ μὲν ἀγαθοὶ ἐχθροί, οἱ δὲ κακοὶ φίλοι;
πάνυ γε.
ἀλλʼ ὅμως δίκαιον τότε τούτοις τοὺς μὲν πονηροὺς [334d] ὠφελεῖν, τοὺς δὲ ἀγαθοὺς βλάπτειν;
φαίνεται.
ἀλλὰ μὴν οἵ γε ἀγαθοὶ δίκαιοί τε καὶ οἷοι μὴ ἀδικεῖν;
ἀληθῆ.
κατὰ δὴ τὸν σὸν λόγον τοὺς μηδὲν ἀδικοῦντας δίκαιον κακῶς ποιεῖν.
μηδαμῶς, ἔφη, ὦ Σώκρατες· πονηρὸς γὰρ ἔοικεν εἶναι ὁ λόγος.
τοὺς ἀδίκους ἄρα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, δίκαιον βλάπτειν, τοὺς δὲ δικαίους ὠφελεῖν;
οὗτος ἐκείνου καλλίων φαίνεται.
πολλοῖς ἄρα, ὦ Πολέμαρχε, συμβήσεται, ὅσοι διημαρτήκασιν [334e] τῶν ἀνθρώπων, δίκαιον εἶναι τοὺς μὲν φίλους βλάπτειν—πονηροὶ γὰρ αὐτοῖς εἰσιν—τοὺς δʼ ἐχθροὺς ὠφελεῖν —ἀγαθοὶ γάρ· καὶ οὕτως ἐροῦμεν αὐτὸ τοὐναντίον ἢ τὸν Σιμωνίδην ἔφαμεν λέγειν.
καὶ μάλα, ἔφη, οὕτω συμβαίνει. ἀλλὰ μεταθώμεθα· κινδυνεύομεν γὰρ οὐκ ὀρθῶς τὸν φίλον καὶ ἐχθρὸν θέσθαι.
πῶς θέμενοι, ὦ Πολέμαρχε;
τὸν δοκοῦντα χρηστόν, τοῦτον φίλον εἶναι.
νῦν δὲ πῶς, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, μεταθώμεθα;
τὸν δοκοῦντά τε, ἦ δʼ ὅς, καὶ τὸν ὄντα χρηστὸν φίλον·

### Book I, 335–341

[335a] τὸν δὲ δοκοῦντα μέν, ὄντα δὲ μή, δοκεῖν ἀλλὰ μὴ εἶναι φίλον. καὶ περὶ τοῦ ἐχθροῦ δὲ ἡ αὐτὴ θέσις.
φίλος μὲν δή, ὡς ἔοικε, τούτῳ τῷ λόγῳ ὁ ἀγαθὸς ἔσται, ἐχθρὸς δὲ ὁ πονηρός.
ναί.
κελεύεις δὴ ἡμᾶς προσθεῖναι τῷ δικαίῳ ἢ ὡς τὸ πρῶτον ἐλέγομεν, λέγοντες δίκαιον εἶναι τὸν μὲν φίλον εὖ ποιεῖν, τὸν δʼ ἐχθρὸν κακῶς· νῦν πρὸς τούτῳ ὧδε λέγειν, ὅτι ἔστιν δίκαιον τὸν μὲν φίλον ἀγαθὸν ὄντα εὖ ποιεῖν, τὸν δʼ ἐχθρὸν κακὸν ὄντα βλάπτειν; [335b]
πάνυ μὲν οὖν, ἔφη, οὕτως ἄν μοι δοκεῖ καλῶς λέγεσθαι.
ἔστιν ἄρα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, δικαίου ἀνδρὸς βλάπτειν καὶ ὁντινοῦν ἀνθρώπων;
καὶ πάνυ γε, ἔφη· τούς γε πονηρούς τε καὶ ἐχθροὺς δεῖ βλάπτειν.
βλαπτόμενοι δʼ ἵπποι βελτίους ἢ χείρους γίγνονται;
χείρους.
ἆρα εἰς τὴν τῶν κυνῶν ἀρετήν, ἢ εἰς τὴν τῶν ἵππων;
εἰς τὴν τῶν ἵππων.
ἆρʼ οὖν καὶ κύνες βλαπτόμενοι χείρους γίγνονται εἰς τὴν τῶν κυνῶν ἀλλʼ οὐκ εἰς τὴν τῶν ἵππων ἀρετήν;
ἀνάγκη. [335c]
ἀνθρώπους δέ, ὦ ἑταῖρε, μὴ οὕτω φῶμεν, βλαπτομένους εἰς τὴν ἀνθρωπείαν ἀρετὴν χείρους γίγνεσθαι;
πάνυ μὲν οὖν.
ἀλλʼ ἡ δικαιοσύνη οὐκ ἀνθρωπεία ἀρετή;
καὶ τοῦτʼ ἀνάγκη.
καὶ τοὺς βλαπτομένους ἄρα, ὦ φίλε, τῶν ἀνθρώπων ἀνάγκη ἀδικωτέρους γίγνεσθαι.
ἔοικεν.
ἆρʼ οὖν τῇ μουσικῇ οἱ μουσικοὶ ἀμούσους δύνανται ποιεῖν;
ἀδύνατον.
ἀλλὰ τῇ ἱππικῇ οἱ ἱππικοὶ ἀφίππους;
οὐκ ἔστιν.
ἀλλὰ τῇ δικαιοσύνῃ δὴ οἱ δίκαιοι ἀδίκους; ἢ καὶ [335d] συλλήβδην ἀρετῇ οἱ ἀγαθοὶ κακούς;
ἀλλὰ ἀδύνατον.
οὐ γὰρ θερμότητος οἶμαι ἔργον ψύχειν ἀλλὰ τοῦ ἐναντίου.
ναί.
οὐδὲ ξηρότητος ὑγραίνειν ἀλλὰ τοῦ ἐναντίου.
πάνυ γε.
οὐδὲ δὴ τοῦ ἀγαθοῦ βλάπτειν ἀλλὰ τοῦ ἐναντίου.
φαίνεται.
ὁ δέ γε δίκαιος ἀγαθός;
πάνυ γε.
οὐκ ἄρα τοῦ δικαίου βλάπτειν ἔργον, ὦ Πολέμαρχε, οὔτε φίλον οὔτʼ ἄλλον οὐδένα, ἀλλὰ τοῦ ἐναντίου, τοῦ ἀδίκου.
παντάπασί μοι δοκεῖς ἀληθῆ λέγειν, ἔφη, ὦ Σώκρατες. [335e]
εἰ ἄρα τὰ ὀφειλόμενα ἑκάστῳ ἀποδιδόναι φησίν τις δίκαιον εἶναι, τοῦτο δὲ δὴ νοεῖ αὐτῷ τοῖς μὲν ἐχθροῖς βλάβην ὀφείλεσθαι παρὰ τοῦ δικαίου ἀνδρός, τοῖς δὲ φίλοις ὠφελίαν, οὐκ ἦν σοφὸς ὁ ταῦτα εἰπών. οὐ γὰρ ἀληθῆ ἔλεγεν· οὐδαμοῦ γὰρ δίκαιον οὐδένα ἡμῖν ἐφάνη ὂν βλάπτειν.
συγχωρῶ, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
μαχούμεθα ἄρα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, κοινῇ ἐγώ τε καὶ σύ, ἐάν τις αὐτὸ φῇ ἢ Σιμωνίδην ἢ Βίαντα ἢ Πιττακὸν εἰρηκέναι ἤ τινʼ ἄλλον τῶν σοφῶν τε καὶ μακαρίων ἀνδρῶν.
ἐγὼ γοῦν, ἔφη, ἕτοιμός εἰμι κοινωνεῖν τῆς μάχης.

[336a]
ἀλλʼ οἶσθα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, οὗ μοι δοκεῖ εἶναι τὸ ῥῆμα, τὸ φάναι δίκαιον εἶναι τοὺς μὲν φίλους ὠφελεῖν, τοὺς δʼ ἐχθροὺς βλάπτειν;
τίνος; ἔφη.
οἶμαι αὐτὸ Περιάνδρου εἶναι ἢ Περδίκκου ἢ Ξέρξου ἢ Ἰσμηνίου τοῦ Θηβαίου ἤ τινος ἄλλου μέγα οἰομένου δύνασθαι πλουσίου ἀνδρός.
ἀληθέστατα, ἔφη, λέγεις.
εἶεν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ· ἐπειδὴ δὲ οὐδὲ τοῦτο ἐφάνη ἡ δικαιοσύνη ὂν οὐδὲ τὸ δίκαιον, τί ἂν ἄλλο τις αὐτὸ φαίη εἶναι; [336b]
καὶ ὁ Θρασύμαχος πολλάκις μὲν καὶ διαλεγομένων ἡμῶν μεταξὺ ὥρμα ἀντιλαμβάνεσθαι τοῦ λόγου, ἔπειτα ὑπὸ τῶν παρακαθημένων διεκωλύετο βουλομένων διακοῦσαι τὸν λόγον· ὡς δὲ διεπαυσάμεθα καὶ ἐγὼ ταῦτʼ εἶπον, οὐκέτι ἡσυχίαν ἦγεν, ἀλλὰ συστρέψας ἑαυτὸν ὥσπερ θηρίον ἧκεν ἐφʼ ἡμᾶς ὡς διαρπασόμενος.
καὶ ἐγώ τε καὶ ὁ Πολέμαρχος δείσαντες διεπτοήθημεν· ὁ δʼ εἰς τὸ μέσον φθεγξάμενος, τίς, ἔφη, ὑμᾶς πάλαι φλυαρία [336c] ἔχει, ὦ Σώκρατες; καὶ τί εὐηθίζεσθε πρὸς ἀλλήλους ὑποκατακλινόμενοι ὑμῖν αὐτοῖς; ἀλλʼ εἴπερ ὡς ἀληθῶς βούλει εἰδέναι τὸ δίκαιον ὅτι ἔστι, μὴ μόνον ἐρώτα μηδὲ φιλοτιμοῦ ἐλέγχων ἐπειδάν τίς τι ἀποκρίνηται, ἐγνωκὼς τοῦτο, ὅτι ῥᾷον ἐρωτᾶν ἢ ἀποκρίνεσθαι, ἀλλὰ καὶ αὐτὸς ἀπόκριναι καὶ εἰπὲ τί φῂς εἶναι τὸ δίκαιον. καὶ ὅπως μοι μὴ ἐρεῖς ὅτι τὸ [336d] δέον ἐστὶν μηδʼ ὅτι τὸ ὠφέλιμον μηδʼ ὅτι τὸ λυσιτελοῦν μηδʼ ὅτι τὸ κερδαλέον μηδʼ ὅτι τὸ συμφέρον, ἀλλὰ σαφῶς μοι καὶ ἀκριβῶς λέγε ὅτι ἂν λέγῃς· ὡς ἐγὼ οὐκ ἀποδέξομαι ἐὰν ὕθλους τοιούτους λέγῃς.
καὶ ἐγὼ ἀκούσας ἐξεπλάγην καὶ προσβλέπων αὐτὸν ἐφοβούμην, καί μοι δοκῶ, εἰ μὴ πρότερος ἑωράκη αὐτὸν ἢ ἐκεῖνος ἐμέ, ἄφωνος ἂν γενέσθαι. νῦν δὲ ἡνίκα ὑπὸ τοῦ λόγου ἤρχετο ἐξαγριαίνεσθαι, προσέβλεψα αὐτὸν πρότερος, [336e] ὥστε αὐτῷ οἷός τʼ ἐγενόμην ἀποκρίνασθαι, καὶ εἶπον ὑποτρέμων· ὦ Θρασύμαχε, μὴ χαλεπὸς ἡμῖν ἴσθι· εἰ γάρ τι ἐξαμαρτάνομεν ἐν τῇ τῶν λόγων σκέψει ἐγώ τε καὶ ὅδε, εὖ ἴσθι ὅτι ἄκοντες ἁμαρτάνομεν. μὴ γὰρ δὴ οἴου, εἰ μὲν χρυσίον ἐζητοῦμεν, οὐκ ἄν ποτε ἡμᾶς ἑκόντας εἶναι ὑποκατακλίνεσθαι ἀλλήλοις ἐν τῇ ζητήσει καὶ διαφθείρειν τὴν εὕρεσιν αὐτοῦ, δικαιοσύνην δὲ ζητοῦντας, πρᾶγμα πολλῶν χρυσίων τιμιώτερον, ἔπειθʼ οὕτως ἀνοήτως ὑπείκειν ἀλλήλοις καὶ οὐ σπουδάζειν ὅτι μάλιστα φανῆναι αὐτό.
οἴου γε σύ, ὦ φίλε.
ἀλλʼ οἶμαι οὐ δυνάμεθα· ἐλεεῖσθαι οὖν ἡμᾶς πολὺ

[337a]
μᾶλλον εἰκός ἐστίν που ὑπὸ ὑμῶν τῶν δεινῶν ἢ χαλεπαίνεσθαι.
καὶ ὃς ἀκούσας ἀνεκάγχασέ τε μάλα σαρδάνιον καὶ εἶπεν· ὦ Ἡράκλεις, ἔφη, αὕτη ʼκείνη ἡ εἰωθυῖα εἰρωνεία Σωκράτους, καὶ ταῦτʼ ἐγὼ ᾔδη τε καὶ τούτοις προύλεγον, ὅτι σὺ ἀποκρίνασθαι μὲν οὐκ ἐθελήσοις, εἰρωνεύσοιο δὲ καὶ πάντα μᾶλλον ποιήσοις ἢ ἀποκρινοῖο, εἴ τίς τί σε ἐρωτᾷ.
σοφὸς γὰρ εἶ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὦ Θρασύμαχε· εὖ οὖν ᾔδησθα ὅτι εἴ τινα ἔροιο ὁπόσα ἐστὶν τὰ δώδεκα, καὶ ἐρόμενος προείποις [337b] αὐτῷ— ὅπως μοι, ὦ ἄνθρωπε, μὴ ἐρεῖς ὅτι ἔστιν τὰ δώδεκα δὶς ἓξ μηδʼ ὅτι τρὶς τέτταρα μηδʼ ὅτι ἑξάκις δύο μηδʼ ὅτι τετράκις τρία· ὡς οὐκ ἀποδέξομαί σου ἐὰν τοιαῦτα φλυαρῇς —δῆλον οἶμαί σοι ἦν ὅτι οὐδεὶς ἀποκρινοῖτο τῷ οὕτως πυνθανομένῳ. ἀλλʼ εἴ σοι εἶπεν· ὦ Θρασύμαχε, πῶς λέγεις; μὴ ἀποκρίνωμαι ὧν προεῖπες μηδέν; πότερον, ὦ θαυμάσιε, μηδʼ εἰ τούτων τι τυγχάνει ὄν, ἀλλʼ ἕτερον εἴπω τι [337c] τοῦ ἀληθοῦς; ἢ πῶς λέγεις; τί ἂν αὐτῷ εἶπες πρὸς ταῦτα;
εἶεν, ἔφη· ὡς δὴ ὅμοιον τοῦτο ἐκείνῳ.
οὐδέν γε κωλύει, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ· εἰ δʼ οὖν καὶ μὴ ἔστιν ὅμοιον, φαίνεται δὲ τῷ ἐρωτηθέντι τοιοῦτον, ἧττόν τι αὐτὸν οἴει ἀποκρινεῖσθαι τὸ φαινόμενον ἑαυτῷ, ἐάντε ἡμεῖς ἀπαγορεύωμεν ἐάντε μή;
ἄλλο τι οὖν, ἔφη, καὶ σὺ οὕτω ποιήσεις· ὧν ἐγὼ ἀπεῖπον, τούτων τι ἀποκρινῇ;
οὐκ ἂν θαυμάσαιμι, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ· εἴ μοι σκεψαμένῳ οὕτω δόξειεν. [337d]
τί οὖν, ἔφη, ἂν ἐγὼ δείξω ἑτέραν ἀπόκρισιν παρὰ πάσας ταύτας περὶ δικαιοσύνης, βελτίω τούτων; τί ἀξιοῖς παθεῖν;
τί ἄλλο, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἢ ὅπερ προσήκει πάσχειν τῷ μὴ εἰδότι; προσήκει δέ που μαθεῖν παρὰ τοῦ εἰδότος· καὶ ἐγὼ οὖν τοῦτο ἀξιῶ παθεῖν.
ἡδὺς γὰρ εἶ, ἔφη· ἀλλὰ πρὸς τῷ μαθεῖν καὶ ἀπότεισον ἀργύριον.
οὐκοῦν ἐπειδάν μοι γένηται, εἶπον.
ἀλλʼ ἔστιν, ἔφη ὁ Γλαύκων. ἀλλʼ ἕνεκα ἀργυρίου, ὦ Θρασύμαχε, λέγε· πάντες γὰρ ἡμεῖς Σωκράτει εἰσοίσομεν. [337e]
πάνυ γε οἶμαι, ἦ δʼ ὅς· ἵνα Σωκράτης τὸ εἰωθὸς διαπράξηται· αὐτὸς μὲν μὴ ἀποκρίνηται, ἄλλου δʼ ἀποκρινομένου λαμβάνῃ λόγον καὶ ἐλέγχῃ.
πῶς γὰρ ἄν, ἔφην ἐγώ, ὦ βέλτιστε, τὶς ἀποκρίναιτο πρῶτον μὲν μὴ εἰδὼς μηδὲ φάσκων εἰδέναι, ἔπειτα, εἴ τι καὶ οἴεται, περὶ τούτων ἀπειρημένον αὐτῷ εἴη ὅπως μηδὲν ἐρεῖ ὧν ἡγεῖται ὑπʼ ἀνδρὸς οὐ φαύλου; ἀλλὰ σὲ δὴ μᾶλλον

[338a]
εἰκὸς λέγειν· σὺ γὰρ δὴ φῂς εἰδέναι καὶ ἔχειν εἰπεῖν. μὴ οὖν ἄλλως ποίει, ἀλλὰ ἐμοί τε χαρίζου ἀποκρινόμενος καὶ μὴ φθονήσῃς καὶ Γλαύκωνα τόνδε διδάξαι καὶ τοὺς ἄλλους.
εἰπόντος δέ μου ταῦτα, ὅ τε Γλαύκων καὶ οἱ ἄλλοι ἐδέοντο αὐτοῦ μὴ ἄλλως ποιεῖν. καὶ ὁ Θρασύμαχος φανερὸς μὲν ἦν ἐπιθυμῶν εἰπεῖν ἵνʼ εὐδοκιμήσειεν, ἡγούμενος ἔχειν ἀπόκρισιν παγκάλην· προσεποιεῖτο δὲ φιλονικεῖν πρὸς τὸ ἐμὲ εἶναι τὸν ἀποκρινόμενον. τελευτῶν δὲ συνεχώρησεν, [338b] κἄπειτα, αὕτη δή, ἔφη, ἡ Σωκράτους σοφία· αὐτὸν μὲν μὴ ἐθέλειν διδάσκειν, παρὰ δὲ τῶν ἄλλων περιιόντα μανθάνειν καὶ τούτων μηδὲ χάριν ἀποδιδόναι.
ὅτι μέν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, μανθάνω παρὰ τῶν ἄλλων, ἀληθῆ εἶπες, ὦ Θρασύμαχε, ὅτι δὲ οὔ με φῂς χάριν ἐκτίνειν, ψεύδῃ· ἐκτίνω γὰρ ὅσην δύναμαι. δύναμαι δὲ ἐπαινεῖν μόνον· χρήματα γὰρ οὐκ ἔχω. ὡς δὲ προθύμως τοῦτο δρῶ, ἐάν τίς μοι δοκῇ εὖ λέγειν, εὖ εἴσῃ αὐτίκα δὴ μάλα, ἐπειδὰν ἀποκρίνῃ· οἶμαι γάρ σε εὖ ἐρεῖν. [338c]
ἄκουε δή, ἦ δʼ ὅς. φημὶ γὰρ ἐγὼ εἶναι τὸ δίκαιον οὐκ ἄλλο τι ἢ τὸ τοῦ κρείττονος συμφέρον. ἀλλὰ τί οὐκ ἐπαινεῖς; ἀλλʼ οὐκ ἐθελήσεις.
ἐὰν μάθω γε πρῶτον, ἔφην, τί λέγεις· νῦν γὰρ οὔπω οἶδα. τὸ τοῦ κρείττονος φῂς συμφέρον δίκαιον εἶναι. καὶ τοῦτο, ὦ Θρασύμαχε, τί ποτε λέγεις; οὐ γάρ που τό γε τοιόνδε φῄς· εἰ Πουλυδάμας ἡμῶν κρείττων ὁ παγκρατιαστὴς καὶ αὐτῷ συμφέρει τὰ βόεια κρέα πρὸς τὸ σῶμα, τοῦτο τὸ [338d] σιτίον εἶναι καὶ ἡμῖν τοῖς ἥττοσιν ἐκείνου συμφέρον ἅμα καὶ δίκαιον.
βδελυρὸς γὰρ εἶ, ἔφη, ὦ Σώκρατες, καὶ ταύτῃ ὑπολαμβάνεις ᾗ ἂν κακουργήσαις μάλιστα τὸν λόγον.
οὐδαμῶς, ὦ ἄριστε, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ· ἀλλὰ σαφέστερον εἰπὲ τί λέγεις.
εἶτʼ οὐκ οἶσθʼ, ἔφη, ὅτι τῶν πόλεων αἱ μὲν τυραννοῦνται, αἱ δὲ δημοκρατοῦνται, αἱ δὲ ἀριστοκρατοῦνται;
πῶς γὰρ οὔ;
οὐκοῦν τοῦτο κρατεῖ ἐν ἑκάστῃ πόλει, τὸ ἄρχον;
πάνυ γε. [338e]
τίθεται δέ γε τοὺς νόμους ἑκάστη ἡ ἀρχὴ πρὸς τὸ αὑτῇ συμφέρον, δημοκρατία μὲν δημοκρατικούς, τυραννὶς δὲ τυραννικούς, καὶ αἱ ἄλλαι οὕτως· θέμεναι δὲ ἀπέφηναν τοῦτο δίκαιον τοῖς ἀρχομένοις εἶναι, τὸ σφίσι συμφέρον, καὶ τὸν τούτου ἐκβαίνοντα κολάζουσιν ὡς παρανομοῦντά τε καὶ ἀδικοῦντα.
τοῦτʼ οὖν ἐστιν, ὦ βέλτιστε, ὃ λέγω ἐν ἁπάσαις

[339a]
ταῖς πόλεσιν ταὐτὸν εἶναι δίκαιον, τὸ τῆς καθεστηκυίας ἀρχῆς συμφέρον· αὕτη δέ που κρατεῖ, ὥστε συμβαίνει τῷ ὀρθῶς λογιζομένῳ πανταχοῦ εἶναι τὸ αὐτὸ δίκαιον, τὸ τοῦ κρείττονος συμφέρον.
νῦν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἔμαθον ὃ λέγεις· εἰ δὲ ἀληθὲς ἢ μή, πειράσομαι μαθεῖν. τὸ συμφέρον μὲν οὖν, ὦ Θρασύμαχε, καὶ σὺ ἀπεκρίνω δίκαιον εἶναι—καίτοι ἔμοιγε ἀπηγόρευες ὅπως μὴ τοῦτο ἀποκρινοίμην—πρόσεστιν δὲ δὴ αὐτόθι τὸ τοῦ κρείττονος. [339b]
σμικρά γε ἴσως, ἔφη, προσθήκη.
οὔπω δῆλον οὐδʼ εἰ μεγάλη· ἀλλʼ ὅτι μὲν τοῦτο σκεπτέον εἰ ἀληθῆ λέγεις, δῆλον. ἐπειδὴ γὰρ συμφέρον γέ τι εἶναι καὶ ἐγὼ ὁμολογῶ τὸ δίκαιον, σὺ δὲ προστιθεῖς καὶ αὐτὸ φῂς εἶναι τὸ τοῦ κρείττονος, ἐγὼ δὲ ἀγνοῶ, σκεπτέον δή.
σκόπει, ἔφη.
ταῦτʼ ἔσται, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ. καί μοι εἰπέ· οὐ καὶ πείθεσθαι μέντοι τοῖς ἄρχουσιν δίκαιον φῂς εἶναι;
ἔγωγε. [339c]
πότερον δὲ ἀναμάρτητοί εἰσιν οἱ ἄρχοντες ἐν ταῖς πόλεσιν ἑκάσταις ἢ οἷοί τι καὶ ἁμαρτεῖν;
πάντως που, ἔφη, οἷοί τι καὶ ἁμαρτεῖν.
οὐκοῦν ἐπιχειροῦντες νόμους τιθέναι τοὺς μὲν ὀρθῶς τιθέασιν, τοὺς δέ τινας οὐκ ὀρθῶς;
οἶμαι ἔγωγε.
τὸ δὲ ὀρθῶς ἆρα τὸ τὰ συμφέροντά ἐστι τίθεσθαι ἑαυτοῖς, τὸ δὲ μὴ ὀρθῶς ἀσύμφορα; ἢ πῶς λέγεις;
οὕτως.
ἃ δʼ ἂν θῶνται ποιητέον τοῖς ἀρχομένοις, καὶ τοῦτό ἐστι τὸ δίκαιον;
πῶς γὰρ οὔ; [339d]
οὐ μόνον ἄρα δίκαιόν ἐστιν κατὰ τὸν σὸν λόγον τὸ τοῦ κρείττονος συμφέρον ποιεῖν ἀλλὰ καὶ τοὐναντίον, τὸ μὴ συμφέρον.
τί λέγεις σύ; ἔφη.
ἃ σὺ λέγεις, ἔμοιγε δοκῶ· σκοπῶμεν δὲ βέλτιον. οὐχ ὡμολόγηται τοὺς ἄρχοντας τοῖς ἀρχομένοις προστάττοντας ποιεῖν ἄττα ἐνίοτε διαμαρτάνειν τοῦ ἑαυτοῖς βελτίστου, ἃ δʼ ἂν προστάττωσιν οἱ ἄρχοντες δίκαιον εἶναι τοῖς ἀρχομένοις ποιεῖν; ταῦτʼ οὐχ ὡμολόγηται;
οἶμαι ἔγωγε, ἔφη. [339e]
οἴου τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καὶ τὸ ἀσύμφορα ποιεῖν τοῖς ἄρχουσί τε καὶ κρείττοσι δίκαιον εἶναι ὡμολογῆσθαί σοι, ὅταν οἱ μὲν ἄρχοντες ἄκοντες κακὰ αὑτοῖς προστάττωσιν, τοῖς δὲ δίκαιον εἶναι φῇς ταῦτα ποιεῖν ἃ ἐκεῖνοι προσέταξαν —ἆρα τότε, ὦ σοφώτατε Θρασύμαχε, οὐκ ἀναγκαῖον συμβαίνειν αὐτὸ οὑτωσί, δίκαιον εἶναι ποιεῖν τοὐναντίον ἢ ὃ σὺ λέγεις; τὸ γὰρ τοῦ κρείττονος ἀσύμφορον δήπου προστάττεται τοῖς ἥττοσιν ποιεῖν.

[340a]
ναὶ μὰ Δίʼ, ἔφη, ὦ Σώκρατες, ὁ Πολέμαρχος, σαφέστατά γε.
ἐὰν σύ γʼ, ἔφη, αὐτῷ μαρτυρήσῃς, ὁ Κλειτοφῶν ὑπολαβών.
καὶ τί, ἔφη, δεῖται μάρτυρος; αὐτὸς γὰρ Θρασύμαχος ὁμολογεῖ τοὺς μὲν ἄρχοντας ἐνίοτε ἑαυτοῖς κακὰ προστάττειν, τοῖς δὲ δίκαιον εἶναι ταῦτα ποιεῖν.
τὸ γὰρ τὰ κελευόμενα ποιεῖν, ὦ Πολέμαρχε, ὑπὸ τῶν ἀρχόντων δίκαιον εἶναι ἔθετο Θρασύμαχος.
καὶ γὰρ τὸ τοῦ κρείττονος, ὦ Κλειτοφῶν, συμφέρον [340b] δίκαιον εἶναι ἔθετο. ταῦτα δὲ ἀμφότερα θέμενος ὡμολόγησεν αὖ ἐνίοτε τοὺς κρείττους τὰ αὑτοῖς ἀσύμφορα κελεύειν τοὺς ἥττους τε καὶ ἀρχομένους ποιεῖν. ἐκ δὲ τούτων τῶν ὁμολογιῶν οὐδὲν μᾶλλον τὸ τοῦ κρείττονος συμφέρον δίκαιον ἂν εἴη ἢ τὸ μὴ συμφέρον.
ἀλλʼ, ἔφη ὁ Κλειτοφῶν, τὸ τοῦ κρείττονος συμφέρον ἔλεγεν ὃ ἡγοῖτο ὁ κρείττων αὑτῷ συμφέρειν· τοῦτο ποιητέον εἶναι τῷ ἥττονι, καὶ τὸ δίκαιον τοῦτο ἐτίθετο.
ἀλλʼ οὐχ οὕτως, ἦ δʼ ὃς ὁ Πολέμαρχος, ἐλέγετο. [340c]
οὐδέν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὦ Πολέμαρχε, διαφέρει, ἀλλʼ εἰ νῦν οὕτω λέγει Θρασύμαχος, οὕτως αὐτοῦ ἀποδεχώμεθα. καί μοι εἰπέ, ὦ Θρασύμαχε· τοῦτο ἦν ὃ ἐβούλου λέγειν τὸ δίκαιον, τὸ τοῦ κρείττονος συμφέρον δοκοῦν εἶναι τῷ κρείττονι, ἐάντε συμφέρῃ ἐάντε μή; οὕτω σε φῶμεν λέγειν;
ἥκιστά γε, ἔφη· ἀλλὰ κρείττω με οἴει καλεῖν τὸν ἐξαμαρτάνοντα ὅταν ἐξαμαρτάνῃ;
ἔγωγε, εἶπον, ᾤμην σε τοῦτο λέγειν ὅτε τοὺς ἄρχοντας ὡμολόγεις οὐκ ἀναμαρτήτους εἶναι ἀλλά τι καὶ ἐξαμαρτάνειν. [340d]
συκοφάντης γὰρ εἶ, ἔφη, ὦ Σώκρατες, ἐν τοῖς λόγοις· ἐπεὶ αὐτίκα ἰατρὸν καλεῖς σὺ τὸν ἐξαμαρτάνοντα περὶ τοὺς κάμνοντας κατʼ αὐτὸ τοῦτο ὃ ἐξαμαρτάνει; ἢ λογιστικόν, ὃς ἂν ἐν λογισμῷ ἁμαρτάνῃ, τότε ὅταν ἁμαρτάνῃ, κατὰ ταύτην τὴν ἁμαρτίαν; ἀλλʼ οἶμαι λέγομεν τῷ ῥήματι οὕτως, ὅτι ὁ ἰατρὸς ἐξήμαρτεν καὶ ὁ λογιστὴς ἐξήμαρτεν καὶ ὁ γραμματιστής· τὸ δʼ οἶμαι ἕκαστος τούτων, καθʼ ὅσον τοῦτʼ ἔστιν [340e] ὃ προσαγορεύομεν αὐτόν, οὐδέποτε ἁμαρτάνει· ὥστε κατὰ τὸν ἀκριβῆ λόγον, ἐπειδὴ καὶ σὺ ἀκριβολογῇ, οὐδεὶς τῶν δημιουργῶν ἁμαρτάνει. ἐπιλειπούσης γὰρ ἐπιστήμης ὁ ἁμαρτάνων ἁμαρτάνει, ἐν ᾧ οὐκ ἔστι δημιουργός· ὥστε δημιουργὸς ἢ σοφὸς ἢ ἄρχων οὐδεὶς ἁμαρτάνει τότε ὅταν ἄρχων ᾖ, ἀλλὰ πᾶς γʼ ἂν εἴποι ὅτι ὁ ἰατρὸς ἥμαρτεν καὶ ὁ ἄρχων ἥμαρτεν.
τοιοῦτον οὖν δή σοι καὶ ἐμὲ ὑπόλαβε νυνδὴ ἀποκρίνεσθαι· τὸ δὲ ἀκριβέστατον ἐκεῖνο τυγχάνει ὄν, τὸν ἄρχοντα, καθʼ

[341a]
ὅσον ἄρχων ἐστίν, μὴ ἁμαρτάνειν, μὴ ἁμαρτάνοντα δὲ τὸ αὑτῷ βέλτιστον τίθεσθαι, τοῦτο δὲ τῷ ἀρχομένῳ ποιητέον. ὥστε ὅπερ ἐξ ἀρχῆς ἔλεγον δίκαιον λέγω, τὸ τοῦ κρείττονος ποιεῖν συμφέρον.
εἶεν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὦ Θρασύμαχε· δοκῶ σοι συκοφαντεῖν;
πάνυ μὲν οὖν, ἔφη.
οἴει γάρ με ἐξ ἐπιβουλῆς ἐν τοῖς λόγοις κακουργοῦντά σε ἐρέσθαι ὡς ἠρόμην;
εὖ μὲν οὖν οἶδα, ἔφη. καὶ οὐδέν γέ σοι πλέον ἔσται· [341b] οὔτε γὰρ ἄν με λάθοις κακουργῶν, οὔτε μὴ λαθὼν βιάσασθαι τῷ λόγῳ δύναιο.
οὐδέ γʼ ἂν ἐπιχειρήσαιμι, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὦ μακάριε. ἀλλʼ ἵνα μὴ αὖθις ἡμῖν τοιοῦτον ἐγγένηται, διόρισαι ποτέρως λέγεις τὸν ἄρχοντά τε καὶ τὸν κρείττονα, τὸν ὡς ἔπος εἰπεῖν ἢ τὸν ἀκριβεῖ λόγῳ, ὃ νυνδὴ ἔλεγες, οὗ τὸ συμφέρον κρείττονος ὄντος δίκαιον ἔσται τῷ ἥττονι ποιεῖν.
τὸν τῷ ἀκριβεστάτῳ, ἔφη, λόγῳ ἄρχοντα ὄντα. πρὸς ταῦτα κακούργει καὶ συκοφάντει, εἴ τι δύνασαι—οὐδέν σου παρίεμαι—ἀλλʼ οὐ μὴ οἷός τʼ ᾖς. [341c]
οἴει γὰρ ἄν με, εἶπον, οὕτω μανῆναι ὥστε ξυρεῖν ἐπιχειρεῖν λέοντα καὶ συκοφαντεῖν Θρασύμαχον;
νῦν γοῦν, ἔφη, ἐπεχείρησας, οὐδὲν ὢν καὶ ταῦτα.
ἅδην, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τῶν τοιούτων. ἀλλʼ εἰπέ μοι· ὁ τῷ ἀκριβεῖ λόγῳ ἰατρός, ὃν ἄρτι ἔλεγες, πότερον χρηματιστής ἐστιν ἢ τῶν καμνόντων θεραπευτής; καὶ λέγε τὸν τῷ ὄντι ἰατρὸν ὄντα.
τῶν καμνόντων, ἔφη, θεραπευτής.
τί δὲ κυβερνήτης; ὁ ὀρθῶς κυβερνήτης ναυτῶν ἄρχων ἐστὶν ἢ ναύτης;
ναυτῶν ἄρχων. [341d]
οὐδὲν οἶμαι τοῦτο ὑπολογιστέον, ὅτι πλεῖ ἐν τῇ νηί, οὐδʼ ἐστὶν κλητέος ναύτης· οὐ γὰρ κατὰ τὸ πλεῖν κυβερνήτης καλεῖται, ἀλλὰ κατὰ τὴν τέχνην καὶ τὴν τῶν ναυτῶν ἀρχήν.
ἀληθῆ, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν ἑκάστῳ τούτων ἔστιν τι συμφέρον;
πάνυ γε.
οὐ καὶ ἡ τέχνη, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἐπὶ τούτῳ πέφυκεν, ἐπὶ τῷ τὸ συμφέρον ἑκάστῳ ζητεῖν τε καὶ ἐκπορίζειν;
ἐπὶ τούτῳ, ἔφη.
ἆρʼ οὖν καὶ ἑκάστῃ τῶν τεχνῶν ἔστιν τι συμφέρον ἄλλο ἢ ὅτι μάλιστα τελέαν εἶναι; [341e]
πῶς τοῦτο ἐρωτᾷς;
ὥσπερ, ἔφην ἐγώ, εἴ με ἔροιο εἰ ἐξαρκεῖ σώματι εἶναι σώματι ἢ προσδεῖταί τινος, εἴποιμʼ ἂν ὅτι παντάπασι μὲν οὖν προσδεῖται. διὰ ταῦτα καὶ ἡ τέχνη ἐστὶν ἡ ἰατρικὴ νῦν ηὑρημένη, ὅτι σῶμά ἐστιν πονηρὸν καὶ οὐκ ἐξαρκεῖ αὐτῷ τοιούτῳ εἶναι. τούτῳ οὖν ὅπως ἐκπορίζῃ τὰ συμφέροντα, ἐπὶ τούτῳ παρεσκευάσθη ἡ τέχνη. ἦ ὀρθῶς σοι δοκῶ, ἔφην, ἂν εἰπεῖν οὕτω λέγων, ἢ οὔ;
ὀρθῶς, ἔφη.

### Book I, 342–349

[342a]
τί δὲ δή; αὐτὴ ἡ ἰατρική ἐστιν πονηρά, ἢ ἄλλη τις τέχνη ἔσθʼ ὅτι προσδεῖταί τινος ἀρετῆς—ὥσπερ ὀφθαλμοὶ ὄψεως καὶ ὦτα ἀκοῆς καὶ διὰ ταῦτα ἐπʼ αὐτοῖς δεῖ τινος τέχνης τῆς τὸ συμφέρον εἰς αὐτὰ ταῦτα σκεψομένης τε καὶ ἐκποριούσης— ἆρα καὶ ἐν αὐτῇ τῇ τέχνῃ ἔνι τις πονηρία, καὶ δεῖ ἑκάστῃ τέχνῃ ἄλλης τέχνης ἥτις αὐτῇ τὸ συμφέρον σκέψεται, καὶ τῇ σκοπουμένῃ ἑτέρας αὖ τοιαύτης, καὶ τοῦτʼ ἔστιν ἀπέραντον; [342b] ἢ αὐτὴ αὑτῇ τὸ συμφέρον σκέψεται; ἢ οὔτε αὑτῆς οὔτε ἄλλης προσδεῖται ἐπὶ τὴν αὑτῆς πονηρίαν τὸ συμφέρον σκοπεῖν· οὔτε γὰρ πονηρία οὔτε ἁμαρτία οὐδεμία οὐδεμιᾷ τέχνῃ πάρεστιν, οὐδὲ προσήκει τέχνῃ ἄλλῳ τὸ συμφέρον ζητεῖν ἢ ἐκείνῳ οὗ τέχνη ἐστίν, αὐτὴ δὲ ἀβλαβὴς καὶ ἀκέραιός ἐστιν ὀρθὴ οὖσα, ἕωσπερ ἂν ᾖ ἑκάστη ἀκριβὴς ὅλη ἥπερ ἐστίν; καὶ σκόπει ἐκείνῳ τῷ ἀκριβεῖ λόγῳ· οὕτως ἢ ἄλλως ἔχει;
οὕτως, ἔφη, φαίνεται. [342c]
οὐκ ἄρα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἰατρικὴ ἰατρικῇ τὸ συμφέρον σκοπεῖ ἀλλὰ σώματι.
ναί, ἔφη.
οὐδὲ ἱππικὴ ἱππικῇ ἀλλʼ ἵπποις· οὐδὲ ἄλλη τέχνη οὐδεμία ἑαυτῇ—οὐδὲ γὰρ προσδεῖται—ἀλλʼ ἐκείνῳ οὗ τέχνη ἐστίν.
φαίνεται, ἔφη, οὕτως.
ἀλλὰ μήν, ὦ Θρασύμαχε, ἄρχουσί γε αἱ τέχναι καὶ κρατοῦσιν ἐκείνου οὗπέρ εἰσιν τέχναι.
συνεχώρησεν ἐνταῦθα καὶ μάλα μόγις.
οὐκ ἄρα ἐπιστήμη γε οὐδεμία τὸ τοῦ κρείττονος συμφέρον σκοπεῖ οὐδʼ ἐπιτάττει, ἀλλὰ τὸ τοῦ ἥττονός τε καὶ ἀρχομένου [342d] ὑπὸ ἑαυτῆς.
συνωμολόγησε μὲν καὶ ταῦτα τελευτῶν, ἐπεχείρει δὲ περὶ αὐτὰ μάχεσθαι· ἐπειδὴ δὲ ὡμολόγησεν, ἄλλο τι οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, οὐδὲ ἰατρὸς οὐδείς, καθʼ ὅσον ἰατρός, τὸ τῷ ἰατρῷ συμφέρον σκοπεῖ οὐδʼ ἐπιτάττει, ἀλλὰ τὸ τῷ κάμνοντι; ὡμολόγηται γὰρ ὁ ἀκριβὴς ἰατρὸς σωμάτων εἶναι ἄρχων ἀλλʼ οὐ χρηματιστής. ἢ οὐχ ὡμολόγηται;
συνέφη.
οὐκοῦν καὶ ὁ κυβερνήτης ὁ ἀκριβὴς ναυτῶν εἶναι ἄρχων ἀλλʼ οὐ ναύτης; [342e]
ὡμολόγηται.
οὐκ ἄρα ὅ γε τοιοῦτος κυβερνήτης τε καὶ ἄρχων τὸ τῷ κυβερνήτῃ συμφέρον σκέψεταί τε καὶ προστάξει, ἀλλὰ τὸ τῷ ναύτῃ τε καὶ ἀρχομένῳ.
συνέφησε μόγις.
οὐκοῦν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὦ Θρασύμαχε, οὐδὲ ἄλλος οὐδεὶς ἐν οὐδεμιᾷ ἀρχῇ, καθʼ ὅσον ἄρχων ἐστίν, τὸ αὑτῷ συμφέρον σκοπεῖ οὐδʼ ἐπιτάττει, ἀλλὰ τὸ τῷ ἀρχομένῳ καὶ ᾧ ἂν αὐτὸς δημιουργῇ, καὶ πρὸς ἐκεῖνο βλέπων καὶ τὸ ἐκείνῳ συμφέρον καὶ πρέπον, καὶ λέγει ἃ λέγει καὶ ποιεῖ ἃ ποιεῖ ἅπαντα.

[343a]
ἐπειδὴ οὖν ἐνταῦθα ἦμεν τοῦ λόγου καὶ πᾶσι καταφανὲς ἦν ὅτι ὁ τοῦ δικαίου λόγος εἰς τοὐναντίον περιειστήκει, ὁ Θρασύμαχος ἀντὶ τοῦ ἀποκρίνεσθαι, εἰπέ μοι, ἔφη, ὦ Σώκρατες, τίτθη σοι ἔστιν;
τί δέ; ἦν δʼ ἐγώ· οὐκ ἀποκρίνεσθαι χρῆν μᾶλλον ἢ τοιαῦτα ἐρωτᾶν;
ὅτι τοί σε, ἔφη, κορυζῶντα περιορᾷ καὶ οὐκ ἀπομύττει δεόμενον, ὅς γε αὐτῇ οὐδὲ πρόβατα οὐδὲ ποιμένα γιγνώσκεις.
ὅτι δὴ τί μάλιστα; ἦν δʼ ἐγώ. [343b]
ὅτι οἴει τοὺς ποιμένας ἢ τοὺς βουκόλους τὸ τῶν προβάτων ἢ τὸ τῶν βοῶν ἀγαθὸν σκοπεῖν καὶ παχύνειν αὐτοὺς καὶ θεραπεύειν πρὸς ἄλλο τι βλέποντας ἢ τὸ τῶν δεσποτῶν ἀγαθὸν καὶ τὸ αὑτῶν, καὶ δὴ καὶ τοὺς ἐν ταῖς πόλεσιν ἄρχοντας, οἳ ὡς ἀληθῶς ἄρχουσιν, ἄλλως πως ἡγῇ διανοεῖσθαι πρὸς τοὺς ἀρχομένους ἢ ὥσπερ ἄν τις πρὸς πρόβατα διατεθείη, καὶ ἄλλο τι σκοπεῖν αὐτοὺς διὰ νυκτὸς καὶ ἡμέρας ἢ τοῦτο, [343c] ὅθεν αὐτοὶ ὠφελήσονται. καὶ οὕτω πόρρω εἶ περί τε τοῦ δικαίου καὶ δικαιοσύνης καὶ ἀδίκου τε καὶ ἀδικίας, ὥστε ἀγνοεῖς ὅτι ἡ μὲν δικαιοσύνη καὶ τὸ δίκαιον ἀλλότριον ἀγαθὸν τῷ ὄντι, τοῦ κρείττονός τε καὶ ἄρχοντος συμφέρον, οἰκεία δὲ τοῦ πειθομένου τε καὶ ὑπηρετοῦντος βλάβη, ἡ δὲ ἀδικία τοὐναντίον, καὶ ἄρχει τῶν ὡς ἀληθῶς εὐηθικῶν τε καὶ δικαίων, οἱ δʼ ἀρχόμενοι ποιοῦσιν τὸ ἐκείνου συμφέρον κρείττονος ὄντος, καὶ εὐδαίμονα ἐκεῖνον ποιοῦσιν ὑπηρετοῦντες [343d] αὐτῷ, ἑαυτοὺς δὲ οὐδʼ ὁπωστιοῦν. σκοπεῖσθαι δέ, ὦ εὐηθέστατε Σώκρατες, οὑτωσὶ χρή, ὅτι δίκαιος ἀνὴρ ἀδίκου πανταχοῦ ἔλαττον ἔχει. πρῶτον μὲν ἐν τοῖς πρὸς ἀλλήλους συμβολαίοις, ὅπου ἂν ὁ τοιοῦτος τῷ τοιούτῳ κοινωνήσῃ, οὐδαμοῦ ἂν εὕροις ἐν τῇ διαλύσει τῆς κοινωνίας πλέον ἔχοντα τὸν δίκαιον τοῦ ἀδίκου ἀλλʼ ἔλαττον· ἔπειτα ἐν τοῖς πρὸς τὴν πόλιν, ὅταν τέ τινες εἰσφοραὶ ὦσιν, ὁ μὲν δίκαιος ἀπὸ τῶν ἴσων πλέον εἰσφέρει, ὁ δʼ ἔλαττον, ὅταν τε λήψεις, [343e] ὁ μὲν οὐδέν, ὁ δὲ πολλὰ κερδαίνει. καὶ γὰρ ὅταν ἀρχήν τινα ἄρχῃ ἑκάτερος, τῷ μὲν δικαίῳ ὑπάρχει, καὶ εἰ μηδεμία ἄλλη ζημία, τά γε οἰκεῖα διʼ ἀμέλειαν μοχθηροτέρως ἔχειν, ἐκ δὲ τοῦ δημοσίου μηδὲν ὠφελεῖσθαι διὰ τὸ δίκαιον εἶναι, πρὸς δὲ τούτοις ἀπεχθέσθαι τοῖς τε οἰκείοις καὶ τοῖς γνωρίμοις, ὅταν μηδὲν ἐθέλῃ αὐτοῖς ὑπηρετεῖν παρὰ τὸ δίκαιον· τῷ δὲ ἀδίκῳ πάντα τούτων τἀναντία ὑπάρχει.
λέγω γὰρ

[344a]
ὅνπερ νυνδὴ ἔλεγον, τὸν μεγάλα δυνάμενον πλεονεκτεῖν· τοῦτον οὖν σκόπει, εἴπερ βούλει κρίνειν ὅσῳ μᾶλλον συμφέρει ἰδίᾳ αὑτῷ ἄδικον εἶναι ἢ τὸ δίκαιον. πάντων δὲ ῥᾷστα μαθήσῃ, ἐὰν ἐπὶ τὴν τελεωτάτην ἀδικίαν ἔλθῃς, ἣ τὸν μὲν ἀδικήσαντα εὐδαιμονέστατον ποιεῖ, τοὺς δὲ ἀδικηθέντας καὶ ἀδικῆσαι οὐκ ἂν ἐθέλοντας ἀθλιωτάτους. ἔστιν δὲ τοῦτο τυραννίς, ἣ οὐ κατὰ σμικρὸν τἀλλότρια καὶ λάθρᾳ καὶ βίᾳ ἀφαιρεῖται, καὶ ἱερὰ καὶ ὅσια καὶ ἴδια καὶ δημόσια, ἀλλὰ [344b] συλλήβδην· ὧν ἐφʼ ἑκάστῳ μέρει ὅταν τις ἀδικήσας μὴ λάθῃ, ζημιοῦταί τε καὶ ὀνείδη ἔχει τὰ μέγιστα—καὶ γὰρ ἱερόσυλοι καὶ ἀνδραποδισταὶ καὶ τοιχωρύχοι καὶ ἀποστερηταὶ καὶ κλέπται οἱ κατὰ μέρη ἀδικοῦντες τῶν τοιούτων κακουργημάτων καλοῦνται—ἐπειδὰν δέ τις πρὸς τοῖς τῶν πολιτῶν χρήμασιν καὶ αὐτοὺς ἀνδραποδισάμενος δουλώσηται, ἀντὶ τούτων τῶν αἰσχρῶν ὀνομάτων εὐδαίμονες καὶ μακάριοι [344c] κέκληνται, οὐ μόνον ὑπὸ τῶν πολιτῶν ἀλλὰ καὶ ὑπὸ τῶν ἄλλων ὅσοι ἂν πύθωνται αὐτὸν τὴν ὅλην ἀδικίαν ἠδικηκότα· οὐ γὰρ τὸ ποιεῖν τὰ ἄδικα ἀλλὰ τὸ πάσχειν φοβούμενοι ὀνειδίζουσιν οἱ ὀνειδίζοντες τὴν ἀδικίαν. οὕτως, ὦ Σώκρατες, καὶ ἰσχυρότερον καὶ ἐλευθεριώτερον καὶ δεσποτικώτερον ἀδικία δικαιοσύνης ἐστὶν ἱκανῶς γιγνομένη, καὶ ὅπερ ἐξ ἀρχῆς ἔλεγον, τὸ μὲν τοῦ κρείττονος συμφέρον τὸ δίκαιον τυγχάνει ὄν, τὸ δʼ ἄδικον ἑαυτῷ λυσιτελοῦν τε καὶ συμφέρον. [344d]
ταῦτα εἰπὼν ὁ Θρασύμαχος ἐν νῷ εἶχεν ἀπιέναι, ὥσπερ βαλανεὺς ἡμῶν καταντλήσας κατὰ τῶν ὤτων ἁθρόον καὶ πολὺν τὸν λόγον· οὐ μὴν εἴασάν γε αὐτὸν οἱ παρόντες, ἀλλʼ ἠνάγκασαν ὑπομεῖναί τε καὶ παρασχεῖν τῶν εἰρημένων λόγον. καὶ δὴ ἔγωγε καὶ αὐτὸς πάνυ ἐδεόμην τε καὶ εἶπον· ὦ δαιμόνιε Θρασύμαχε, οἷον ἐμβαλὼν λόγον ἐν νῷ ἔχεις ἀπιέναι πρὶν διδάξαι ἱκανῶς ἢ μαθεῖν εἴτε οὕτως εἴτε ἄλλως [344e] ἔχει; ἢ σμικρὸν οἴει ἐπιχειρεῖν πρᾶγμα διορίζεσθαι ὅλου βίου διαγωγήν, ᾗ ἂν διαγόμενος ἕκαστος ἡμῶν λυσιτελεστάτην ζωὴν ζῴη;
ἐγὼ γὰρ οἶμαι, ἔφη ὁ Θρασύμαχος, τουτὶ ἄλλως ἔχειν;
ἔοικας, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ—ἤτοι ἡμῶν γε οὐδὲν κήδεσθαι, οὐδέ τι φροντίζειν εἴτε χεῖρον εἴτε βέλτιον βιωσόμεθα ἀγνοοῦντες ὃ σὺ φῂς εἰδέναι.
ἀλλʼ, ὠγαθέ, προθυμοῦ καὶ ἡμῖν ἐνδείξασθαι—οὔτοι

[345a]
κακῶς σοι κείσεται ὅτι ἂν ἡμᾶς τοσούσδε ὄντας εὐεργετήσῃς—ἐγὼ γὰρ δή σοι λέγω τό γʼ ἐμόν, ὅτι οὐ πείθομαι οὐδʼ οἶμαι ἀδικίαν δικαιοσύνης κερδαλεώτερον εἶναι, οὐδʼ ἐὰν ἐᾷ τις αὐτὴν καὶ μὴ διακωλύῃ πράττειν ἃ βούλεται. ἀλλʼ, ὠγαθέ, ἔστω μὲν ἄδικος, δυνάσθω δὲ ἀδικεῖν ἢ τῷ λανθάνειν ἢ τῷ διαμάχεσθαι, ὅμως ἐμέ γε οὐ πείθει ὡς ἔστι τῆς δικαιοσύνης κερδαλεώτερον. ταῦτʼ οὖν [345b] καὶ ἕτερος ἴσως τις ἡμῶν πέπονθεν, οὐ μόνος ἐγώ· πεῖσον οὖν, ὦ μακάριε, ἱκανῶς ἡμᾶς ὅτι οὐκ ὀρθῶς βουλευόμεθα δικαιοσύνην ἀδικίας περὶ πλείονος ποιούμενοι.
καὶ πῶς, ἔφη, σὲ πείσω; εἰ γὰρ οἷς νυνδὴ ἔλεγον μὴ πέπεισαι, τί σοι ἔτι ποιήσω; ἢ εἰς τὴν ψυχὴν φέρων ἐνθῶ τὸν λόγον;
μὰ Δίʼ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, μὴ σύ γε· ἀλλὰ πρῶτον μέν, ἃ ἂν εἴπῃς, ἔμμενε τούτοις, ἢ ἐὰν μετατιθῇ, φανερῶς μετατίθεσο καὶ ἡμᾶς μὴ ἐξαπάτα. νῦν δὲ ὁρᾷς, ὦ Θρασύμαχε—ἔτι [345c] γὰρ τὰ ἔμπροσθεν ἐπισκεψώμεθα—ὅτι τὸν ὡς ἀληθῶς ἰατρὸν τὸ πρῶτον ὁριζόμενος τὸν ὡς ἀληθῶς ποιμένα οὐκέτι ᾤου δεῖν ὕστερον ἀκριβῶς φυλάξαι, ἀλλὰ πιαίνειν οἴει αὐτὸν τὰ πρόβατα, καθʼ ὅσον ποιμήν ἐστιν, οὐ πρὸς τὸ τῶν προβάτων βέλτιστον βλέποντα ἀλλʼ, ὥσπερ δαιτυμόνα τινὰ καὶ μέλλοντα ἑστιάσεσθαι, πρὸς τὴν εὐωχίαν, ἢ αὖ πρὸς τὸ [345d] ἀποδόσθαι, ὥσπερ χρηματιστὴν ἀλλʼ οὐ ποιμένα. τῇ δὲ ποιμενικῇ οὐ δήπου ἄλλου του μέλει ἢ ἐφʼ ᾧ τέτακται, ὅπως τούτῳ τὸ βέλτιστον ἐκποριεῖ—ἐπεὶ τά γε αὑτῆς ὥστʼ εἶναι βελτίστη ἱκανῶς δήπου ἐκπεπόρισται, ἕως γʼ ἂν μηδὲν ἐνδέῃ τοῦ ποιμενικὴ εἶναι—οὕτω δὲ ᾤμην ἔγωγε νυνδὴ ἀναγκαῖον εἶναι ἡμῖν ὁμολογεῖν πᾶσαν ἀρχήν, καθʼ ὅσον ἀρχή, μηδενὶ ἄλλῳ τὸ βέλτιστον σκοπεῖσθαι ἢ ἐκείνῳ, τῷ [345e] ἀρχομένῳ τε καὶ θεραπευομένῳ, ἔν τε πολιτικῇ καὶ ἰδιωτικῇ ἀρχῇ. σὺ δὲ τοὺς ἄρχοντας ἐν ταῖς πόλεσιν, τοὺς ὡς ἀληθῶς ἄρχοντας, ἑκόντας οἴει ἄρχειν;
μὰ Δίʼ οὔκ, ἔφη, ἀλλʼ εὖ οἶδα.
τί δέ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὦ Θρασύμαχε;
τὰς ἄλλας ἀρχὰς οὐκ ἐννοεῖς ὅτι οὐδεὶς ἐθέλει ἄρχειν ἑκών, ἀλλὰ μισθὸν αἰτοῦσιν, ὡς οὐχὶ αὐτοῖσιν ὠφελίαν ἐσομένην ἐκ τοῦ ἄρχειν ἀλλὰ

[346a]
τοῖς ἀρχομένοις; ἐπεὶ τοσόνδε εἰπέ· οὐχὶ ἑκάστην μέντοι φαμὲν ἑκάστοτε τῶν τεχνῶν τούτῳ ἑτέραν εἶναι, τῷ ἑτέραν τὴν δύναμιν ἔχειν; καί, ὦ μακάριε, μὴ παρὰ δόξαν ἀποκρίνου, ἵνα τι καὶ περαίνωμεν.
ἀλλὰ τούτῳ, ἔφη, ἑτέρα.
οὐκοῦν καὶ ὠφελίαν ἑκάστη τούτων ἰδίαν τινὰ ἡμῖν παρέχεται ἀλλʼ οὐ κοινήν, οἷον ἰατρικὴ μὲν ὑγίειαν, κυβερνητικὴ δὲ σωτηρίαν ἐν τῷ πλεῖν, καὶ αἱ ἄλλαι οὕτω;
πάνυ γε. [346b]
οὐκοῦν καὶ μισθωτικὴ μισθόν; αὕτη γὰρ αὐτῆς ἡ δύναμις· ἢ τὴν ἰατρικὴν σὺ καὶ τὴν κυβερνητικὴν τὴν αὐτὴν καλεῖς; ἢ ἐάνπερ βούλῃ ἀκριβῶς διορίζειν, ὥσπερ ὑπέθου, οὐδέν τι μᾶλλον, ἐάν τις κυβερνῶν ὑγιὴς γίγνηται διὰ τὸ συμφέρον αὐτῷ πλεῖν ἐν τῇ θαλάττῃ, ἕνεκα τούτου καλεῖς μᾶλλον αὐτὴν ἰατρικήν;
οὐ δῆτα, ἔφη.
οὐδέ γʼ, οἶμαι, τὴν μισθωτικήν, ἐὰν ὑγιαίνῃ τις μισθαρνῶν.
οὐ δῆτα.
τί δέ; τὴν ἰατρικὴν μισθαρνητικήν, ἐὰν ἰώμενός τις μισθαρνῇ; [346c]
οὐκ ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν τήν γε ὠφελίαν ἑκάστης τῆς τέχνης ἰδίαν ὡμολογήσαμεν εἶναι;
ἔστω, ἔφη.
ἥντινα ἄρα ὠφελίαν κοινῇ ὠφελοῦνται πάντες οἱ δημιουργοί, δῆλον ὅτι κοινῇ τινι τῷ αὐτῷ προσχρώμενοι ἀπʼ ἐκείνου ὠφελοῦνται.
ἔοικεν, ἔφη.
φαμὲν δέ γε τὸ μισθὸν ἀρνυμένους ὠφελεῖσθαι τοὺς δημιουργοὺς ἀπὸ τοῦ προσχρῆσθαι τῇ μισθωτικῇ τέχνῃ γίγνεσθαι αὐτοῖς.
συνέφη μόγις. [346d]
οὐκ ἄρα ἀπὸ τῆς αὑτοῦ τέχνης ἑκάστῳ αὕτη ἡ ὠφελία ἐστίν, ἡ τοῦ μισθοῦ λῆψις, ἀλλʼ, εἰ δεῖ ἀκριβῶς σκοπεῖσθαι, ἡ μὲν ἰατρικὴ ὑγίειαν ποιεῖ, ἡ δὲ μισθαρνητικὴ μισθόν, καὶ ἡ μὲν οἰκοδομικὴ οἰκίαν, ἡ δὲ μισθαρνητικὴ αὐτῇ ἑπομένη μισθόν, καὶ αἱ ἄλλαι πᾶσαι οὕτως τὸ αὑτῆς ἑκάστη ἔργον ἐργάζεται καὶ ὠφελεῖ ἐκεῖνο ἐφʼ ᾧ τέτακται. ἐὰν δὲ μὴ μισθὸς αὐτῇ προσγίγνηται, ἔσθʼ ὅτι ὠφελεῖται ὁ δημιουργὸς ἀπὸ τῆς τέχνης;
οὐ φαίνεται, ἔφη. [346e]
ἆρʼ οὖν οὐδʼ ὠφελεῖ τότε, ὅταν προῖκα ἐργάζηται;
οἶμαι ἔγωγε.
οὐκοῦν, ὦ Θρασύμαχε, τοῦτο ἤδη δῆλον, ὅτι οὐδεμία τέχνη οὐδὲ ἀρχὴ τὸ αὑτῇ ὠφέλιμον παρασκευάζει, ἀλλʼ, ὅπερ πάλαι ἐλέγομεν, τὸ τῷ ἀρχομένῳ καὶ παρασκευάζει καὶ ἐπιτάττει, τὸ ἐκείνου συμφέρον ἥττονος ὄντος σκοποῦσα, ἀλλʼ οὐ τὸ τοῦ κρείττονος.
διὰ δὴ ταῦτα ἔγωγε, ὦ φίλε Θρασύμαχε, καὶ ἄρτι ἔλεγον μηδένα ἐθέλειν ἑκόντα ἄρχειν καὶ τὰ ἀλλότρια κακὰ μεταχειρίζεσθαι ἀνορθοῦντα,

[347a]
ἀλλὰ μισθὸν αἰτεῖν, ὅτι ὁ μέλλων καλῶς τῇ τέχνῃ πράξειν οὐδέποτε αὑτῷ τὸ βέλτιστον πράττει οὐδʼ ἐπιτάττει κατὰ τὴν τέχνην ἐπιτάττων, ἀλλὰ τῷ ἀρχομένῳ· ὧν δὴ ἕνεκα, ὡς ἔοικε, μισθὸν δεῖν ὑπάρχειν τοῖς μέλλουσιν ἐθελήσειν ἄρχειν, ἢ ἀργύριον ἢ τιμήν, ἢ ζημίαν ἐὰν μὴ ἄρχῃ.
πῶς τοῦτο λέγεις, ὦ Σώκρατες; ἔφη ὁ Γλαύκων· τοὺς μὲν γὰρ δύο μισθοὺς γιγνώσκω, τὴν δὲ ζημίαν ἥντινα λέγεις καὶ ὡς ἐν μισθοῦ μέρει εἴρηκας, οὐ συνῆκα.
τὸν τῶν βελτίστων ἄρα μισθόν, ἔφην, οὐ συνιεῖς, διʼ ὃν [347b] ἄρχουσιν οἱ ἐπιεικέστατοι, ὅταν ἐθέλωσιν ἄρχειν. ἢ οὐκ οἶσθα ὅτι τὸ φιλότιμόν τε καὶ φιλάργυρον εἶναι ὄνειδος λέγεταί τε καὶ ἔστιν;
ἔγωγε, ἔφη.
διὰ ταῦτα τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, οὔτε χρημάτων ἕνεκα ἐθέλουσιν ἄρχειν οἱ ἀγαθοὶ οὔτε τιμῆς· οὔτε γὰρ φανερῶς πραττόμενοι τῆς ἀρχῆς ἕνεκα μισθὸν μισθωτοὶ βούλονται κεκλῆσθαι, οὔτε λάθρᾳ αὐτοὶ ἐκ τῆς ἀρχῆς λαμβάνοντες κλέπται. οὐδʼ αὖ τιμῆς ἕνεκα· οὐ γάρ εἰσι φιλότιμοι. δεῖ δὴ [347c] αὐτοῖς ἀνάγκην προσεῖναι καὶ ζημίαν, εἰ μέλλουσιν ἐθέλειν ἄρχειν—ὅθεν κινδυνεύει τὸ ἑκόντα ἐπὶ τὸ ἄρχειν ἰέναι ἀλλὰ μὴ ἀνάγκην περιμένειν αἰσχρὸν νενομίσθαι—τῆς δὲ ζημίας μεγίστη τὸ ὑπὸ πονηροτέρου ἄρχεσθαι, ἐὰν μὴ αὐτὸς ἐθέλῃ ἄρχειν· ἣν δείσαντές μοι φαίνονται ἄρχειν, ὅταν ἄρχωσιν, οἱ ἐπιεικεῖς, καὶ τότε ἔρχονται ἐπὶ τὸ ἄρχειν οὐχ ὡς ἐπʼ ἀγαθόν τι ἰόντες οὐδʼ ὡς εὐπαθήσοντες ἐν αὐτῷ, ἀλλʼ [347d] ὡς ἐπʼ ἀναγκαῖον καὶ οὐκ ἔχοντες ἑαυτῶν βελτίοσιν ἐπιτρέψαι οὐδὲ ὁμοίοις. ἐπεὶ κινδυνεύει πόλις ἀνδρῶν ἀγαθῶν εἰ γένοιτο, περιμάχητον ἂν εἶναι τὸ μὴ ἄρχειν ὥσπερ νυνὶ τὸ ἄρχειν, καὶ ἐνταῦθʼ ἂν καταφανὲς γενέσθαι ὅτι τῷ ὄντι ἀληθινὸς ἄρχων οὐ πέφυκε τὸ αὑτῷ συμφέρον σκοπεῖσθαι ἀλλὰ τὸ τῷ ἀρχομένῳ· ὥστε πᾶς ἂν ὁ γιγνώσκων τὸ ὠφελεῖσθαι μᾶλλον ἕλοιτο ὑπʼ ἄλλου ἢ ἄλλον ὠφελῶν πράγματα ἔχειν. τοῦτο μὲν οὖν ἔγωγε οὐδαμῇ συγχωρῶ [347e] Θρασυμάχῳ, ὡς τὸ δίκαιόν ἐστιν τὸ τοῦ κρείττονος συμφέρον. ἀλλὰ τοῦτο μὲν δὴ καὶ εἰς αὖθις σκεψόμεθα· πολὺ δέ μοι δοκεῖ μεῖζον εἶναι ὃ νῦν λέγει Θρασύμαχος, τὸν τοῦ ἀδίκου βίον φάσκων εἶναι κρείττω ἢ τὸν τοῦ δικαίου. σὺ οὖν ποτέρως, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὦ Γλαύκων, αἱρῇ; καὶ πότερον ἀληθεστέρως δοκεῖ σοι λέγεσθαι;
τὸν τοῦ δικαίου ἔγωγε λυσιτελέστερον βίον εἶναι.

[348a]
ἤκουσας, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὅσα ἄρτι Θρασύμαχος ἀγαθὰ διῆλθεν τῷ τοῦ ἀδίκου;
ἤκουσα, ἔφη, ἀλλʼ οὐ πείθομαι.
βούλει οὖν αὐτὸν πείθωμεν, ἂν δυνώμεθά πῃ ἐξευρεῖν, ὡς οὐκ ἀληθῆ λέγει;
πῶς γὰρ οὐ βούλομαι; ἦ δʼ ὅς.
ἂν μὲν τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἀντικατατείναντες λέγωμεν αὐτῷ λόγον παρὰ λόγον, ὅσα αὖ ἀγαθὰ ἔχει τὸ δίκαιον εἶναι, καὶ αὖθις οὗτος, καὶ ἄλλον ἡμεῖς, ἀριθμεῖν δεήσει [348b] τἀγαθὰ καὶ μετρεῖν ὅσα ἑκάτεροι ἐν ἑκατέρῳ λέγομεν, καὶ ἤδη δικαστῶν τινων τῶν διακρινούντων δεησόμεθα· ἂν δὲ ὥσπερ ἄρτι ἀνομολογούμενοι πρὸς ἀλλήλους σκοπῶμεν, ἅμα αὐτοί τε δικασταὶ καὶ ῥήτορες ἐσόμεθα.
πάνυ μὲν οὖν, ἔφη.
ὁποτέρως οὖν σοι, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἀρέσκει.
οὕτως, ἔφη.
ἴθι δή, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὦ Θρασύμαχε, ἀπόκριναι ἡμῖν ἐξ ἀρχῆς. τὴν τελέαν ἀδικίαν τελέας οὔσης δικαιοσύνης λυσιτελεστέραν φῂς εἶναι; [348c]
πάνυ μὲν οὖν καὶ φημί, ἔφη, καὶ διʼ ἅ, εἴρηκα.
φέρε δή, τὸ τοιόνδε περὶ αὐτῶν πῶς λέγεις; τὸ μέν που ἀρετὴν αὐτοῖν καλεῖς, τὸ δὲ κακίαν;
πῶς γὰρ οὔ;
οὐκοῦν τὴν μὲν δικαιοσύνην ἀρετήν, τὴν δὲ ἀδικίαν κακίαν;
εἰκός γʼ, ἔφη, ὦ ἥδιστε, ἐπειδή γε καὶ λέγω ἀδικίαν μὲν λυσιτελεῖν, δικαιοσύνην δʼ οὔ.
ἀλλὰ τί μήν;
τοὐναντίον, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
ἦ τὴν δικαιοσύνην κακίαν;
οὔκ, ἀλλὰ πάνυ γενναίαν εὐήθειαν. [348d]
τὴν ἀδικίαν ἄρα κακοήθειαν καλεῖς;
οὔκ, ἀλλʼ εὐβουλίαν, ἔφη.
ἦ καὶ φρόνιμοί σοι, ὦ Θρασύμαχε, δοκοῦσιν εἶναι καὶ ἀγαθοὶ οἱ ἄδικοι;
οἵ γε τελέως, ἔφη, οἷοί τε ἀδικεῖν, πόλεις τε καὶ ἔθνη δυνάμενοι ἀνθρώπων ὑφʼ ἑαυτοὺς ποιεῖσθαι· σὺ δὲ οἴει με ἴσως τοὺς τὰ βαλλάντια ἀποτέμνοντας λέγειν. λυσιτελεῖ μὲν οὖν, ἦ δʼ ὅς, καὶ τὰ τοιαῦτα, ἐάνπερ λανθάνῃ· ἔστι δὲ οὐκ ἄξια λόγου, ἀλλʼ ἃ νυνδὴ ἔλεγον. [348e]
τοῦτο μέν, ἔφην, οὐκ ἀγνοῶ ὃ βούλει λέγειν, ἀλλὰ τόδε ἐθαύμασα, εἰ ἐν ἀρετῆς καὶ σοφίας τιθεῖς μέρει τὴν ἀδικίαν, τὴν δὲ δικαιοσύνην ἐν τοῖς ἐναντίοις.
ἀλλὰ πάνυ οὕτω τίθημι.
τοῦτο, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἤδη στερεώτερον, ὦ ἑταῖρε, καὶ οὐκέτι ῥᾴδιον ἔχειν ὅτι τις εἴπῃ.
εἰ γὰρ λυσιτελεῖν μὲν τὴν ἀδικίαν ἐτίθεσο, κακίαν μέντοι ἢ αἰσχρὸν αὐτὸ ὡμολόγεις εἶναι ὥσπερ ἄλλοι τινές, εἴχομεν ἄν τι λέγειν κατὰ τὰ νομιζόμενα λέγοντες· νῦν δὲ δῆλος εἶ ὅτι φήσεις αὐτὸ καὶ καλὸν καὶ ἰσχυρὸν εἶναι καὶ τἆλλα αὐτῷ πάντα προσθήσεις

[349a]
ἃ ἡμεῖς τῷ δικαίῳ προσετίθεμεν, ἐπειδή γε καὶ ἐν ἀρετῇ αὐτὸ καὶ σοφίᾳ ἐτόλμησας θεῖναι.
ἀληθέστατα, ἔφη, μαντεύῃ.
ἀλλʼ οὐ μέντοι, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἀποκνητέον γε τῷ λόγῳ ἐπεξελθεῖν σκοπούμενον, ἕως ἄν σε ὑπολαμβάνω λέγειν ἅπερ διανοῇ. ἐμοὶ γὰρ δοκεῖς σύ, ὦ Θρασύμαχε, ἀτεχνῶς νῦν οὐ σκώπτειν, ἀλλὰ τὰ δοκοῦντα περὶ τῆς ἀληθείας λέγειν.
τί δέ σοι, ἔφη, τοῦτο διαφέρει, εἴτε μοι δοκεῖ εἴτε μή, ἀλλʼ οὐ τὸν λόγον ἐλέγχεις; [349b]
οὐδέν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ. ἀλλὰ τόδε μοι πειρῶ ἔτι πρὸς τούτοις ἀποκρίνασθαι· ὁ δίκαιος τοῦ δικαίου δοκεῖ τί σοι ἂν ἐθέλειν πλέον ἔχειν;
οὐδαμῶς, ἔφη· οὐ γὰρ ἂν ἦν ἀστεῖος, ὥσπερ νῦν, καὶ εὐήθης.
τί δέ; τῆς δικαίας πράξεως;
οὐδὲ τῆς δικαίας, ἔφη.
τοῦ δὲ ἀδίκου πότερον ἀξιοῖ ἂν πλεονεκτεῖν καὶ ἡγοῖτο δίκαιον εἶναι, ἢ οὐκ ἂν ἡγοῖτο;
ἡγοῖτʼ ἄν, ἦ δʼ ὅς, καὶ ἀξιοῖ, ἀλλʼ οὐκ ἂν δύναιτο.
ἀλλʼ οὐ τοῦτο, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἐρωτῶ, ἀλλʼ εἰ τοῦ μὲν [349c] δικαίου μὴ ἀξιοῖ πλέον ἔχειν μηδὲ βούλεται ὁ δίκαιος, τοῦ δὲ ἀδίκου;
ἀλλʼ οὕτως, ἔφη, ἔχει.
τί δὲ δὴ ὁ ἄδικος; ἆρα ἀξιοῖ τοῦ δικαίου πλεονεκτεῖν καὶ τῆς δικαίας πράξεως;
πῶς γὰρ οὔκ; ἔφη, ὅς γε πάντων πλέον ἔχειν ἀξιοῖ;
οὐκοῦν καὶ ἀδίκου γε ἀνθρώπου τε καὶ πράξεως ὁ ἄδικος πλεονεκτήσει καὶ ἁμιλλήσεται ὡς ἁπάντων πλεῖστον αὐτὸς λάβῃ;
ἔστι ταῦτα.
ὧδε δὴ λέγωμεν, ἔφην· ὁ δίκαιος τοῦ μὲν ὁμοίου οὐ πλεονεκτεῖ, τοῦ δὲ ἀνομοίου, ὁ δὲ ἄδικος τοῦ τε ὁμοίου καὶ [349d] τοῦ ἀνομοίου;
ἄριστα, ἔφη, εἴρηκας.
ἔστιν δέ γε, ἔφην, φρόνιμός τε καὶ ἀγαθὸς ὁ ἄδικος, ὁ δὲ δίκαιος οὐδέτερα;
καὶ τοῦτʼ, ἔφη, εὖ.
οὐκοῦν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καὶ ἔοικε τῷ φρονίμῳ καὶ τῷ ἀγαθῷ ὁ ἄδικος, ὁ δὲ δίκαιος οὐκ ἔοικεν;
πῶς γὰρ οὐ μέλλει, ἔφη, ὁ τοιοῦτος ὢν καὶ ἐοικέναι τοῖς τοιούτοις, ὁ δὲ μὴ ἐοικέναι;
καλῶς. τοιοῦτος ἄρα ἐστὶν ἑκάτερος αὐτῶν οἷσπερ ἔοικεν;
ἀλλὰ τί μέλλει; ἔφη.
εἶεν, ὦ Θρασύμαχε· μουσικὸν δέ τινα λέγεις, ἕτερον δὲ [349e] ἄμουσον;
ἔγωγε.
πότερον φρόνιμον καὶ πότερον ἄφρονα;
τὸν μὲν μουσικὸν δήπου φρόνιμον, τὸν δὲ ἄμουσον ἄφρονα.
οὐκοῦν καὶ ἅπερ φρόνιμον, ἀγαθόν, ἃ δὲ ἄφρονα, κακόν;
ναί.
τί δὲ ἰατρικόν; οὐχ οὕτως;
οὕτως.
δοκεῖ ἂν οὖν τίς σοι, ὦ ἄριστε, μουσικὸς ἀνὴρ ἁρμοττόμενος λύραν ἐθέλειν μουσικοῦ ἀνδρὸς ἐν τῇ ἐπιτάσει καὶ ἀνέσει τῶν χορδῶν πλεονεκτεῖν ἢ ἀξιοῦν πλέον ἔχειν;
οὐκ ἔμοιγε.
τί δέ; ἀμούσου;
ἀνάγκη, ἔφη.

### Book I, 350–354

[350a]
τί δὲ ἰατρικός; ἐν τῇ ἐδωδῇ ἢ πόσει ἐθέλειν ἄν τι ἰατρικοῦ πλεονεκτεῖν ἢ ἀνδρὸς ἢ πράγματος;
οὐ δῆτα.
μὴ ἰατρικοῦ δέ;
ναί.
περὶ πάσης δὴ ὅρα ἐπιστήμης τε καὶ ἀνεπιστημοσύνης εἴ τίς σοι δοκεῖ ἐπιστήμων ὁστισοῦν πλείω ἂν ἐθέλειν αἱρεῖσθαι ἢ ὅσα ἄλλος ἐπιστήμων ἢ πράττειν ἢ λέγειν, καὶ οὐ ταὐτὰ τῷ ὁμοίῳ ἑαυτῷ εἰς τὴν αὐτὴν πρᾶξιν.
ἀλλʼ ἴσως, ἔφη, ἀνάγκη τοῦτό γε οὕτως ἔχειν.
τί δὲ ὁ ἀνεπιστήμων; οὐχὶ ὁμοίως μὲν ἐπιστήμονος [350b] πλεονεκτήσειεν ἄν, ὁμοίως δὲ ἀνεπιστήμονος;
ἴσως.
ὁ δὲ ἐπιστήμων σοφός;
φημί.
ὁ δὲ σοφὸς ἀγαθός;
φημί.
ὁ ἄρα ἀγαθός τε καὶ σοφὸς τοῦ μὲν ὁμοίου οὐκ ἐθελήσει πλεονεκτεῖν, τοῦ δὲ ἀνομοίου τε καὶ ἐναντίου.
ἔοικεν, ἔφη.
ὁ δὲ κακός τε καὶ ἀμαθὴς τοῦ τε ὁμοίου καὶ τοῦ ἐναντίου.
φαίνεται.
οὐκοῦν, ὦ Θρασύμαχε, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὁ ἄδικος ἡμῖν τοῦ ἀνομοίου τε καὶ ὁμοίου πλεονεκτεῖ; ἢ οὐχ οὕτως ἔλεγες;
ἔγωγε, ἔφη. [350c]
ὁ δέ γε δίκαιος τοῦ μὲν ὁμοίου οὐ πλεονεκτήσει, τοῦ δὲ ἀνομοίου;
ναί.
ἔοικεν ἄρα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὁ μὲν δίκαιος τῷ σοφῷ καὶ ἀγαθῷ, ὁ δὲ ἄδικος τῷ κακῷ καὶ ἀμαθεῖ.
κινδυνεύει.
ἀλλὰ μὴν ὡμολογοῦμεν, ᾧ γε ὅμοιος ἑκάτερος εἴη, τοιοῦτον καὶ ἑκάτερον εἶναι.
ὡμολογοῦμεν γάρ.
ὁ μὲν ἄρα δίκαιος ἡμῖν ἀναπέφανται ὢν ἀγαθός τε καὶ σοφός, ὁ δὲ ἄδικος ἀμαθής τε καὶ κακός.
ὁ δὴ Θρασύμαχος ὡμολόγησε μὲν πάντα ταῦτα, οὐχ [350d] ὡς ἐγὼ νῦν ῥᾳδίως λέγω, ἀλλʼ ἑλκόμενος καὶ μόγις, μετὰ ἱδρῶτος θαυμαστοῦ ὅσου, ἅτε καὶ θέρους ὄντος—τότε καὶ εἶδον ἐγώ, πρότερον δὲ οὔπω, Θρασύμαχον ἐρυθριῶντα— ἐπειδὴ δὲ οὖν διωμολογησάμεθα τὴν δικαιοσύνην ἀρετὴν εἶναι καὶ σοφίαν, τὴν δὲ ἀδικίαν κακίαν τε καὶ ἀμαθίαν, εἶεν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τοῦτο μὲν ἡμῖν οὕτω κείσθω, ἔφαμεν δὲ δὴ καὶ ἰσχυρὸν εἶναι τὴν ἀδικίαν. ἢ οὐ μέμνησαι, ὦ Θρασύμαχε;
μέμνημαι, ἔφη· ἀλλʼ ἔμοιγε οὐδὲ ἃ νῦν λέγεις ἀρέσκει, καὶ ἔχω περὶ αὐτῶν λέγειν. εἰ οὖν λέγοιμι, εὖ οἶδʼ ὅτι [350e] δημηγορεῖν ἄν με φαίης. ἢ οὖν ἔα με εἰπεῖν ὅσα βούλομαι, ἤ, εἰ βούλει ἐρωτᾶν, ἐρώτα· ἐγὼ δέ σοι, ὥσπερ ταῖς γραυσὶν ταῖς τοὺς μύθους λεγούσαις, εἶεν ἐρῶ καὶ κατανεύσομαι καὶ ἀνανεύσομαι.
μηδαμῶς, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, παρά γε τὴν σαυτοῦ δόξαν.
ὥστε σοί, ἔφη, ἀρέσκειν, ἐπειδήπερ οὐκ ἐᾷς λέγειν. καίτοι τί ἄλλο βούλει;
οὐδὲν μὰ Δία, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἀλλʼ εἴπερ τοῦτο ποιήσεις, ποίει· ἐγὼ δὲ ἐρωτήσω.
ἐρώτα δή.
τοῦτο τοίνυν ἐρωτῶ, ὅπερ ἄρτι, ἵνα καὶ ἑξῆς διασκεψώμεθα

[351a]
>τὸν λόγον, ὁποῖόν τι τυγχάνει ὂν δικαιοσύνη πρὸς ἀδικίαν. ἐλέχθη γάρ που ὅτι καὶ δυνατώτερον καὶ ἰσχυρότερον εἴη ἀδικία δικαιοσύνης· νῦν δέ γʼ, ἔφην, εἴπερ σοφία τε καὶ ἀρετή ἐστιν δικαιοσύνη, ῥᾳδίως οἶμαι φανήσεται καὶ ἰσχυρότερον ἀδικίας, ἐπειδήπερ ἐστὶν ἀμαθία ἡ ἀδικία— οὐδεὶς ἂν ἔτι τοῦτο ἀγνοήσειεν—ἀλλʼ οὔ τι οὕτως ἁπλῶς, ὦ Θρασύμαχε, ἔγωγε ἐπιθυμῶ, ἀλλὰ τῇδέ πῃ σκέψασθαι· [351b] πόλιν φαίης ἂν ἄδικον εἶναι καὶ ἄλλας πόλεις ἐπιχειρεῖν δουλοῦσθαι ἀδίκως καὶ καταδεδουλῶσθαι, πολλὰς δὲ καὶ ὑφʼ ἑαυτῇ ἔχειν δουλωσαμένην;
πῶς γὰρ οὔκ; ἔφη. καὶ τοῦτό γε ἡ ἀρίστη μάλιστα ποιήσει καὶ τελεώτατα οὖσα ἄδικος.
μανθάνω, ἔφην, ὅτι σὸς οὗτος ἦν ὁ λόγος. ἀλλὰ τόδε περὶ αὐτοῦ σκοπῶ· πότερον ἡ κρείττων γιγνομένη πόλις πόλεως ἄνευ δικαιοσύνης τὴν δύναμιν ταύτην ἕξει, ἢ ἀνάγκη αὐτῇ μετὰ δικαιοσύνης; [351c]
εἰ μέν, ἔφη, ὡς σὺ ἄρτι ἔλεγες ἔχει—ἡ δικαιοσύνη σοφία—μετὰ δικαιοσύνης· εἰ δʼ ὡς ἐγὼ ἔλεγον, μετὰ ἀδικίας.
πάνυ ἄγαμαι, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὦ Θρασύμαχε, ὅτι οὐκ ἐπινεύεις μόνον καὶ ἀνανεύεις, ἀλλὰ καὶ ἀποκρίνῃ πάνυ καλῶς.
σοὶ γάρ, ἔφη, χαρίζομαι.
εὖ γε σὺ ποιῶν· ἀλλὰ δὴ καὶ τόδε μοι χάρισαι καὶ λέγε· δοκεῖς ἂν ἢ πόλιν ἢ στρατόπεδον ἢ λῃστὰς ἢ κλέπτας ἢ ἄλλο τι ἔθνος, ὅσα κοινῇ ἐπί τι ἔρχεται ἀδίκως, πρᾶξαι ἄν τι δύνασθαι, εἰ ἀδικοῖεν ἀλλήλους; [351d]
οὐ δῆτα, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
τί δʼ εἰ μὴ ἀδικοῖεν; οὐ μᾶλλον;
πάνυ γε.
στάσεις γάρ που, ὦ Θρασύμαχε, ἥ γε ἀδικία καὶ μίση καὶ μάχας ἐν ἀλλήλοις παρέχει, ἡ δὲ δικαιοσύνη ὁμόνοιαν καὶ φιλίαν· ἦ γάρ;
ἔστω, ἦ δʼ ὅς, ἵνα σοι μὴ διαφέρωμαι.
ἀλλʼ εὖ γε σὺ ποιῶν, ὦ ἄριστε. τόδε δέ μοι λέγε· ἆρα εἰ τοῦτο ἔργον ἀδικίας, μῖσος ἐμποιεῖν ὅπου ἂν ἐνῇ, οὐ καὶ ἐν ἐλευθέροις τε καὶ δούλοις ἐγγιγνομένη μισεῖν ποιήσει ἀλλήλους καὶ στασιάζειν καὶ ἀδυνάτους εἶναι κοινῇ μετʼ [351e] ἀλλήλων πράττειν;
πάνυ γε.
τί δὲ ἂν ἐν δυοῖν ἐγγένηται; οὐ διοίσονται καὶ μισήσουσιν καὶ ἐχθροὶ ἔσονται ἀλλήλοις τε καὶ τοῖς δικαίοις;
ἔσονται, ἔφη.
ἐὰν δὲ δή, ὦ θαυμάσιε, ἐν ἑνὶ ἐγγένηται ἀδικία, μῶν μὴ ἀπολεῖ τὴν αὑτῆς δύναμιν, ἢ οὐδὲν ἧττον ἕξει;
μηδὲν ἧττον ἐχέτω, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν τοιάνδε τινὰ φαίνεται ἔχουσα τὴν δύναμιν, οἵαν, ᾧ ἂν ἐγγένηται, εἴτε πόλει τινὶ εἴτε γένει εἴτε στρατοπέδῳ εἴτε

[352a]
ἄλλῳ ὁτῳοῦν, πρῶτον μὲν ἀδύνατον αὐτὸ ποιεῖν πράττειν μεθʼ αὑτοῦ διὰ τὸ στασιάζειν καὶ διαφέρεσθαι, ἔτι δʼ ἐχθρὸν εἶναι ἑαυτῷ τε καὶ τῷ ἐναντίῳ παντὶ καὶ τῷ δικαίῳ; οὐχ οὕτως;
πάνυ γε.
καὶ ἐν ἑνὶ δὴ οἶμαι ἐνοῦσα ταὐτὰ ταῦτα ποιήσει ἅπερ πέφυκεν ἐργάζεσθαι· πρῶτον μὲν ἀδύνατον αὐτὸν πράττειν ποιήσει στασιάζοντα καὶ οὐχ ὁμονοοῦντα αὐτὸν ἑαυτῷ, ἔπειτα ἐχθρὸν καὶ ἑαυτῷ καὶ τοῖς δικαίοις· ἦ γάρ;
ναί.
δίκαιοι δέ γʼ εἰσίν, ὦ φίλε, καὶ οἱ θεοί;
ἔστω, ἔφη. [352b]
καὶ θεοῖς ἄρα ἐχθρὸς ἔσται ὁ ἄδικος, ὦ Θρασύμαχε, ὁ δὲ δίκαιος φίλος.
εὐωχοῦ τοῦ λόγου, ἔφη, θαρρῶν· οὐ γὰρ ἔγωγέ σοι ἐναντιώσομαι, ἵνα μὴ τοῖσδε ἀπέχθωμαι.
ἴθι δή, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καὶ τὰ λοιπά μοι τῆς ἑστιάσεως ἀποπλήρωσον ἀποκρινόμενος ὥσπερ καὶ νῦν. ὅτι μὲν γὰρ καὶ σοφώτεροι καὶ ἀμείνους καὶ δυνατώτεροι πράττειν οἱ δίκαιοι φαίνονται, οἱ δὲ ἄδικοι οὐδὲ πράττειν μετʼ ἀλλήλων οἷοί [352c] τε—ἀλλὰ δὴ καὶ οὕς φαμεν ἐρρωμένως πώποτέ τι μετʼ ἀλλήλων κοινῇ πρᾶξαι ἀδίκους ὄντας, τοῦτο οὐ παντάπασιν ἀληθὲς λέγομεν· οὐ γὰρ ἂν ἀπείχοντο ἀλλήλων κομιδῇ ὄντες ἄδικοι, ἀλλὰ δῆλον ὅτι ἐνῆν τις αὐτοῖς δικαιοσύνη, ἣ αὐτοὺς ἐποίει μήτοι καὶ ἀλλήλους γε καὶ ἐφʼ οὓς ᾖσαν ἅμα ἀδικεῖν, διʼ ἣν ἔπραξαν ἃ ἔπραξαν, ὥρμησαν δὲ ἐπὶ τὰ ἄδικα ἀδικίᾳ ἡμιμόχθηροι ὄντες, ἐπεὶ οἵ γε παμπόνηροι καὶ τελέως ἄδικοι τελέως εἰσὶ καὶ πράττειν ἀδύνατοι—ταῦτα [352d] μὲν οὖν ὅτι οὕτως ἔχει μανθάνω, ἀλλʼ οὐχ ὡς σὺ τὸ πρῶτον ἐτίθεσο· εἰ δὲ καὶ ἄμεινον ζῶσιν οἱ δίκαιοι τῶν ἀδίκων καὶ εὐδαιμονέστεροί εἰσιν, ὅπερ τὸ ὕστερον προυθέμεθα σκέψασθαι, σκεπτέον. φαίνονται μὲν οὖν καὶ νῦν, ὥς γέ μοι δοκεῖ, ἐξ ὧν εἰρήκαμεν· ὅμως δʼ ἔτι βέλτιον σκεπτέον. οὐ γὰρ περὶ τοῦ ἐπιτυχόντος ὁ λόγος, ἀλλὰ περὶ τοῦ ὅντινα τρόπον χρὴ ζῆν.
σκόπει δή, ἔφη.
σκοπῶ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ. καί μοι λέγε· δοκεῖ τί σοι εἶναι ἵππου ἔργον; [352e]
ἔμοιγε.
ἆρʼ οὖν τοῦτο ἂν θείης καὶ ἵππου καὶ ἄλλου ὁτουοῦν ἔργον, ὃ ἂν ἢ μόνῳ ἐκείνῳ ποιῇ τις ἢ ἄριστα;
οὐ μανθάνω, ἔφη.
ἀλλʼ ὧδε· ἔσθʼ ὅτῳ ἂν ἄλλῳ ἴδοις ἢ ὀφθαλμοῖς;
οὐ δῆτα.
τί δέ; ἀκούσαις ἄλλῳ ἢ ὠσίν;
οὐδαμῶς.
οὐκοῦν δικαίως [ἂν] ταῦτα τούτων φαμὲν ἔργα εἶναι;
πάνυ γε.

[353a]
τί δέ; μαχαίρᾳ ἂν ἀμπέλου κλῆμα ἀποτέμοις καὶ σμίλῃ καὶ ἄλλοις πολλοῖς;
πῶς γὰρ οὔ;
ἀλλʼ οὐδενί γʼ ἂν οἶμαι οὕτω καλῶς ὡς δρεπάνῳ τῷ ἐπὶ τούτῳ ἐργασθέντι.
ἀληθῆ.
ἆρʼ οὖν οὐ τοῦτο τούτου ἔργον θήσομεν;
θήσομεν μὲν οὖν.
νῦν δὴ οἶμαι ἄμεινον ἂν μάθοις ὃ ἄρτι ἠρώτων, πυνθανόμενος εἰ οὐ τοῦτο ἑκάστου εἴη ἔργον ὃ ἂν ἢ μόνον τι ἢ κάλλιστα τῶν ἄλλων ἀπεργάζηται.
ἀλλά, ἔφη, μανθάνω τε καί μοι δοκεῖ τοῦτο ἑκάστου [353b] πράγματος ἔργον εἶναι.
εἶεν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ. οὐκοῦν καὶ ἀρετὴ δοκεῖ σοι εἶναι ἑκάστῳ ᾧπερ καὶ ἔργον τι προστέτακται; ἴωμεν δὲ ἐπὶ τὰ αὐτὰ πάλιν· ὀφθαλμῶν, φαμέν, ἔστι τι ἔργον;
ἔστιν.
ἆρʼ οὖν καὶ ἀρετὴ ὀφθαλμῶν ἔστιν;
καὶ ἀρετή.
τί δέ; ὤτων ἦν τι ἔργον;
ναί.
οὐκοῦν καὶ ἀρετή;
καὶ ἀρετή.
τί δὲ πάντων πέρι τῶν ἄλλων; οὐχ οὕτω;
οὕτω.
ἔχε δή· ἆρʼ ἄν ποτε ὄμματα τὸ αὑτῶν ἔργον καλῶς [353c] ἀπεργάσαιντο μὴ ἔχοντα τὴν αὑτῶν οἰκείαν ἀρετήν, ἀλλʼ ἀντὶ τῆς ἀρετῆς κακίαν;
καὶ πῶς ἄν; ἔφη· τυφλότητα γὰρ ἴσως λέγεις ἀντὶ τῆς ὄψεως.
ἥτις, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, αὐτῶν ἡ ἀρετή· οὐ γάρ πω τοῦτο ἐρωτῶ, ἀλλʼ εἰ τῇ οἰκείᾳ μὲν ἀρετῇ τὸ αὑτῶν ἔργον εὖ ἐργάσεται τὰ ἐργαζόμενα, κακίᾳ δὲ κακῶς.
ἀληθές, ἔφη, τοῦτό γε λέγεις.
οὐκοῦν καὶ ὦτα στερόμενα τῆς αὑτῶν ἀρετῆς κακῶς τὸ αὑτῶν ἔργον ἀπεργάσεται;
πάνυ γε. [353d]
τίθεμεν οὖν καὶ τἆλλα πάντα εἰς τὸν αὐτὸν λόγον;
ἔμοιγε δοκεῖ.
ἴθι δή, μετὰ ταῦτα τόδε σκέψαι. ψυχῆς ἔστιν τι ἔργον ὃ ἄλλῳ τῶν ὄντων οὐδʼ ἂν ἑνὶ πράξαις, οἷον τὸ τοιόνδε· τὸ ἐπιμελεῖσθαι καὶ ἄρχειν καὶ βουλεύεσθαι καὶ τὰ τοιαῦτα πάντα, ἔσθʼ ὅτῳ ἄλλῳ ἢ ψυχῇ δικαίως ἂν αὐτὰ ἀποδοῖμεν καὶ φαῖμεν ἴδια ἐκείνης εἶναι;
οὐδενὶ ἄλλῳ.
τί δʼ αὖ τὸ ζῆν; οὐ ψυχῆς φήσομεν ἔργον εἶναι;
μάλιστά γʼ, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν καὶ ἀρετήν φαμέν τινα ψυχῆς εἶναι;
φαμέν. [353e]
ἆρʼ οὖν ποτε, ὦ Θρασύμαχε, ψυχὴ τὰ αὑτῆς ἔργα εὖ ἀπεργάσεται στερομένη τῆς οἰκείας ἀρετῆς, ἢ ἀδύνατον;
ἀδύνατον.
ἀνάγκη ἄρα κακῇ ψυχῇ κακῶς ἄρχειν καὶ ἐπιμελεῖσθαι, τῇ δὲ ἀγαθῇ πάντα ταῦτα εὖ πράττειν.
ἀνάγκη.
οὐκοῦν ἀρετήν γε συνεχωρήσαμεν ψυχῆς εἶναι δικαιοσύνην, κακίαν δὲ ἀδικίαν;
συνεχωρήσαμεν γάρ.
ἡ μὲν ἄρα δικαία ψυχὴ καὶ ὁ δίκαιος ἀνὴρ εὖ βιώσεται, κακῶς δὲ ὁ ἄδικος.
φαίνεται, ἔφη, κατὰ τὸν σὸν λόγον.

[354a]
ἀλλὰ μὴν ὅ γε εὖ ζῶν μακάριός τε καὶ εὐδαίμων, ὁ δὲ μὴ τἀναντία.
πῶς γὰρ οὔ;
ὁ μὲν δίκαιος ἄρα εὐδαίμων, ὁ δʼ ἄδικος ἄθλιος.
ἔστω, ἔφη.
ἀλλὰ μὴν ἄθλιόν γε εἶναι οὐ λυσιτελεῖ, εὐδαίμονα δέ.
πῶς γὰρ οὔ;
οὐδέποτʼ ἄρα, ὦ μακάριε Θρασύμαχε, λυσιτελέστερον ἀδικία δικαιοσύνης.
ταῦτα δή σοι, ἔφη, ὦ Σώκρατες, εἱστιάσθω ἐν τοῖς Βενδιδίοις.
ὑπὸ σοῦ γε, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὦ Θρασύμαχε, ἐπειδή μοι πρᾷος ἐγένου καὶ χαλεπαίνων ἐπαύσω. οὐ μέντοι καλῶς γε [354b] εἱστίαμαι, διʼ ἐμαυτὸν ἀλλʼ οὐ διὰ σέ· ἀλλʼ ὥσπερ οἱ λίχνοι τοῦ ἀεὶ παραφερομένου ἀπογεύονται ἁρπάζοντες, πρὶν τοῦ προτέρου μετρίως ἀπολαῦσαι, καὶ ἐγώ μοι δοκῶ οὕτω, πρὶν ὃ τὸ πρῶτον ἐσκοποῦμεν εὑρεῖν, τὸ δίκαιον ὅτι ποτʼ ἐστίν, ἀφέμενος ἐκείνου ὁρμῆσαι ἐπὶ τὸ σκέψασθαι περὶ αὐτοῦ εἴτε κακία ἐστὶν καὶ ἀμαθία, εἴτε σοφία καὶ ἀρετή, καὶ ἐμπεσόντος αὖ ὕστερον λόγου, ὅτι λυσιτελέστερον ἡ ἀδικία τῆς δικαιοσύνης, οὐκ ἀπεσχόμην τὸ μὴ οὐκ ἐπὶ τοῦτο ἐλθεῖν ἀπʼ ἐκείνου, ὥστε μοι νυνὶ γέγονεν ἐκ τοῦ διαλόγου μηδὲν [354c] εἰδέναι· ὁπότε γὰρ τὸ δίκαιον μὴ οἶδα ὅ ἐστιν, σχολῇ εἴσομαι εἴτε ἀρετή τις οὖσα τυγχάνει εἴτε καὶ οὔ, καὶ πότερον ὁ ἔχων αὐτὸ οὐκ εὐδαίμων ἐστὶν ἢ εὐδαίμων.

### Book II, 357–365

[357a]
ἐγὼ μὲν οὖν ταῦτα εἰπὼν ᾤμην λόγου ἀπηλλάχθαι· τὸ δʼ ἦν ἄρα, ὡς ἔοικε, προοίμιον. ὁ γὰρ Γλαύκων ἀεί τε δὴ ἀνδρειότατος ὢν τυγχάνει πρὸς ἅπαντα, καὶ δὴ καὶ τότε τοῦ Θρασυμάχου τὴν ἀπόρρησιν οὐκ ἀπεδέξατο, ἀλλʼ ἔφη· ὦ Σώκρατες, πότερον ἡμᾶς βούλει δοκεῖν πεπεικέναι ἢ ὡς [357b] ἀληθῶς πεῖσαι ὅτι παντὶ τρόπῳ ἄμεινόν ἐστιν δίκαιον εἶναι ἢ ἄδικον;
ὡς ἀληθῶς, εἶπον, ἔγωγʼ ἂν ἑλοίμην, εἰ ἐπʼ ἐμοὶ εἴη.
οὐ τοίνυν, ἔφη, ποιεῖς ὃ βούλει. λέγε γάρ μοι· ἆρά σοι δοκεῖ τοιόνδε τι εἶναι ἀγαθόν, ὃ δεξαίμεθʼ ἂν ἔχειν οὐ τῶν ἀποβαινόντων ἐφιέμενοι, ἀλλʼ αὐτὸ αὑτοῦ ἕνεκα ἀσπαζόμενοι, οἷον τὸ χαίρειν καὶ αἱ ἡδοναὶ ὅσαι ἀβλαβεῖς καὶ μηδὲν εἰς τὸν ἔπειτα χρόνον διὰ ταύτας γίγνεται ἄλλο ἢ χαίρειν ἔχοντα;
ἔμοιγε, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, δοκεῖ τι εἶναι τοιοῦτον. [357c]
τί δέ; ὃ αὐτό τε αὑτοῦ χάριν ἀγαπῶμεν καὶ τῶν ἀπʼ αὐτοῦ γιγνομένων, οἷον αὖ τὸ φρονεῖν καὶ τὸ ὁρᾶν καὶ τὸ ὑγιαίνειν; τὰ γὰρ τοιαῦτά που διʼ ἀμφότερα ἀσπαζόμεθα.
ναί, εἶπον.
τρίτον δὲ ὁρᾷς τι, ἔφη, εἶδος ἀγαθοῦ, ἐν ᾧ τὸ γυμνάζεσθαι καὶ τὸ κάμνοντα ἰατρεύεσθαι καὶ ἰάτρευσίς τε καὶ ὁ ἄλλος χρηματισμός; ταῦτα γὰρ ἐπίπονα φαῖμεν ἄν, ὠφελεῖν δὲ ἡμᾶς, καὶ αὐτὰ μὲν ἑαυτῶν ἕνεκα οὐκ ἂν δεξαίμεθα ἔχειν, [357d] τῶν δὲ μισθῶν τε χάριν καὶ τῶν ἄλλων ὅσα γίγνεται ἀπʼ αὐτῶν.
ἔστιν γὰρ οὖν, ἔφην, καὶ τοῦτο τρίτον. ἀλλὰ τί δή;
ἐν ποίῳ, ἔφη, τούτων τὴν δικαιοσύνην τιθεῖς;

[358a]
ἐγὼ μὲν οἶμαι, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἐν τῷ καλλίστῳ, ὃ καὶ διʼ αὑτὸ καὶ διὰ τὰ γιγνόμενα ἀπʼ αὐτοῦ ἀγαπητέον τῷ μέλλοντι μακαρίῳ ἔσεσθαι.
οὐ τοίνυν δοκεῖ, ἔφη, τοῖς πολλοῖς, ἀλλὰ τοῦ ἐπιπόνου εἴδους, ὃ μισθῶν θʼ ἕνεκα καὶ εὐδοκιμήσεων διὰ δόξαν ἐπιτηδευτέον, αὐτὸ δὲ διʼ αὑτὸ φευκτέον ὡς ὂν χαλεπόν.
οἶδα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὅτι δοκεῖ οὕτω καὶ πάλαι ὑπὸ Θρασυμάχου ὡς τοιοῦτον ὂν ψέγεται, ἀδικία δʼ ἐπαινεῖται· ἀλλʼ ἐγώ τις, ὡς ἔοικε, δυσμαθής. [358b]
ἴθι δή, ἔφη, ἄκουσον καὶ ἐμοῦ, ἐάν σοι ἔτι ταὐτὰ δοκῇ. Θρασύμαχος γάρ μοι φαίνεται πρῳαίτερον τοῦ δέοντος ὑπὸ σοῦ ὥσπερ ὄφις κηληθῆναι, ἐμοὶ δὲ οὔπω κατὰ νοῦν ἡ ἀπόδειξις γέγονεν περὶ ἑκατέρου· ἐπιθυμῶ γὰρ ἀκοῦσαι τί τʼ ἔστιν ἑκάτερον καὶ τίνα ἔχει δύναμιν αὐτὸ καθʼ αὑτὸ ἐνὸν ἐν τῇ ψυχῇ, τοὺς δὲ μισθοὺς καὶ τὰ γιγνόμενα ἀπʼ αὐτῶν ἐᾶσαι χαίρειν. οὑτωσὶ οὖν ποιήσω, ἐὰν καὶ σοὶ δοκῇ· ἐπανανεώσομαι [358c] τὸν Θρασυμάχου λόγον, καὶ πρῶτον μὲν ἐρῶ δικαιοσύνην οἷον εἶναί φασιν καὶ ὅθεν γεγονέναι, δεύτερον δὲ ὅτι πάντες αὐτὸ οἱ ἐπιτηδεύοντες ἄκοντες ἐπιτηδεύουσιν ὡς ἀναγκαῖον ἀλλʼ οὐχ ὡς ἀγαθόν, τρίτον δὲ ὅτι εἰκότως αὐτὸ δρῶσι· πολὺ γὰρ ἀμείνων ἄρα ὁ τοῦ ἀδίκου ἢ ὁ τοῦ δικαίου βίος, ὡς λέγουσιν. ἐπεὶ ἔμοιγε, ὦ Σώκρατες, οὔ τι δοκεῖ οὕτως· ἀπορῶ μέντοι διατεθρυλημένος τὰ ὦτα ἀκούων Θρασυμάχου καὶ μυρίων ἄλλων, τὸν δὲ ὑπὲρ τῆς δικαιοσύνης λόγον, ὡς [358d] ἄμεινον ἀδικίας, οὐδενός πω ἀκήκοα ὡς βούλομαι—βούλομαι δὲ αὐτὸ καθʼ αὑτὸ ἐγκωμιαζόμενον ἀκοῦσαι—μάλιστα δʼ οἶμαι ἂν σοῦ πυθέσθαι. διὸ κατατείνας ἐρῶ τὸν ἄδικον βίον ἐπαινῶν, εἰπὼν δὲ ἐνδείξομαί σοι ὃν τρόπον αὖ βούλομαι καὶ σοῦ ἀκούειν ἀδικίαν μὲν ψέγοντος, δικαιοσύνην δὲ ἐπαινοῦντος. ἀλλʼ ὅρα εἴ σοι βουλομένῳ ἃ λέγω.
πάντων μάλιστα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ· περὶ γὰρ τίνος ἂν μᾶλλον πολλάκις τις νοῦν ἔχων χαίροι λέγων καὶ ἀκούων; [358e]
κάλλιστα, ἔφη, λέγεις· καὶ ὃ πρῶτον ἔφην ἐρεῖν, περὶ τούτου ἄκουε, τί ὄν τε καὶ ὅθεν γέγονε δικαιοσύνη.
πεφυκέναι γὰρ δή φασιν τὸ μὲν ἀδικεῖν ἀγαθόν, τὸ δὲ ἀδικεῖσθαι κακόν, πλέονι δὲ κακῷ ὑπερβάλλειν τὸ ἀδικεῖσθαι ἢ ἀγαθῷ τὸ ἀδικεῖν, ὥστʼ ἐπειδὰν ἀλλήλους ἀδικῶσί τε καὶ ἀδικῶνται καὶ ἀμφοτέρων γεύωνται, τοῖς μὴ δυναμένοις τὸ

[359a]
μὲν ἐκφεύγειν τὸ δὲ αἱρεῖν δοκεῖ λυσιτελεῖν συνθέσθαι ἀλλήλοις μήτʼ ἀδικεῖν μήτʼ ἀδικεῖσθαι· καὶ ἐντεῦθεν δὴ ἄρξασθαι νόμους τίθεσθαι καὶ συνθήκας αὑτῶν, καὶ ὀνομάσαι τὸ ὑπὸ τοῦ νόμου ἐπίταγμα νόμιμόν τε καὶ δίκαιον· καὶ εἶναι δὴ ταύτην γένεσίν τε καὶ οὐσίαν δικαιοσύνης, μεταξὺ οὖσαν τοῦ μὲν ἀρίστου ὄντος, ἐὰν ἀδικῶν μὴ διδῷ δίκην, τοῦ δὲ κακίστου, ἐὰν ἀδικούμενος τιμωρεῖσθαι ἀδύνατος ᾖ· τὸ δὲ δίκαιον ἐν μέσῳ ὂν τούτων ἀμφοτέρων ἀγαπᾶσθαι οὐχ ὡς [359b] ἀγαθόν, ἀλλʼ ὡς ἀρρωστίᾳ τοῦ ἀδικεῖν τιμώμενον· ἐπεὶ τὸν δυνάμενον αὐτὸ ποιεῖν καὶ ὡς ἀληθῶς ἄνδρα οὐδʼ ἂν ἑνί ποτε συνθέσθαι τὸ μήτε ἀδικεῖν μήτε ἀδικεῖσθαι· μαίνεσθαι γὰρ ἄν. ἡ μὲν οὖν δὴ φύσις δικαιοσύνης, ὦ Σώκρατες, αὕτη τε καὶ τοιαύτη, καὶ ἐξ ὧν πέφυκε τοιαῦτα, ὡς ὁ λόγος.
ὡς δὲ καὶ οἱ ἐπιτηδεύοντες ἀδυναμίᾳ τοῦ ἀδικεῖν ἄκοντες αὐτὸ ἐπιτηδεύουσι, μάλιστʼ ἂν αἰσθοίμεθα, εἰ τοιόνδε ποιήσαιμεν [359c] τῇ διανοίᾳ· δόντες ἐξουσίαν ἑκατέρῳ ποιεῖν ὅτι ἂν βούληται, τῷ τε δικαίῳ καὶ τῷ ἀδίκῳ, εἶτʼ ἐπακολουθήσαιμεν θεώμενοι ποῖ ἡ ἐπιθυμία ἑκάτερον ἄξει. ἐπʼ αὐτοφώρῳ οὖν λάβοιμεν ἂν τὸν δίκαιον τῷ ἀδίκῳ εἰς ταὐτὸν ἰόντα διὰ τὴν πλεονεξίαν, ὃ πᾶσα φύσις διώκειν πέφυκεν ὡς ἀγαθόν, νόμῳ δὲ βίᾳ παράγεται ἐπὶ τὴν τοῦ ἴσου τιμήν. εἴη δʼ ἂν ἡ ἐξουσία ἣν λέγω τοιάδε μάλιστα, εἰ αὐτοῖς γένοιτο οἵαν [359d] ποτέ φασιν δύναμιν τῷ [Γύγου] τοῦ Λυδοῦ προγόνῳ γενέσθαι. εἶναι μὲν γὰρ αὐτὸν ποιμένα θητεύοντα παρὰ τῷ τότε Λυδίας ἄρχοντι, ὄμβρου δὲ πολλοῦ γενομένου καὶ σεισμοῦ ῥαγῆναί τι τῆς γῆς καὶ γενέσθαι χάσμα κατὰ τὸν τόπον ᾗ ἔνεμεν. ἰδόντα δὲ καὶ θαυμάσαντα καταβῆναι καὶ ἰδεῖν ἄλλα τε δὴ ἃ μυθολογοῦσιν θαυμαστὰ καὶ ἵππον χαλκοῦν, κοῖλον, θυρίδας ἔχοντα, καθʼ ἃς ἐγκύψαντα ἰδεῖν ἐνόντα νεκρόν, ὡς φαίνεσθαι μείζω ἢ κατʼ ἄνθρωπον, τοῦτον δὲ ἄλλο μὲν οὐδέν, περὶ δὲ [359e] τῇ χειρὶ χρυσοῦν δακτύλιον ὄντα περιελόμενον ἐκβῆναι. συλλόγου δὲ γενομένου τοῖς ποιμέσιν εἰωθότος, ἵνʼ ἐξαγγέλλοιεν κατὰ μῆνα τῷ βασιλεῖ τὰ περὶ τὰ ποίμνια, ἀφικέσθαι καὶ ἐκεῖνον ἔχοντα τὸν δακτύλιον·
καθήμενον οὖν μετὰ τῶν ἄλλων τυχεῖν τὴν σφενδόνην τοῦ δακτυλίου περιαγαγόντα πρὸς ἑαυτὸν εἰς τὸ εἴσω τῆς χειρός, τούτου δὲ γενομένου

[360a]
>ἀφανῆ αὐτὸν γενέσθαι τοῖς παρακαθημένοις, καὶ διαλέγεσθαι ὡς περὶ οἰχομένου. καὶ τὸν θαυμάζειν τε καὶ πάλιν ἐπιψηλαφῶντα τὸν δακτύλιον στρέψαι ἔξω τὴν σφενδόνην, καὶ στρέψαντα φανερὸν γενέσθαι. καὶ τοῦτο ἐννοήσαντα ἀποπειρᾶσθαι τοῦ δακτυλίου εἰ ταύτην ἔχοι τὴν δύναμιν, καὶ αὐτῷ οὕτω συμβαίνειν, στρέφοντι μὲν εἴσω τὴν σφενδόνην ἀδήλῳ γίγνεσθαι, ἔξω δὲ δήλῳ· αἰσθόμενον δὲ εὐθὺς διαπράξασθαι τῶν ἀγγέλων γενέσθαι τῶν παρὰ τὸν βασιλέα, ἐλθόντα [360b] δὲ καὶ τὴν γυναῖκα αὐτοῦ μοιχεύσαντα, μετʼ ἐκείνης ἐπιθέμενον τῷ βασιλεῖ ἀποκτεῖναι καὶ τὴν ἀρχὴν οὕτω κατασχεῖν. εἰ οὖν δύο τοιούτω δακτυλίω γενοίσθην, καὶ τὸν μὲν ὁ δίκαιος περιθεῖτο, τὸν δὲ ὁ ἄδικος, οὐδεὶς ἂν γένοιτο, ὡς δόξειεν, οὕτως ἀδαμάντινος, ὃς ἂν μείνειεν ἐν τῇ δικαιοσύνῃ καὶ τολμήσειεν ἀπέχεσθαι τῶν ἀλλοτρίων καὶ μὴ ἅπτεσθαι, ἐξὸν αὐτῷ καὶ ἐκ τῆς ἀγορᾶς ἀδεῶς ὅτι βούλοιτο λαμβάνειν, [360c] καὶ εἰσιόντι εἰς τὰς οἰκίας συγγίγνεσθαι ὅτῳ βούλοιτο, καὶ ἀποκτεινύναι καὶ ἐκ δεσμῶν λύειν οὕστινας βούλοιτο, καὶ τἆλλα πράττειν ἐν τοῖς ἀνθρώποις ἰσόθεον ὄντα. οὕτω δὲ δρῶν οὐδὲν ἂν διάφορον τοῦ ἑτέρου ποιοῖ, ἀλλʼ ἐπὶ ταὔτʼ ἂν ἴοιεν ἀμφότεροι. καίτοι μέγα τοῦτο τεκμήριον ἂν φαίη τις ὅτι οὐδεὶς ἑκὼν δίκαιος ἀλλʼ ἀναγκαζόμενος, ὡς οὐκ ἀγαθοῦ ἰδίᾳ ὄντος, ἐπεὶ ὅπου γʼ ἂν οἴηται ἕκαστος οἷός τε ἔσεσθαι ἀδικεῖν, ἀδικεῖν. λυσιτελεῖν γὰρ δὴ οἴεται πᾶς ἀνὴρ πολὺ [360d] μᾶλλον ἰδίᾳ τὴν ἀδικίαν τῆς δικαιοσύνης, ἀληθῆ οἰόμενος, ὡς φήσει ὁ περὶ τοῦ τοιούτου λόγου λέγων· ἐπεὶ εἴ τις τοιαύτης ἐξουσίας ἐπιλαβόμενος μηδέν ποτε ἐθέλοι ἀδικῆσαι μηδὲ ἅψαιτο τῶν ἀλλοτρίων, ἀθλιώτατος μὲν ἂν δόξειεν εἶναι τοῖς αἰσθανομένοις καὶ ἀνοητότατος, ἐπαινοῖεν δʼ ἂν αὐτὸν ἀλλήλων ἐναντίον ἐξαπατῶντες ἀλλήλους διὰ τὸν τοῦ ἀδικεῖσθαι φόβον. ταῦτα μὲν οὖν δὴ οὕτω. [360e]
τὴν δὲ κρίσιν αὐτὴν τοῦ βίου πέρι ὧν λέγομεν, ἐὰν διαστησώμεθα τόν τε δικαιότατον καὶ τὸν ἀδικώτατον, οἷοί τʼ ἐσόμεθα κρῖναι ὀρθῶς· εἰ δὲ μή, οὔ. τίς οὖν δὴ ἡ διάστασις; ἥδε· μηδὲν ἀφαιρῶμεν μήτε τοῦ ἀδίκου ἀπὸ τῆς ἀδικίας, μήτε τοῦ δικαίου ἀπὸ τῆς δικαιοσύνης, ἀλλὰ τέλεον ἑκάτερον εἰς τὸ ἑαυτοῦ ἐπιτήδευμα τιθῶμεν.
πρῶτον μὲν οὖν ὁ ἄδικος ὥσπερ οἱ δεινοὶ δημιουργοὶ ποιείτω—οἷον κυβερνήτης ἄκρος ἢ ἰατρὸς τά τε ἀδύνατα ἐν τῇ τέχνῃ καὶ τὰ δυνατὰ διαισθάνεται,

[361a]
καὶ τοῖς μὲν ἐπιχειρεῖ, τὰ δὲ ἐᾷ· ἔτι δὲ ἐὰν ἄρα πῃ σφαλῇ, ἱκανὸς ἐπανορθοῦσθαι—οὕτω καὶ ὁ ἄδικος ἐπιχειρῶν ὀρθῶς τοῖς ἀδικήμασιν λανθανέτω, εἰ μέλλει σφόδρα ἄδικος εἶναι. τὸν ἁλισκόμενον δὲ φαῦλον ἡγητέον· ἐσχάτη γὰρ ἀδικία δοκεῖν δίκαιον εἶναι μὴ ὄντα. δοτέον οὖν τῷ τελέως ἀδίκῳ τὴν τελεωτάτην ἀδικίαν, καὶ οὐκ ἀφαιρετέον ἀλλʼ ἐατέον τὰ μέγιστα ἀδικοῦντα τὴν μεγίστην δόξαν αὑτῷ [361b] παρεσκευακέναι εἰς δικαιοσύνην, καὶ ἐὰν ἄρα σφάλληταί τι, ἐπανορθοῦσθαι δυνατῷ εἶναι, λέγειν τε ἱκανῷ ὄντι πρὸς τὸ πείθειν, ἐάν τι μηνύηται τῶν ἀδικημάτων, καὶ βιάσασθαι ὅσα ἂν βίας δέηται, διά τε ἀνδρείαν καὶ ῥώμην καὶ διὰ παρασκευὴν φίλων καὶ οὐσίας. τοῦτον δὲ τοιοῦτον θέντες τὸν δίκαιον αὖ παρʼ αὐτὸν ἱστῶμεν τῷ λόγῳ, ἄνδρα ἁπλοῦν καὶ γενναῖον, κατʼ Αἰσχύλον οὐ δοκεῖν ἀλλʼ εἶναι ἀγαθὸν ἐθέλοντα. ἀφαιρετέον δὴ τὸ δοκεῖν. εἰ γὰρ δόξει δίκαιος [361c] εἶναι, ἔσονται αὐτῷ τιμαὶ καὶ δωρεαὶ δοκοῦντι τοιούτῳ εἶναι· ἄδηλον οὖν εἴτε τοῦ δικαίου εἴτε τῶν δωρεῶν τε καὶ τιμῶν ἕνεκα τοιοῦτος εἴη. γυμνωτέος δὴ πάντων πλὴν δικαιοσύνης καὶ ποιητέος ἐναντίως διακείμενος τῷ προτέρῳ· μηδὲν γὰρ ἀδικῶν δόξαν ἐχέτω τὴν μεγίστην ἀδικίας, ἵνα ᾖ βεβασανισμένος εἰς δικαιοσύνην τῷ μὴ τέγγεσθαι ὑπὸ κακοδοξίας καὶ τῶν ὑπʼ αὐτῆς γιγνομένων, ἀλλὰ ἴτω ἀμετάστατος μέχρι [361d] θανάτου, δοκῶν μὲν εἶναι ἄδικος διὰ βίου, ὢν δὲ δίκαιος, ἵνα ἀμφότεροι εἰς τὸ ἔσχατον ἐληλυθότες, ὁ μὲν δικαιοσύνης, ὁ δὲ ἀδικίας, κρίνωνται ὁπότερος αὐτοῖν εὐδαιμονέστερος.
βαβαῖ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὦ φίλε Γλαύκων, ὡς ἐρρωμένως ἑκάτερον ὥσπερ ἀνδριάντα εἰς τὴν κρίσιν ἐκκαθαίρεις τοῖν ἀνδροῖν.
ὡς μάλιστʼ, ἔφη, δύναμαι. ὄντοιν δὲ τοιούτοιν, οὐδὲν ἔτι, ὡς ἐγᾦμαι, χαλεπὸν ἐπεξελθεῖν τῷ λόγῳ οἷος ἑκάτερον [361e] βίος ἐπιμένει. λεκτέον οὖν· καὶ δὴ κἂν ἀγροικοτέρως λέγηται, μὴ ἐμὲ οἴου λέγειν, ὦ Σώκρατες, ἀλλὰ τοὺς ἐπαινοῦντας πρὸ δικαιοσύνης ἀδικίαν.
ἐροῦσι δὲ τάδε, ὅτι οὕτω διακείμενος ὁ δίκαιος μαστιγώσεται, στρεβλώσεται, δεδήσεται,

[362a]
ἐκκαυθήσεται τὠφθαλμώ, τελευτῶν πάντα κακὰ παθὼν ἀνασχινδυλευθήσεται καὶ γνώσεται ὅτι οὐκ εἶναι δίκαιον ἀλλὰ δοκεῖν δεῖ ἐθέλειν. τὸ δὲ τοῦ Αἰσχύλου πολὺ ἦν ἄρα ὀρθότερον λέγειν κατὰ τοῦ ἀδίκου. τῷ ὄντι γὰρ φήσουσι τὸν ἄδικον, ἅτε ἐπιτηδεύοντα πρᾶγμα ἀληθείας ἐχόμενον καὶ οὐ πρὸς δόξαν ζῶντα, οὐ δοκεῖν ἄδικον ἀλλʼ εἶναι ἐθέλειν,
βαθεῖαν ἄλοκα διὰ φρενὸς καρπούμενον,
[362b]
ἐξ ἧς τὰ κεδνὰ βλαστάνει βουλεύματα,
πρῶτον μὲν ἄρχειν ἐν τῇ πόλει δοκοῦντι δικαίῳ εἶναι, ἔπειτα γαμεῖν ὁπόθεν ἂν βούληται, ἐκδιδόναι εἰς οὓς ἂν βούληται, συμβάλλειν, κοινωνεῖν οἷς ἂν ἐθέλῃ, καὶ παρὰ ταῦτα πάντα ὠφελεῖσθαι κερδαίνοντα τῷ μὴ δυσχεραίνειν τὸ ἀδικεῖν· εἰς ἀγῶνας τοίνυν ἰόντα καὶ ἰδίᾳ καὶ δημοσίᾳ περιγίγνεσθαι καὶ πλεονεκτεῖν τῶν ἐχθρῶν, πλεονεκτοῦντα δὲ πλουτεῖν καὶ [362c] τούς τε φίλους εὖ ποιεῖν καὶ τοὺς ἐχθροὺς βλάπτειν, καὶ θεοῖς θυσίας καὶ ἀναθήματα ἱκανῶς καὶ μεγαλοπρεπῶς θύειν τε καὶ ἀνατιθέναι, καὶ θεραπεύειν τοῦ δικαίου πολὺ ἄμεινον τοὺς θεοὺς καὶ τῶν ἀνθρώπων οὓς ἂν βούληται, ὥστε καὶ θεοφιλέστερον αὐτὸν εἶναι μᾶλλον προσήκειν ἐκ τῶν εἰκότων ἢ τὸν δίκαιον. οὕτω φασίν, ὦ Σώκρατες, παρὰ θεῶν καὶ παρʼ ἀνθρώπων τῷ ἀδίκῳ παρεσκευάσθαι τὸν βίον ἄμεινον ἢ τῷ δικαίῳ. [362d]
ταῦτʼ εἰπόντος τοῦ Γλαύκωνος ἐγὼ μὲν αὖ ἐν νῷ εἶχόν τι λέγειν πρὸς ταῦτα, ὁ δὲ ἀδελφὸς αὐτοῦ Ἀδείμαντος, οὔ τί που οἴει, ἔφη, ὦ Σώκρατες, ἱκανῶς εἰρῆσθαι περὶ τοῦ λόγου;
ἀλλὰ τί μήν; εἶπον.
αὐτό, ἦ δʼ ὅς, οὐκ εἴρηται ὃ μάλιστα ἔδει ῥηθῆναι.
οὐκοῦν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τὸ λεγόμενον, ἀδελφὸς ἀνδρὶ παρείη· ὥστε καὶ σύ, εἴ τι ὅδε ἐλλείπει, ἐπάμυνε. καίτοι ἐμέ γε ἱκανὰ καὶ τὰ ὑπὸ τούτου ῥηθέντα καταπαλαῖσαι καὶ ἀδύνατον ποιῆσαι βοηθεῖν δικαιοσύνῃ. [362e]
καὶ ὅς, οὐδέν, ἔφη, λέγεις· ἀλλʼ ἔτι καὶ τάδε ἄκουε. δεῖ γὰρ διελθεῖν ἡμᾶς καὶ τοὺς ἐναντίους λόγους ὧν ὅδε εἶπεν, οἳ δικαιοσύνην μὲν ἐπαινοῦσιν, ἀδικίαν δὲ ψέγουσιν, ἵνʼ ᾖ σαφέστερον ὅ μοι δοκεῖ βούλεσθαι Γλαύκων.
λέγουσι δέ που καὶ παρακελεύονται πατέρες τε ὑέσιν, καὶ πάντες οἱ

[363a]
τινῶν κηδόμενοι, ὡς χρὴ δίκαιον εἶναι, οὐκ αὐτὸ δικαιοσύνην ἐπαινοῦντες ἀλλὰ τὰς ἀπʼ αὐτῆς εὐδοκιμήσεις, ἵνα δοκοῦντι δικαίῳ εἶναι γίγνηται ἀπὸ τῆς δόξης ἀρχαί τε καὶ γάμοι καὶ ὅσαπερ Γλαύκων διῆλθεν ἄρτι, ἀπὸ τοῦ εὐδοκιμεῖν ὄντα τῷ δικαίῳ. ἐπὶ πλέον δὲ οὗτοι τὰ τῶν δοξῶν λέγουσιν. τὰς γὰρ παρὰ θεῶν εὐδοκιμήσεις ἐμβάλλοντες ἄφθονα ἔχουσι λέγειν ἀγαθά, τοῖς ὁσίοις ἅ φασι θεοὺς διδόναι· ὥσπερ ὁ γενναῖος Ἡσίοδός τε καὶ Ὅμηρός φασιν, ὁ μὲν τὰς δρῦς [363b] τοῖς δικαίοις τοὺς θεοὺς ποιεῖν ἄκρας μέν τε φέρειν βαλάνους, μέσσας δὲ μελίσσας· εἰροπόκοι δʼ ὄιες, φησίν, μαλλοῖς καταβεβρίθασι, καὶ ἄλλα δὴ πολλὰ ἀγαθὰ τούτων ἐχόμενα. παραπλήσια δὲ καὶ ὁ ἕτερος· ὥς τέ τευ γάρ φησιν
ἢ βασιλῆος ἀμύμονος ὅς τε θεουδὴς
εὐδικίας ἀνέχῃσι, φέρῃσι δὲ γαῖα μέλαινα
[363c]
πυροὺς καὶ κριθάς, βρίθῃσι δὲ δένδρεα καρπῷ,
τίκτῃ δʼ ἔμπεδα μῆλα, θάλασσα δὲ παρέχῃ ἰχθῦς.
Μουσαῖος δὲ τούτων νεανικώτερα τἀγαθὰ καὶ ὁ ὑὸς αὐτοῦ παρὰ θεῶν διδόασιν τοῖς δικαίοις· εἰς Ἅιδου γὰρ ἀγαγόντες τῷ λόγῳ καὶ κατακλίναντες καὶ συμπόσιον τῶν ὁσίων κατασκευάσαντες ἐστεφανωμένους ποιοῦσιν τὸν ἅπαντα χρόνον [363d] ἤδη διάγειν μεθύοντας, ἡγησάμενοι κάλλιστον ἀρετῆς μισθὸν μέθην αἰώνιον. οἱ δʼ ἔτι τούτων μακροτέρους ἀποτείνουσιν μισθοὺς παρὰ θεῶν· παῖδας γὰρ παίδων φασὶ καὶ γένος κατόπισθεν λείπεσθαι τοῦ ὁσίου καὶ εὐόρκου. ταῦτα δὴ καὶ ἄλλα τοιαῦτα ἐγκωμιάζουσιν δικαιοσύνην· τοὺς δὲ ἀνοσίους αὖ καὶ ἀδίκους εἰς πηλόν τινα κατορύττουσιν ἐν Ἅιδου καὶ κοσκίνῳ ὕδωρ ἀναγκάζουσι φέρειν, ἔτι τε ζῶντας [363e] εἰς κακὰς δόξας ἄγοντες, ἅπερ Γλαύκων περὶ τῶν δικαίων δοξαζομένων δὲ ἀδίκων διῆλθε τιμωρήματα, ταῦτα περὶ τῶν ἀδίκων λέγουσιν, ἄλλα δὲ οὐκ ἔχουσιν. ὁ μὲν οὖν ἔπαινος καὶ ὁ ψόγος οὗτος ἑκατέρων.
πρὸς δὲ τούτοις σκέψαι, ὦ Σώκρατες, ἄλλο αὖ εἶδος λόγων περὶ δικαιοσύνης τε καὶ ἀδικίας ἰδίᾳ τε λεγόμενον

[364a]
καὶ ὑπὸ ποιητῶν. πάντες γὰρ ἐξ ἑνὸς στόματος ὑμνοῦσιν ὡς καλὸν μὲν ἡ σωφροσύνη τε καὶ δικαιοσύνη, χαλεπὸν μέντοι καὶ ἐπίπονον, ἀκολασία δὲ καὶ ἀδικία ἡδὺ μὲν καὶ εὐπετὲς κτήσασθαι, δόξῃ δὲ μόνον καὶ νόμῳ αἰσχρόν· λυσιτελέστερα δὲ τῶν δικαίων τὰ ἄδικα ὡς ἐπὶ τὸ πλῆθος λέγουσι, καὶ πονηροὺς πλουσίους καὶ ἄλλας δυνάμεις ἔχοντας εὐδαιμονίζειν καὶ τιμᾶν εὐχερῶς ἐθέλουσιν δημοσίᾳ τε καὶ ἰδίᾳ, τοὺς δὲ ἀτιμάζειν καὶ ὑπερορᾶν, οἳ ἄν πῃ ἀσθενεῖς τε [364b] καὶ πένητες ὦσιν, ὁμολογοῦντες αὐτοὺς ἀμείνους εἶναι τῶν ἑτέρων. τούτων δὲ πάντων οἱ περὶ θεῶν τε λόγοι καὶ ἀρετῆς θαυμασιώτατοι λέγονται, ὡς ἄρα καὶ θεοὶ πολλοῖς μὲν ἀγαθοῖς δυστυχίας τε καὶ βίον κακὸν ἔνειμαν, τοῖς δʼ ἐναντίοις ἐναντίαν μοῖραν. ἀγύρται δὲ καὶ μάντεις ἐπὶ πλουσίων θύρας ἰόντες πείθουσιν ὡς ἔστι παρὰ σφίσι δύναμις ἐκ θεῶν ποριζομένη θυσίαις τε καὶ ἐπῳδαῖς, εἴτε τι [364c] ἀδίκημά του γέγονεν αὐτοῦ ἢ προγόνων, ἀκεῖσθαι μεθʼ ἡδονῶν τε καὶ ἑορτῶν, ἐάν τέ τινα ἐχθρὸν πημῆναι ἐθέλῃ, μετὰ σμικρῶν δαπανῶν ὁμοίως δίκαιον ἀδίκῳ βλάψει ἐπαγωγαῖς τισιν καὶ καταδέσμοις, τοὺς θεούς, ὥς φασιν, πείθοντές σφισιν ὑπηρετεῖν. τούτοις δὲ πᾶσιν τοῖς λόγοις μάρτυρας ποιητὰς ἐπάγονται οἱ μὲν κακίας πέρι, εὐπετείας διδόντες, ὡς
τὴν μὲν κακότητα καὶ ἰλαδὸν ἔστιν ἑλέσθαι
[364d]
ῥηϊδίως· λείη μὲν ὁδός, μάλα δʼ ἐγγύθι ναίει·
τῆς δʼ ἀρετῆς ἱδρῶτα θεοὶ προπάροιθεν ἔθηκαν
καί τινα ὁδὸν μακράν τε καὶ τραχεῖαν καὶ ἀνάντη· οἱ δὲ τῆς τῶν θεῶν ὑπʼ ἀνθρώπων παραγωγῆς τὸν Ὅμηρον μαρτύρονται, ὅτι καὶ ἐκεῖνος εἶπεν—
λιστοὶ δέ τε καὶ θεοὶ αὐτοί,
καὶ τοὺς μὲν θυσίαισι καὶ εὐχωλαῖς ἀγαναῖσιν
[364e]
λοιβῇ τε κνίσῃ τε παρατρωπῶσʼ ἄνθρωποι
λισσόμενοι, ὅτε κέν τις ὑπερβήῃ καὶ ἁμάρτῃ.
βίβλων δὲ ὅμαδον παρέχονται Μουσαίου καὶ Ὀρφέως, Σελήνης τε καὶ Μουσῶν ἐκγόνων, ὥς φασι, καθʼ ἃς θυηπολοῦσιν, πείθοντες οὐ μόνον ἰδιώτας ἀλλὰ καὶ πόλεις, ὡς ἄρα λύσεις τε καὶ καθαρμοὶ ἀδικημάτων διὰ θυσιῶν καὶ

[365a]
παιδιᾶς ἡδονῶν εἰσι μὲν ἔτι ζῶσιν, εἰσὶ δὲ καὶ τελευτήσασιν, ἃς δὴ τελετὰς καλοῦσιν, αἳ τῶν ἐκεῖ κακῶν ἀπολύουσιν ἡμᾶς, μὴ θύσαντας δὲ δεινὰ περιμένει.
ταῦτα πάντα, ἔφη, ὦ φίλε Σώκρατες, τοιαῦτα καὶ τοσαῦτα λεγόμενα ἀρετῆς πέρι καὶ κακίας, ὡς ἄνθρωποι καὶ θεοὶ περὶ αὐτὰ ἔχουσι τιμῆς, τί οἰόμεθα ἀκουούσας νέων ψυχὰς ποιεῖν, ὅσοι εὐφυεῖς καὶ ἱκανοὶ ἐπὶ πάντα τὰ λεγόμενα ὥσπερ ἐπιπτόμενοι συλλογίσασθαι ἐξ αὐτῶν ποῖός τις ἂν [365b] ὢν καὶ πῇ πορευθεὶς τὸν βίον ὡς ἄριστα διέλθοι; λέγοι γὰρ ἂν ἐκ τῶν εἰκότων πρὸς αὑτὸν κατὰ Πίνδαρον ἐκεῖνο τὸ πότερον δίκᾳ τεῖχος ὕψιον ἢ σκολιαῖς ἀπάταις ἀναβὰς καὶ ἐμαυτὸν οὕτω περιφράξας διαβιῶ; τὰ μὲν γὰρ λεγόμενα δικαίῳ μὲν ὄντι μοι, ἐὰν μὴ καὶ δοκῶ ὄφελος οὐδέν φασιν εἶναι, πόνους δὲ καὶ ζημίας φανεράς· ἀδίκῳ δὲ δόξαν δικαιοσύνης παρεσκευασμένῳ θεσπέσιος βίος λέγεται. [365c] οὐκοῦν, ἐπειδὴ τὸ δοκεῖν, ὡς δηλοῦσί μοι οἱ σοφοί, καὶ τὰν ἀλάθειαν βιᾶται καὶ κύριον εὐδαιμονίας, ἐπὶ τοῦτο δὴ τρεπτέον ὅλως· πρόθυρα μὲν καὶ σχῆμα κύκλῳ περὶ ἐμαυτὸν σκιαγραφίαν ἀρετῆς περιγραπτέον, τὴν δὲ τοῦ σοφωτάτου Ἀρχιλόχου ἀλώπεκα ἑλκτέον ἐξόπισθεν κερδαλέαν καὶ ποικίλην. ἀλλὰ γάρ, φησί τις, οὐ ῥᾴδιον ἀεὶ λανθάνειν κακὸν ὄντα. οὐδὲ γὰρ ἄλλο οὐδὲν εὐπετές, [365d] φήσομεν, τῶν μεγάλων· ἀλλʼ ὅμως, εἰ μέλλομεν εὐδαιμονήσειν, ταύτῃ ἰτέον, ὡς τὰ ἴχνη τῶν λόγων φέρει. ἐπὶ γὰρ τὸ λανθάνειν συνωμοσίας τε καὶ ἑταιρίας συνάξομεν, εἰσίν τε πειθοῦς διδάσκαλοι σοφίαν δημηγορικήν τε καὶ δικανικὴν διδόντες, ἐξ ὧν τὰ μὲν πείσομεν, τὰ δὲ βιασόμεθα, ὡς πλεονεκτοῦντες δίκην μὴ διδόναι. ἀλλὰ δὴ θεοὺς οὔτε λανθάνειν οὔτε βιάσασθαι δυνατόν. οὐκοῦν, εἰ μὲν μὴ εἰσὶν ἢ μηδὲν αὐτοῖς τῶν ἀνθρωπίνων μέλει, τί καὶ ἡμῖν [365e] μελητέον τοῦ λανθάνειν; εἰ δὲ εἰσί τε καὶ ἐπιμελοῦνται, οὐκ ἄλλοθέν τοι αὐτοὺς ἴσμεν ἢ ἀκηκόαμεν ἢ ἔκ τε τῶν νόμων καὶ τῶν γενεαλογησάντων ποιητῶν, οἱ δὲ αὐτοὶ οὗτοι λέγουσιν ὡς εἰσὶν οἷοι θυσίαις τε καὶ εὐχωλαῖς ἀγανῇσιν καὶ ἀναθήμασιν παράγεσθαι ἀναπειθόμενοι, οἷς ἢ ἀμφότερα ἢ οὐδέτερα πειστέον.
εἰ δʼ οὖν πειστέον, ἀδικητέον καὶ θυτέον

### Book II, 366–373

[366a]
ἀπὸ τῶν ἀδικημάτων. δίκαιοι μὲν γὰρ ὄντες ἀζήμιοι μόνον ὑπὸ θεῶν ἐσόμεθα, τὰ δʼ ἐξ ἀδικίας κέρδη ἀπωσόμεθα· ἄδικοι δὲ κερδανοῦμέν τε καὶ λισσόμενοι ὑπερβαίνοντες καὶ ἁμαρτάνοντες, πείθοντες αὐτοὺς ἀζήμιοι ἀπαλλάξομεν. ἀλλὰ γὰρ ἐν Ἅιδου δίκην δώσομεν ὧν ἂν ἐνθάδε ἀδικήσωμεν, ἢ αὐτοὶ ἢ παῖδες παίδων. ἀλλʼ, ὦ φίλε, φήσει λογιζόμενος, αἱ τελεταὶ αὖ μέγα δύνανται καὶ οἱ λύσιοι θεοί, ὡς αἱ [366b] μέγισται πόλεις λέγουσι καὶ οἱ θεῶν παῖδες ποιηταὶ καὶ προφῆται τῶν θεῶν γενόμενοι, οἳ ταῦτα οὕτως ἔχειν μηνύουσιν.
κατὰ τίνα οὖν ἔτι λόγον δικαιοσύνην ἂν πρὸ μεγίστης ἀδικίας αἱροίμεθʼ ἄν, ἣν ἐὰν μετʼ εὐσχημοσύνης κιβδήλου κτησώμεθα, καὶ παρὰ θεοῖς καὶ παρʼ ἀνθρώποις πράξομεν κατὰ νοῦν ζῶντές τε καὶ τελευτήσαντες, ὡς ὁ τῶν πολλῶν τε καὶ ἄκρων λεγόμενος λόγος; ἐκ δὴ πάντων τῶν εἰρημένων [366c] τίς μηχανή, ὦ Σώκρατες, δικαιοσύνην τιμᾶν ἐθέλειν ᾧ τις δύναμις ὑπάρχει ψυχῆς ἢ χρημάτων ἢ σώματος ἢ γένους, ἀλλὰ μὴ γελᾶν ἐπαινουμένης ἀκούοντα; ὡς δή τοι εἴ τις ἔχει ψευδῆ μὲν ἀποφῆναι ἃ εἰρήκαμεν, ἱκανῶς δὲ ἔγνωκεν ὅτι ἄριστον δικαιοσύνη, πολλήν που συγγνώμην ἔχει καὶ οὐκ ὀργίζεται τοῖς ἀδίκοις, ἀλλʼ οἶδεν ὅτι πλὴν εἴ τις θείᾳ φύσει δυσχεραίνων τὸ ἀδικεῖν ἢ ἐπιστήμην λαβὼν [366d] ἀπέχεται αὐτοῦ, τῶν γε ἄλλων οὐδεὶς ἑκὼν δίκαιος, ἀλλʼ ὑπὸ ἀνανδρίας ἢ γήρως ἤ τινος ἄλλης ἀσθενείας ψέγει τὸ ἀδικεῖν, ἀδυνατῶν αὐτὸ δρᾶν. ὡς δέ, δῆλον· ὁ γὰρ πρῶτος τῶν τοιούτων εἰς δύναμιν ἐλθὼν πρῶτος ἀδικεῖ, καθʼ ὅσον ἂν οἷός τʼ ᾖ. καὶ τούτων ἁπάντων οὐδὲν ἄλλο αἴτιον ἢ ἐκεῖνο, ὅθενπερ ἅπας ὁ λόγος οὗτος ὥρμησεν καὶ τῷδε καὶ ἐμοὶ πρὸς σέ, ὦ Σώκρατες, εἰπεῖν, ὅτι ὦ θαυμάσιε, πάντων [366e] ὑμῶν, ὅσοι ἐπαινέται φατὲ δικαιοσύνης εἶναι, ἀπὸ τῶν ἐξ ἀρχῆς ἡρώων ἀρξάμενοι, ὅσων λόγοι λελειμμένοι, μέχρι τῶν νῦν ἀνθρώπων οὐδεὶς πώποτε ἔψεξεν ἀδικίαν οὐδʼ ἐπῄνεσεν δικαιοσύνην ἄλλως ἢ δόξας τε καὶ τιμὰς καὶ δωρεὰς τὰς ἀπʼ αὐτῶν γιγνομένας· αὐτὸ δʼ ἑκάτερον τῇ αὑτοῦ δυνάμει τί δρᾷ, τῇ τοῦ ἔχοντος ψυχῇ ἐνόν, καὶ λανθάνον θεούς τε καὶ ἀνθρώπους, οὐδεὶς πώποτε οὔτʼ ἐν ποιήσει οὔτʼ ἐν ἰδίοις λόγοις ἐπεξῆλθεν ἱκανῶς τῷ λόγῳ ὡς τὸ μὲν μέγιστον κακῶν ὅσα ἴσχει ψυχὴ ἐν αὑτῇ, δικαιοσύνη δὲ μέγιστον ἀγαθόν.

[367a] εἰ γὰρ οὕτως ἐλέγετο ἐξ ἀρχῆς ὑπὸ πάντων ὑμῶν καὶ ἐκ νέων ἡμᾶς ἐπείθετε, οὐκ ἂν ἀλλήλους ἐφυλάττομεν μὴ ἀδικεῖν, ἀλλʼ αὐτὸς αὑτοῦ ἦν ἕκαστος ἄριστος φύλαξ, δεδιὼς μὴ ἀδικῶν τῷ μεγίστῳ κακῷ σύνοικος ᾖ.
ταῦτα, ὦ Σώκρατες, ἴσως δὲ καὶ ἔτι τούτων πλείω Θρασύμαχός τε καὶ ἄλλος πού τις ὑπὲρ δικαιοσύνης τε καὶ ἀδικίας λέγοιεν ἄν, μεταστρέφοντες αὐτοῖν τὴν δύναμιν φορτικῶς, ὥς γέ μοι δοκεῖ. ἀλλʼ ἐγώ, οὐδὲν γάρ σε [367b] δέομαι ἀποκρύπτεσθαι, σοῦ ἐπιθυμῶν ἀκοῦσαι τἀναντία, ὡς δύναμαι μάλιστα κατατείνας λέγω. μὴ οὖν ἡμῖν μόνον ἐνδείξῃ τῷ λόγῳ ὅτι δικαιοσύνη ἀδικίας κρεῖττον, ἀλλὰ τί ποιοῦσα ἑκατέρα τὸν ἔχοντα αὐτὴ διʼ αὑτὴν ἡ μὲν κακόν, ἡ δὲ ἀγαθόν ἐστιν· τὰς δὲ δόξας ἀφαίρει, ὥσπερ Γλαύκων διεκελεύσατο. εἰ γὰρ μὴ ἀφαιρήσεις ἑκατέρωθεν τὰς ἀληθεῖς, τὰς δὲ ψευδεῖς προσθήσεις, οὐ τὸ δίκαιον φήσομεν ἐπαινεῖν σε ἀλλὰ τὸ δοκεῖν, οὐδὲ τὸ ἄδικον εἶναι [367c] ψέγειν ἀλλὰ τὸ δοκεῖν, καὶ παρακελεύεσθαι ἄδικον ὄντα λανθάνειν, καὶ ὁμολογεῖν Θρασυμάχῳ ὅτι τὸ μὲν δίκαιον ἀλλότριον ἀγαθόν, συμφέρον τοῦ κρείττονος, τὸ δὲ ἄδικον αὑτῷ μὲν συμφέρον καὶ λυσιτελοῦν, τῷ δὲ ἥττονι ἀσύμφορον. ἐπειδὴ οὖν ὡμολόγησας τῶν μεγίστων ἀγαθῶν εἶναι δικαιοσύνην, ἃ τῶν τε ἀποβαινόντων ἀπʼ αὐτῶν ἕνεκα ἄξια κεκτῆσθαι, πολὺ δὲ μᾶλλον αὐτὰ αὑτῶν, οἷον ὁρᾶν, [367d] ἀκούειν, φρονεῖν, καὶ ὑγιαίνειν δή, καὶ ὅσʼ ἄλλα ἀγαθὰ γόνιμα τῇ αὑτῶν φύσει ἀλλʼ οὐ δόξῃ ἐστίν, τοῦτʼ οὖν αὐτὸ ἐπαίνεσον δικαιοσύνης, ὃ αὐτὴ διʼ αὑτὴν τὸν ἔχοντα ὀνίνησιν καὶ ἀδικία βλάπτει, μισθοὺς δὲ καὶ δόξας πάρες ἄλλοις ἐπαινεῖν· ὡς ἐγὼ τῶν μὲν ἄλλων ἀποδεχοίμην ἂν οὕτως ἐπαινούντων δικαιοσύνην καὶ ψεγόντων ἀδικίαν, δόξας τε περὶ αὐτῶν καὶ μισθοὺς ἐγκωμιαζόντων καὶ λοιδορούντων, σοῦ δὲ οὐκ ἄν, εἰ μὴ σὺ κελεύοις, διότι πάντα τὸν βίον [367e] οὐδὲν ἄλλο σκοπῶν διελήλυθας ἢ τοῦτο. μὴ οὖν ἡμῖν ἐνδείξῃ μόνον τῷ λόγῳ ὅτι δικαιοσύνη ἀδικίας κρεῖττον, ἀλλὰ καὶ τί ποιοῦσα ἑκατέρα τὸν ἔχοντα αὐτὴ διʼ αὑτήν, ἐάντε λανθάνῃ ἐάντε μὴ θεούς τε καὶ ἀνθρώπους, ἡ μὲν ἀγαθόν, ἡ δὲ κακόν ἐστι.
καὶ ἐγὼ ἀκούσας, ἀεὶ μὲν δὴ τὴν φύσιν τοῦ τε Γλαύκωνος καὶ τοῦ Ἀδειμάντου ἠγάμην, ἀτὰρ οὖν καὶ τότε πάνυ γε

[368a]
ἥσθην καὶ εἶπον· οὐ κακῶς εἰς ὑμᾶς, ὦ παῖδες ἐκείνου τοῦ ἀνδρός, τὴν ἀρχὴν τῶν ἐλεγείων ἐποίησεν ὁ Γλαύκωνος ἐραστής, εὐδοκιμήσαντας περὶ τὴν Μεγαροῖ μάχην, εἰπών—
παῖδες Ἀρίστωνος, κλεινοῦ θεῖον γένος ἀνδρός·
τοῦτό μοι, ὦ φίλοι, εὖ δοκεῖ ἔχειν· πάνυ γὰρ θεῖον πεπόνθατε, εἰ μὴ πέπεισθε ἀδικίαν δικαιοσύνης ἄμεινον εἶναι, οὕτω δυνάμενοι εἰπεῖν ὑπὲρ αὐτοῦ. δοκεῖτε δή μοι ὡς [368b] ἀληθῶς οὐ πεπεῖσθαι—τεκμαίρομαι δὲ ἐκ τοῦ ἄλλου τοῦ ὑμετέρου τρόπου, ἐπεὶ κατά γε αὐτοὺς τοὺς λόγους ἠπίστουν ἂν ὑμῖν—ὅσῳ δὲ μᾶλλον πιστεύω, τοσούτῳ μᾶλλον ἀπορῶ ὅτι χρήσωμαι. οὔτε γὰρ ὅπως βοηθῶ ἔχω· δοκῶ γάρ μοι ἀδύνατος εἶναι—σημεῖον δέ μοι, ὅτι ἃ πρὸς Θρασύμαχον λέγων ᾤμην ἀποφαίνειν ὡς ἄμεινον δικαιοσύνη ἀδικίας, οὐκ ἀπεδέξασθέ μου—οὔτʼ αὖ ὅπως μὴ βοηθήσω ἔχω· δέδοικα γὰρ μὴ οὐδʼ ὅσιον ᾖ παραγενόμενον δικαιοσύνῃ κακηγορουμένῃ [368c] ἀπαγορεύειν καὶ μὴ βοηθεῖν ἔτι ἐμπνέοντα καὶ δυνάμενον φθέγγεσθαι. κράτιστον οὖν οὕτως ὅπως δύναμαι ἐπικουρεῖν αὐτῇ.
ὅ τε οὖν Γλαύκων καὶ οἱ ἄλλοι ἐδέοντο παντὶ τρόπῳ βοηθῆσαι καὶ μὴ ἀνεῖναι τὸν λόγον, ἀλλὰ διερευνήσασθαι τί τέ ἐστιν ἑκάτερον καὶ περὶ τῆς ὠφελίας αὐτοῖν τἀληθὲς ποτέρως ἔχει. εἶπον οὖν ὅπερ ἐμοὶ ἔδοξεν, ὅτι τὸ ζήτημα ᾧ ἐπιχειροῦμεν οὐ φαῦλον ἀλλʼ ὀξὺ βλέποντος, ὡς ἐμοὶ [368d] φαίνεται. ἐπειδὴ οὖν ἡμεῖς οὐ δεινοί, δοκῶ μοι, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τοιαύτην ποιήσασθαι ζήτησιν αὐτοῦ, οἵανπερ ἂν εἰ προσέταξέ τις γράμματα σμικρὰ πόρρωθεν ἀναγνῶναι μὴ πάνυ ὀξὺ βλέπουσιν, ἔπειτά τις ἐνενόησεν, ὅτι τὰ αὐτὰ γράμματα ἔστι που καὶ ἄλλοθι μείζω τε καὶ ἐν μείζονι, ἕρμαιον ἂν ἐφάνη οἶμαι ἐκεῖνα πρῶτον ἀναγνόντας οὕτως ἐπισκοπεῖν τὰ ἐλάττω, εἰ τὰ αὐτὰ ὄντα τυγχάνει.
πάνυ μὲν οὖν, ἔφη ὁ Ἀδείμαντος· ἀλλὰ τί τοιοῦτον, ὦ [368e] Σώκρατες, ἐν τῇ περὶ τὸ δίκαιον ζητήσει καθορᾷς;
ἐγώ σοι, ἔφην, ἐρῶ. δικαιοσύνη, φαμέν, ἔστι μὲν ἀνδρὸς ἑνός, ἔστι δέ που καὶ ὅλης πόλεως;
πάνυ γε, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
οὐκοῦν μεῖζον πόλις ἑνὸς ἀνδρός;
μεῖζον, ἔφη.
ἴσως τοίνυν πλείων ἂν δικαιοσύνη ἐν τῷ μείζονι ἐνείη καὶ ῥᾴων καταμαθεῖν. εἰ οὖν βούλεσθε, πρῶτον ἐν ταῖς

[369a]
πόλεσι ζητήσωμεν ποῖόν τί ἐστιν· ἔπειτα οὕτως ἐπισκεψώμεθα καὶ ἐν ἑνὶ ἑκάστῳ, τὴν τοῦ μείζονος ὁμοιότητα ἐν τῇ τοῦ ἐλάττονος ἰδέᾳ ἐπισκοποῦντες.
ἀλλά μοι δοκεῖς, ἔφη, καλῶς λέγειν.
ἆρʼ οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, εἰ γιγνομένην πόλιν θεασαίμεθα λόγῳ, καὶ τὴν δικαιοσύνην αὐτῆς ἴδοιμεν ἂν γιγνομένην καὶ τὴν ἀδικίαν;
τάχʼ ἄν, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
οὐκοῦν γενομένου αὐτοῦ ἐλπὶς εὐπετέστερον ἰδεῖν ὃ ζητοῦμεν; [369b]
πολύ γε.
δοκεῖ οὖν χρῆναι ἐπιχειρῆσαι περαίνειν; οἶμαι μὲν γὰρ οὐκ ὀλίγον ἔργον αὐτὸ εἶναι· σκοπεῖτε οὖν.
ἔσκεπται, ἔφη ὁ Ἀδείμαντος· ἀλλὰ μὴ ἄλλως ποίει.
γίγνεται τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, πόλις, ὡς ἐγᾦμαι, ἐπειδὴ τυγχάνει ἡμῶν ἕκαστος οὐκ αὐτάρκης, ἀλλὰ πολλῶν ὢν ἐνδεής· ἢ τίνʼ οἴει ἀρχὴν ἄλλην πόλιν οἰκίζειν;
οὐδεμίαν, ἦ δʼ ὅς. [369c]
οὕτω δὴ ἄρα παραλαμβάνων ἄλλος ἄλλον, ἐπʼ ἄλλου, τὸν δʼ ἐπʼ ἄλλου χρείᾳ, πολλῶν δεόμενοι, πολλοὺς εἰς μίαν οἴκησιν ἀγείραντες κοινωνούς τε καὶ βοηθούς, ταύτῃ τῇ συνοικίᾳ ἐθέμεθα πόλιν ὄνομα· ἦ γάρ;
πάνυ μὲν οὖν.
μεταδίδωσι δὴ ἄλλος ἄλλῳ, εἴ τι μεταδίδωσιν, ἢ μεταλαμβάνει, οἰόμενος αὑτῷ ἄμεινον εἶναι;
πάνυ γε.
ἴθι δή, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τῷ λόγῳ ἐξ ἀρχῆς ποιῶμεν πόλιν· ποιήσει δὲ αὐτήν, ὡς ἔοικεν, ἡ ἡμετέρα χρεία.
πῶς δʼ οὔ; [369d]
ἀλλὰ μὴν πρώτη γε καὶ μεγίστη τῶν χρειῶν ἡ τῆς τροφῆς παρασκευὴ τοῦ εἶναί τε καὶ ζῆν ἕνεκα.
παντάπασί γε.
δευτέρα δὴ οἰκήσεως, τρίτη δὲ ἐσθῆτος καὶ τῶν τοιούτων.
ἔστι ταῦτα.
φέρε δή, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, πῶς ἡ πόλις ἀρκέσει ἐπὶ τοσαύτην παρασκευήν; ἄλλο τι γεωργὸς μὲν εἷς, ὁ δὲ οἰκοδόμος, ἄλλος δέ τις ὑφάντης; ἢ καὶ σκυτοτόμον αὐτόσε προσθήσομεν ἤ τινʼ ἄλλον τῶν περὶ τὸ σῶμα θεραπευτήν;
πάνυ γε.
εἴη δʼ ἂν ἥ γε ἀναγκαιοτάτη πόλις ἐκ τεττάρων ἢ πέντε ἀνδρῶν. [369e]
φαίνεται.
τί δὴ οὖν; ἕνα ἕκαστον τούτων δεῖ τὸ αὑτοῦ ἔργον ἅπασι κοινὸν κατατιθέναι, οἷον τὸν γεωργὸν ἕνα ὄντα παρασκευάζειν σιτία τέτταρσιν καὶ τετραπλάσιον χρόνον τε καὶ πόνον ἀναλίσκειν ἐπὶ σίτου παρασκευῇ καὶ ἄλλοις κοινωνεῖν, ἢ ἀμελήσαντα ἑαυτῷ μόνον τέταρτον μέρος ποιεῖν τούτου τοῦ

[370a]
σίτου ἐν τετάρτῳ μέρει τοῦ χρόνου, τὰ δὲ τρία, τὸ μὲν ἐπὶ τῇ τῆς οἰκίας παρασκευῇ διατρίβειν, τὸ δὲ ἱματίου, τὸ δὲ ὑποδημάτων, καὶ μὴ ἄλλοις κοινωνοῦντα πράγματα ἔχειν, ἀλλʼ αὐτὸν διʼ αὑτὸν τὰ αὑτοῦ πράττειν;
καὶ ὁ Ἀδείμαντος ἔφη· ἀλλʼ ἴσως, ὦ Σώκρατες, οὕτω ῥᾷον ἢ ʼκείνως.
οὐδέν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, μὰ Δία ἄτοπον. ἐννοῶ γὰρ καὶ αὐτὸς εἰπόντος σοῦ, ὅτι πρῶτον μὲν ἡμῶν φύεται ἕκαστος οὐ πάνυ [370b] ὅμοιος ἑκάστῳ, ἀλλὰ διαφέρων τὴν φύσιν, ἄλλος ἐπʼ ἄλλου ἔργου πράξει. ἢ οὐ δοκεῖ σοι;
ἔμοιγε.
τί δέ; πότερον κάλλιον πράττοι ἄν τις εἷς ὢν πολλὰς τέχνας ἐργαζόμενος, ἢ ὅταν μίαν εἷς;
ὅταν, ἦ δʼ ὅς, εἷς μίαν.
ἀλλὰ μὴν οἶμαι καὶ τόδε δῆλον, ὡς, ἐάν τίς τινος παρῇ ἔργου καιρόν, διόλλυται.
δῆλον γάρ.
οὐ γὰρ οἶμαι ἐθέλει τὸ πραττόμενον τὴν τοῦ πράττοντος σχολὴν περιμένειν, ἀλλʼ ἀνάγκη τὸν πράττοντα τῷ πραττομένῳ [370c] ἐπακολουθεῖν μὴ ἐν παρέργου μέρει.
ἀνάγκη.
ἐκ δὴ τούτων πλείω τε ἕκαστα γίγνεται καὶ κάλλιον καὶ ῥᾷον, ὅταν εἷς ἓν κατὰ φύσιν καὶ ἐν καιρῷ, σχολὴν τῶν ἄλλων ἄγων, πράττῃ.
παντάπασι μὲν οὖν.
πλειόνων δή, ὦ Ἀδείμαντε, δεῖ πολιτῶν ἢ τεττάρων ἐπὶ τὰς παρασκευὰς ὧν ἐλέγομεν. ὁ γὰρ γεωργός, ὡς ἔοικεν, οὐκ αὐτὸς ποιήσεται ἑαυτῷ τὸ ἄροτρον, εἰ μέλλει καλὸν εἶναι, [370d] οὐδὲ σμινύην, οὐδὲ τἆλλα ὄργανα ὅσα περὶ γεωργίαν. οὐδʼ αὖ ὁ οἰκοδόμος· πολλῶν δὲ καὶ τούτῳ δεῖ. ὡσαύτως δʼ ὁ ὑφάντης τε καὶ ὁ σκυτοτόμος· ἢ οὔ;
ἀληθῆ.
τέκτονες δὴ καὶ χαλκῆς καὶ τοιοῦτοί τινες πολλοὶ δημιουργοί, κοινωνοὶ ἡμῖν τοῦ πολιχνίου γιγνόμενοι, συχνὸν αὐτὸ ποιοῦσιν.
πάνυ μὲν οὖν.
ἀλλʼ οὐκ ἄν πω πάνυ γε μέγα τι εἴη, εἰ αὐτοῖς βουκόλους τε καὶ ποιμένας τούς τε ἄλλους νομέας προσθεῖμεν, ἵνα οἵ τε [370e] γεωργοὶ ἐπὶ τὸ ἀροῦν ἔχοιεν βοῦς, οἵ τε οἰκοδόμοι πρὸς τὰς ἀγωγὰς μετὰ τῶν γεωργῶν χρῆσθαι ὑποζυγίοις, ὑφάνται δὲ καὶ σκυτοτόμοι δέρμασίν τε καὶ ἐρίοις.
οὐδέ γε, ἦ δʼ ὅς, σμικρὰ πόλις ἂν εἴη ἔχουσα πάντα ταῦτα.
ἀλλὰ μήν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, κατοικίσαι γε αὐτὴν τὴν πόλιν εἰς τοιοῦτον τόπον οὗ ἐπεισαγωγίμων μὴ δεήσεται, σχεδόν τι ἀδύνατον.
ἀδύνατον γάρ.
προσδεήσει ἄρα ἔτι καὶ ἄλλων, οἳ ἐξ ἄλλης πόλεως αὐτῇ κομιοῦσιν ὧν δεῖται.
δεήσει.
καὶ μὴν κενὸς ἂν ἴῃ ὁ διάκονος, μηδὲν ἄγων ὧν ἐκεῖνοι

[371a]
δέονται παρʼ ὧν ἂν κομίζωνται ὧν ἂν αὐτοῖς χρεία, κενὸς ἄπεισιν. ἦ γάρ;
δοκεῖ μοι.
δεῖ δὴ τὰ οἴκοι μὴ μόνον ἑαυτοῖς ποιεῖν ἱκανά, ἀλλὰ καὶ οἷα καὶ ὅσα ἐκείνοις ὧν ἂν δέωνται.
δεῖ γάρ.
πλειόνων δὴ γεωργῶν τε καὶ τῶν ἄλλων δημιουργῶν δεῖ ἡμῖν τῇ πόλει.
πλειόνων γάρ.
καὶ δὴ καὶ τῶν ἄλλων διακόνων που τῶν τε εἰσαξόντων καὶ ἐξαξόντων ἕκαστα. οὗτοι δέ εἰσιν ἔμποροι· ἦ γάρ;
ναί.
καὶ ἐμπόρων δὴ δεησόμεθα.
πάνυ γε.
καὶ ἐὰν μέν γε κατὰ θάλατταν ἡ ἐμπορία γίγνηται, συχνῶν [371b] καὶ ἄλλων προσδεήσεται τῶν ἐπιστημόνων τῆς περὶ τὴν θάλατταν ἐργασίας.
συχνῶν μέντοι.
τί δὲ δή; ἐν αὐτῇ τῇ πόλει πῶς ἀλλήλοις μεταδώσουσιν ὧν ἂν ἕκαστοι ἐργάζωνται; ὧν δὴ ἕνεκα καὶ κοινωνίαν ποιησάμενοι πόλιν ᾠκίσαμεν.
δῆλον δή, ἦ δʼ ὅς, ὅτι πωλοῦντες καὶ ὠνούμενοι.
ἀγορὰ δὴ ἡμῖν καὶ νόμισμα σύμβολον τῆς ἀλλαγῆς ἕνεκα γενήσεται ἐκ τούτου.
πάνυ μὲν οὖν. [371c]
ἂν οὖν κομίσας ὁ γεωργὸς εἰς τὴν ἀγοράν τι ὧν ποιεῖ, ἤ τις ἄλλος τῶν δημιουργῶν, μὴ εἰς τὸν αὐτὸν χρόνον ἥκῃ τοῖς δεομένοις τὰ παρʼ αὐτοῦ ἀλλάξασθαι, ἀργήσει τῆς αὑτοῦ δημιουργίας καθήμενος ἐν ἀγορᾷ;
οὐδαμῶς, ἦ δʼ ὅς, ἀλλὰ εἰσὶν οἳ τοῦτο ὁρῶντες ἑαυτοὺς ἐπὶ τὴν διακονίαν τάττουσιν ταύτην, ἐν μὲν ταῖς ὀρθῶς οἰκουμέναις πόλεσι σχεδόν τι οἱ ἀσθενέστατοι τὰ σώματα καὶ ἀχρεῖοί τι ἄλλο ἔργον πράττειν. αὐτοῦ γὰρ δεῖ μένοντας [371d] αὐτοὺς περὶ τὴν ἀγορὰν τὰ μὲν ἀντʼ ἀργυρίου ἀλλάξασθαι τοῖς τι δεομένοις ἀποδόσθαι, τοῖς δὲ ἀντὶ αὖ ἀργυρίου διαλλάττειν ὅσοι τι δέονται πρίασθαι.
αὕτη ἄρα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἡ χρεία καπήλων ἡμῖν γένεσιν ἐμποιεῖ τῇ πόλει. ἢ οὐ καπήλους καλοῦμεν τοὺς πρὸς ὠνήν τε καὶ πρᾶσιν διακονοῦντας ἱδρυμένους ἐν ἀγορᾷ, τοὺς δὲ πλανήτας ἐπὶ τὰς πόλεις ἐμπόρους;
πάνυ μὲν οὖν. [371e]
ἔτι δή τινες, ὡς ἐγᾦμαι, εἰσὶ καὶ ἄλλοι διάκονοι, οἳ ἂν τὰ μὲν τῆς διανοίας μὴ πάνυ ἀξιοκοινώνητοι ὦσιν, τὴν δὲ τοῦ σώματος ἰσχὺν ἱκανὴν ἐπὶ τοὺς πόνους ἔχωσιν· οἳ δὴ πωλοῦντες τὴν τῆς ἰσχύος χρείαν, τὴν τιμὴν ταύτην μισθὸν καλοῦντες, κέκληνται, ὡς ἐγᾦμαι, μισθωτοί· ἦ γάρ;
πάνυ μὲν οὖν.
πλήρωμα δὴ πόλεώς εἰσιν, ὡς ἔοικε, καὶ μισθωτοί.
δοκεῖ μοι.
ἆρʼ οὖν, ὦ Ἀδείμαντε, ἤδη ἡμῖν ηὔξηται ἡ πόλις, ὥστʼ εἶναι τελέα;
ἴσως.
ποῦ οὖν ἄν ποτε ἐν αὐτῇ εἴη ἥ τε δικαιοσύνη καὶ ἡ ἀδικία; καὶ τίνι ἅμα ἐγγενομένη ὧν ἐσκέμμεθα;

[372a]
ἐγὼ μέν, ἔφη, οὐκ ἐννοῶ, ὦ Σώκρατες, εἰ μή που ἐν αὐτῶν τούτων χρείᾳ τινὶ τῇ πρὸς ἀλλήλους.
ἀλλʼ ἴσως, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καλῶς λέγεις· καὶ σκεπτέον γε καὶ οὐκ ἀποκνητέον.
πρῶτον οὖν σκεψώμεθα τίνα τρόπον διαιτήσονται οἱ οὕτω παρεσκευασμένοι. ἄλλο τι ἢ σῖτόν τε ποιοῦντες καὶ οἶνον καὶ ἱμάτια καὶ ὑποδήματα; καὶ οἰκοδομησάμενοι οἰκίας, θέρους μὲν τὰ πολλὰ γυμνοί τε καὶ ἀνυπόδητοι ἐργάσονται, τοῦ δὲ [372b] χειμῶνος ἠμφιεσμένοι τε καὶ ὑποδεδεμένοι ἱκανῶς· θρέψονται δὲ ἐκ μὲν τῶν κριθῶν ἄλφιτα σκευαζόμενοι, ἐκ δὲ τῶν πυρῶν ἄλευρα, τὰ μὲν πέψαντες, τὰ δὲ μάξαντες, μάζας γενναίας καὶ ἄρτους ἐπὶ κάλαμόν τινα παραβαλλόμενοι ἢ φύλλα καθαρά, κατακλινέντες ἐπὶ στιβάδων ἐστρωμένων μίλακί τε καὶ μυρρίναις, εὐωχήσονται αὐτοί τε καὶ τὰ παιδία, ἐπιπίνοντες τοῦ οἴνου, ἐστεφανωμένοι καὶ ὑμνοῦντες τοὺς θεούς, ἡδέως συνόντες ἀλλήλοις, οὐχ ὑπὲρ τὴν οὐσίαν ποιούμενοι [372c] τοὺς παῖδας, εὐλαβούμενοι πενίαν ἢ πόλεμον.
καὶ ὁ Γλαύκων ὑπολαβών, Ἄνευ ὄψου, ἔφη, ὡς ἔοικας, ποιεῖς τοὺς ἄνδρας ἑστιωμένους.
ἀληθῆ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, λέγεις. ἐπελαθόμην ὅτι καὶ ὄψον ἕξουσιν, ἅλας τε δῆλον ὅτι καὶ ἐλάας καὶ τυρόν, καὶ βολβοὺς καὶ λάχανά γε, οἷα δὴ ἐν ἀγροῖς ἑψήματα, ἑψήσονται. καὶ τραγήματά που παραθήσομεν αὐτοῖς τῶν τε σύκων καὶ ἐρεβίνθων καὶ κυάμων, καὶ μύρτα καὶ φηγοὺς σποδιοῦσιν [372d] πρὸς τὸ πῦρ, μετρίως ὑποπίνοντες· καὶ οὕτω διάγοντες τὸν βίον ἐν εἰρήνῃ μετὰ ὑγιείας, ὡς εἰκός, γηραιοὶ τελευτῶντες ἄλλον τοιοῦτον βίον τοῖς ἐκγόνοις παραδώσουσιν.
καὶ ὅς, εἰ δὲ ὑῶν πόλιν, ὦ Σώκρατες, ἔφη, κατεσκεύαζες, τί ἂν αὐτὰς ἄλλο ἢ ταῦτα ἐχόρταζες;
ἀλλὰ πῶς χρή, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὦ Γλαύκων;
ἅπερ νομίζεται, ἔφη· ἐπί τε κλινῶν κατακεῖσθαι οἶμαι τοὺς μέλλοντας μὴ ταλαιπωρεῖσθαι, καὶ ἀπὸ τραπεζῶν [372e] δειπνεῖν, καὶ ὄψα ἅπερ καὶ οἱ νῦν ἔχουσι καὶ τραγήματα.
εἶεν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ· μανθάνω. οὐ πόλιν, ὡς ἔοικε, σκοποῦμεν μόνον ὅπως γίγνεται, ἀλλὰ καὶ τρυφῶσαν πόλιν. ἴσως οὖν οὐδὲ κακῶς ἔχει· σκοποῦντες γὰρ καὶ τοιαύτην τάχʼ ἂν κατίδοιμεν τήν τε δικαιοσύνην καὶ ἀδικίαν ὅπῃ ποτὲ ταῖς πόλεσιν ἐμφύονται. ἡ μὲν οὖν ἀληθινὴ πόλις δοκεῖ μοι εἶναι ἣν διεληλύθαμεν, ὥσπερ ὑγιής τις· εἰ δʼ αὖ βούλεσθε, καὶ φλεγμαίνουσαν πόλιν θεωρήσωμεν· οὐδὲν ἀποκωλύει.

[373a] ταῦτα γὰρ δή τισιν, ὡς δοκεῖ, οὐκ ἐξαρκέσει, οὐδὲ αὕτη ἡ δίαιτα, ἀλλὰ κλῖναί τε προσέσονται καὶ τράπεζαι καὶ τἆλλα σκεύη, καὶ ὄψα δὴ καὶ μύρα καὶ θυμιάματα καὶ ἑταῖραι καὶ πέμματα, καὶ ἕκαστα τούτων παντοδαπά. καὶ δὴ καὶ ἃ τὸ πρῶτον ἐλέγομεν οὐκέτι τἀναγκαῖα θετέον, οἰκίας τε καὶ ἱμάτια καὶ ὑποδήματα, ἀλλὰ τήν τε ζωγραφίαν κινητέον καὶ τὴν ποικιλίαν, καὶ χρυσὸν καὶ ἐλέφαντα καὶ πάντα τὰ τοιαῦτα κτητέον. ἦ γάρ; [373b]
ναί, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν μείζονά τε αὖ τὴν πόλιν δεῖ ποιεῖν· ἐκείνη γὰρ ἡ ὑγιεινὴ οὐκέτι ἱκανή, ἀλλʼ ἤδη ὄγκου ἐμπληστέα καὶ πλήθους, ἃ οὐκέτι τοῦ ἀναγκαίου ἕνεκά ἐστιν ἐν ταῖς πόλεσιν, οἷον οἵ τε θηρευταὶ πάντες οἵ τε μιμηταί, πολλοὶ μὲν οἱ περὶ τὰ σχήματά τε καὶ χρώματα, πολλοὶ δὲ οἱ περὶ μουσικήν, ποιηταί τε καὶ τούτων ὑπηρέται, ῥαψῳδοί, ὑποκριταί, χορευταί, ἐργολάβοι, σκευῶν τε παντοδαπῶν δημιουργοί, τῶν τε ἄλλων [373c] καὶ τῶν περὶ τὸν γυναικεῖον κόσμον. καὶ δὴ καὶ διακόνων πλειόνων δεησόμεθα· ἢ οὐ δοκεῖ δεήσειν παιδαγωγῶν, τιτθῶν, τροφῶν, κομμωτριῶν, κουρέων, καὶ αὖ ὀψοποιῶν τε καὶ μαγείρων; ἔτι δὲ καὶ συβωτῶν προσδεησόμεθα· τοῦτο γὰρ ἡμῖν ἐν τῇ προτέρᾳ πόλει οὐκ ἐνῆν—ἔδει γὰρ οὐδέν—ἐν δὲ ταύτῃ καὶ τούτου προσδεήσει. δεήσει δὲ καὶ τῶν ἄλλων βοσκημάτων παμπόλλων, εἴ τις αὐτὰ ἔδεται· ἦ γάρ;
πῶς γὰρ οὔ; [373d]
οὐκοῦν καὶ ἰατρῶν ἐν χρείαις ἐσόμεθα πολὺ μᾶλλον οὕτω διαιτώμενοι ἢ ὡς τὸ πρότερον;
πολύ γε.
καὶ ἡ χώρα γέ που, ἡ τότε ἱκανὴ τρέφειν τοὺς τότε, σμικρὰ δὴ ἐξ ἱκανῆς ἔσται. ἢ πῶς λέγομεν;
οὕτως, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν τῆς τῶν πλησίον χώρας ἡμῖν ἀποτμητέον, εἰ μέλλομεν ἱκανὴν ἕξειν νέμειν τε καὶ ἀροῦν, καὶ ἐκείνοις αὖ τῆς ἡμετέρας, ἐὰν καὶ ἐκεῖνοι ἀφῶσιν αὑτοὺς ἐπὶ χρημάτων κτῆσιν ἄπειρον, ὑπερβάντες τὸν τῶν ἀναγκαίων ὅρον; [373e]
πολλὴ ἀνάγκη, ἔφη, ὦ Σώκρατες.
πολεμήσομεν δὴ τὸ μετὰ τοῦτο, ὦ Γλαύκων; ἢ πῶς ἔσται;
οὕτως, ἔφη.
καὶ μηδέν γέ πω λέγωμεν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, μήτʼ εἴ τι κακὸν μήτʼ εἰ ἀγαθὸν ὁ πόλεμος ἐργάζεται, ἀλλὰ τοσοῦτον μόνον, ὅτι πολέμου αὖ γένεσιν ηὑρήκαμεν, ἐξ ὧν μάλιστα ταῖς πόλεσιν καὶ ἰδίᾳ καὶ δημοσίᾳ κακὰ γίγνεται, ὅταν γίγνηται.
πάνυ μὲν οὖν.
ἔτι δή, ὦ φίλε, μείζονος τῆς πόλεως δεῖ οὔ τι σμικρῷ,

### Book II, 374–381

[374a]
ἀλλʼ ὅλῳ στρατοπέδῳ, ὃ ἐξελθὸν ὑπὲρ τῆς οὐσίας ἁπάσης καὶ ὑπὲρ ὧν νυνδὴ ἐλέγομεν διαμαχεῖται τοῖς ἐπιοῦσιν.
τί δέ; ἦ δʼ ὅς· αὐτοὶ οὐχ ἱκανοί;
οὔκ, εἰ σύ γε, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καὶ ἡμεῖς ἅπαντες ὡμολογήσαμεν καλῶς, ἡνίκα ἐπλάττομεν τὴν πόλιν· ὡμολογοῦμεν δέ που, εἰ μέμνησαι, ἀδύνατον ἕνα πολλὰς καλῶς ἐργάζεσθαι τέχνας.
ἀληθῆ λέγεις, ἔφη. [374b]
τί οὖν; ἦν δʼ ἐγώ· ἡ περὶ τὸν πόλεμον ἀγωνία οὐ τεχνικὴ δοκεῖ εἶναι;
καὶ μάλα, ἔφη.
ἦ οὖν τι σκυτικῆς δεῖ μᾶλλον κήδεσθαι ἢ πολεμικῆς;
οὐδαμῶς.
ἀλλʼ ἄρα τὸν μὲν σκυτοτόμον διεκωλύομεν μήτε γεωργὸν ἐπιχειρεῖν εἶναι ἅμα μήτε ὑφάντην μήτε οἰκοδόμον ἀλλὰ σκυτοτόμον, ἵνα δὴ ἡμῖν τὸ τῆς σκυτικῆς ἔργον καλῶς γίγνοιτο, καὶ τῶν ἄλλων ἑνὶ ἑκάστῳ ὡσαύτως ἓν ἀπεδίδομεν, πρὸς ὃ ἐπεφύκει ἕκαστος καὶ ἐφʼ ᾧ ἔμελλε τῶν ἄλλων [374c] σχολὴν ἄγων διὰ βίου αὐτὸ ἐργαζόμενος οὐ παριεὶς τοὺς καιροὺς καλῶς ἀπεργάσεσθαι· τὰ δὲ δὴ περὶ τὸν πόλεμον πότερον οὐ περὶ πλείστου ἐστὶν εὖ ἀπεργασθέντα; ἢ οὕτω ῥᾴδιον, ὥστε καὶ γεωργῶν τις ἅμα πολεμικὸς ἔσται καὶ σκυτοτομῶν καὶ ἄλλην τέχνην ἡντινοῦν ἐργαζόμενος, πεττευτικὸς δὲ ἢ κυβευτικὸς ἱκανῶς οὐδʼ ἂν εἷς γένοιτο μὴ αὐτὸ τοῦτο ἐκ παιδὸς ἐπιτηδεύων, ἀλλὰ παρέργῳ χρώμενος; [374d] καὶ ἀσπίδα μὲν λαβὼν ἤ τι ἄλλο τῶν πολεμικῶν ὅπλων τε καὶ ὀργάνων αὐθημερὸν ὁπλιτικῆς ἤ τινος ἄλλης μάχης τῶν κατὰ πόλεμον ἱκανὸς ἔσται ἀγωνιστής, τῶν δὲ ἄλλων ὀργάνων οὐδὲν οὐδένα δημιουργὸν οὐδὲ ἀθλητὴν ληφθὲν ποιήσει, οὐδʼ ἔσται χρήσιμον τῷ μήτε τὴν ἐπιστήμην ἑκάστου λαβόντι μήτε τὴν μελέτην ἱκανὴν παρασχομένῳ;
πολλοῦ γὰρ ἄν, ἦ δʼ ὅς, τὰ ὄργανα ἦν ἄξια.
οὐκοῦν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὅσῳ μέγιστον τὸ τῶν φυλάκων ἔργον, [374e] τοσούτῳ σχολῆς τε τῶν ἄλλων πλείστης ἂν εἴη καὶ αὖ τέχνης τε καὶ ἐπιμελείας μεγίστης δεόμενον.
οἶμαι ἔγωγε, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
ἆρʼ οὖν οὐ καὶ φύσεως ἐπιτηδείας εἰς αὐτὸ τὸ ἐπιτήδευμα;
πῶς δʼ οὔ;
ἡμέτερον δὴ ἔργον ἂν εἴη, ὡς ἔοικεν, εἴπερ οἷοί τʼ ἐσμέν, ἐκλέξασθαι τίνες τε καὶ ποῖαι φύσεις ἐπιτήδειαι εἰς πόλεως φυλακήν.
ἡμέτερον μέντοι.
μὰ Δία, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, οὐκ ἄρα φαῦλον πρᾶγμα ἠράμεθα· ὅμως δὲ οὐκ ἀποδειλιατέον, ὅσον γʼ ἂν δύναμις παρείκῃ.

[375a]
οὐ γὰρ οὖν, ἔφη.
οἴει οὖν τι, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, διαφέρειν φύσιν γενναίου σκύλακος εἰς φυλακὴν νεανίσκου εὐγενοῦς;
τὸ ποῖον λέγεις;
οἷον ὀξύν τέ που δεῖ αὐτοῖν ἑκάτερον εἶναι πρὸς αἴσθησιν καὶ ἐλαφρὸν πρὸς τὸ αἰσθανόμενον διωκάθειν, καὶ ἰσχυρὸν αὖ, ἐὰν δέῃ ἑλόντα διαμάχεσθαι.
δεῖ γὰρ οὖν, ἔφη, πάντων τούτων.
καὶ μὴν ἀνδρεῖόν γε, εἴπερ εὖ μαχεῖται.
πῶς δʼ οὔ;
ἀνδρεῖος δὲ εἶναι ἆρα ἐθελήσει ὁ μὴ θυμοειδὴς εἴτε ἵππος εἴτε κύων ἢ ἄλλο ὁτιοῦν ζῷον; ἢ οὐκ ἐννενόηκας ὡς [375b] ἄμαχόν τε καὶ ἀνίκητον θυμός, οὗ παρόντος ψυχὴ πᾶσα πρὸς πάντα ἄφοβός τέ ἐστι καὶ ἀήττητος;
ἐννενόηκα.
τὰ μὲν τοίνυν τοῦ σώματος οἷον δεῖ τὸν φύλακα εἶναι, δῆλα.
ναί.
καὶ μὴν καὶ τὰ τῆς ψυχῆς, ὅτι γε θυμοειδῆ.
καὶ τοῦτο.
πῶς οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὦ Γλαύκων, οὐκ ἄγριοι ἀλλήλοις τε ἔσονται καὶ τοῖς ἄλλοις πολίταις, ὄντες τοιοῦτοι τὰς φύσεις;
μὰ Δία, ἦ δʼ ὅς, οὐ ῥᾳδίως. [375c]
ἀλλὰ μέντοι δεῖ γε πρὸς μὲν τοὺς οἰκείους πρᾴους αὐτοὺς εἶναι, πρὸς δὲ τοὺς πολεμίους χαλεπούς· εἰ δὲ μή, οὐ περιμενοῦσιν ἄλλους σφᾶς διολέσαι, ἀλλʼ αὐτοὶ φθήσονται αὐτὸ δράσαντες.
ἀληθῆ, ἔφη.
τί οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ποιήσομεν; πόθεν ἅμα πρᾷον καὶ μεγαλόθυμον ἦθος εὑρήσομεν; ἐναντία γάρ που θυμοειδεῖ πρᾳεῖα φύσις.
φαίνεται.
ἀλλὰ μέντοι τούτων γε ὁποτέρου ἂν στέρηται, φύλαξ ἀγαθὸς οὐ μὴ γένηται· ταῦτα δὲ ἀδυνάτοις ἔοικεν, καὶ οὕτω [375d] δὴ συμβαίνει ἀγαθὸν φύλακα ἀδύνατον γενέσθαι.
κινδυνεύει, ἔφη.
καὶ ἐγὼ ἀπορήσας τε καὶ ἐπισκεψάμενος τὰ ἔμπροσθεν, δικαίως γε, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὦ φίλε, ἀποροῦμεν· ἧς γὰρ προυθέμεθα εἰκόνος ἀπελείφθημεν.
πῶς λέγεις;
οὐκ ἐννενοήκαμεν ὅτι εἰσὶν ἄρα φύσεις οἵας ἡμεῖς οὐκ ᾠήθημεν, ἔχουσαι τἀναντία ταῦτα.
ποῦ δή;
ἴδοι μὲν ἄν τις καὶ ἐν ἄλλοις ζῴοις, οὐ μεντἂν ἥκιστα [375e] ἐν ᾧ ἡμεῖς παρεβάλλομεν τῷ φύλακι. οἶσθα γάρ που τῶν γενναίων κυνῶν, ὅτι τοῦτο φύσει αὐτῶν τὸ ἦθος, πρὸς μὲν τοὺς συνήθεις τε καὶ γνωρίμους ὡς οἷόν τε πρᾳοτάτους εἶναι, πρὸς δὲ τοὺς ἀγνῶτας τοὐναντίον.
οἶδα μέντοι.
τοῦτο μὲν ἄρα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, δυνατόν, καὶ οὐ παρὰ φύσιν ζητοῦμεν τοιοῦτον εἶναι τὸν φύλακα.
οὐκ ἔοικεν.
ἆρʼ οὖν σοι δοκεῖ ἔτι τοῦδε προσδεῖσθαι ὁ φυλακικὸς ἐσόμενος, πρὸς τῷ θυμοειδεῖ ἔτι προσγενέσθαι φιλόσοφος τὴν φύσιν;

[376a]
πῶς δή; ἔφη· οὐ γὰρ ἐννοῶ.
καὶ τοῦτο, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἐν τοῖς κυσὶν κατόψει, ὃ καὶ ἄξιον θαυμάσαι τοῦ θηρίου.
τὸ ποῖον;
ὅτι ὃν μὲν ἂν ἴδῃ ἀγνῶτα, χαλεπαίνει, οὐδὲ ἓν κακὸν προπεπονθώς· ὃν δʼ ἂν γνώριμον, ἀσπάζεται, κἂν μηδὲν πώποτε ὑπʼ αὐτοῦ ἀγαθὸν πεπόνθῃ. ἢ οὔπω τοῦτο ἐθαύμασας;
οὐ πάνυ, ἔφη, μέχρι τούτου προσέσχον τὸν νοῦν· ὅτι δέ που δρᾷ ταῦτα, δῆλον.
ἀλλὰ μὴν κομψόν γε φαίνεται τὸ πάθος αὐτοῦ τῆς [376b] φύσεως καὶ ὡς ἀληθῶς φιλόσοφον.
πῇ δή;
ἧι, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὄψιν οὐδενὶ ἄλλῳ φίλην καὶ ἐχθρὰν διακρίνει ἢ τῷ τὴν μὲν καταμαθεῖν, τὴν δὲ ἀγνοῆσαι. καίτοι πῶς οὐκ ἂν φιλομαθὲς εἴη συνέσει τε καὶ ἀγνοίᾳ ὁριζόμενον τό τε οἰκεῖον καὶ τὸ ἀλλότριον;
οὐδαμῶς, ἦ δʼ ὅς, ὅπως οὔ.
ἀλλὰ μέντοι, εἶπον ἐγώ, τό γε φιλομαθὲς καὶ φιλόσοφον ταὐτόν;
ταὐτὸν γάρ, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν θαρροῦντες τιθῶμεν καὶ ἐν ἀνθρώπῳ, εἰ μέλλει [376c] πρὸς τοὺς οἰκείους καὶ γνωρίμους πρᾷός τις ἔσεσθαι, φύσει φιλόσοφον καὶ φιλομαθῆ αὐτὸν δεῖν εἶναι;
τιθῶμεν, ἔφη.
φιλόσοφος δὴ καὶ θυμοειδὴς καὶ ταχὺς καὶ ἰσχυρὸς ἡμῖν τὴν φύσιν ἔσται ὁ μέλλων καλὸς κἀγαθὸς ἔσεσθαι φύλαξ πόλεως.
παντάπασι μὲν οὖν, ἔφη.
οὗτος μὲν δὴ ἂν οὕτως ὑπάρχοι. θρέψονται δὲ δὴ ἡμῖν οὗτοι καὶ παιδευθήσονται τίνα τρόπον; καὶ ἆρά τι προὔργου ἡμῖν ἐστιν αὐτὸ σκοποῦσι πρὸς τὸ κατιδεῖν οὗπερ ἕνεκα [376d] πάντα σκοποῦμεν, δικαιοσύνην τε καὶ ἀδικίαν τίνα τρόπον ἐν πόλει γίγνεται; ἵνα μὴ ἐῶμεν ἱκανὸν λόγον ἢ συχνὸν διεξίωμεν.
καὶ ὁ τοῦ Γλαύκωνος ἀδελφός, πάνυ μὲν οὖν, ἔφη, ἔγωγε προσδοκῶ προὔργου εἶναι εἰς τοῦτο ταύτην τὴν σκέψιν.
μὰ Δία, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὦ φίλε Ἀδείμαντε, οὐκ ἄρα ἀφετέον, οὐδʼ εἰ μακροτέρα τυγχάνει οὖσα.
οὐ γὰρ οὖν.
ἴθι οὖν, ὥσπερ ἐν μύθῳ μυθολογοῦντές τε καὶ σχολὴν ἄγοντες λόγῳ παιδεύωμεν τοὺς ἄνδρας. [376e]
ἀλλὰ χρή.
τίς οὖν ἡ παιδεία; ἢ χαλεπὸν εὑρεῖν βελτίω τῆς ὑπὸ τοῦ πολλοῦ χρόνου ηὑρημένης; ἔστιν δέ που ἡ μὲν ἐπὶ σώμασι γυμναστική, ἡ δʼ ἐπὶ ψυχῇ μουσική.
ἔστιν γάρ.
ἆρʼ οὖν οὐ μουσικῇ πρότερον ἀρξόμεθα παιδεύοντες ἢ γυμναστικῇ;
πῶς δʼ οὔ;
μουσικῆς δʼ, εἶπον, τιθεῖς λόγους, ἢ οὔ;
ἔγωγε.
λόγων δὲ διττὸν εἶδος, τὸ μὲν ἀληθές, ψεῦδος δʼ ἕτερον;
ναί.

[377a]
παιδευτέον δʼ ἐν ἀμφοτέροις, πρότερον δʼ ἐν τοῖς ψευδέσιν;
οὐ μανθάνω, ἔφη, πῶς λέγεις.
οὐ μανθάνεις, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὅτι πρῶτον τοῖς παιδίοις μύθους λέγομεν; τοῦτο δέ που ὡς τὸ ὅλον εἰπεῖν ψεῦδος, ἔνι δὲ καὶ ἀληθῆ. πρότερον δὲ μύθοις πρὸς τὰ παιδία ἢ γυμνασίοις χρώμεθα.
ἔστι ταῦτα.
τοῦτο δὴ ἔλεγον, ὅτι μουσικῆς πρότερον ἁπτέον ἢ γυμναστικῆς.
ὀρθῶς, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν οἶσθʼ ὅτι ἀρχὴ παντὸς ἔργου μέγιστον, ἄλλως [377b] τε δὴ καὶ νέῳ καὶ ἁπαλῷ ὁτῳοῦν; μάλιστα γὰρ δὴ τότε πλάττεται, καὶ ἐνδύεται τύπος ὃν ἄν τις βούληται ἐνσημήνασθαι ἑκάστῳ.
κομιδῇ μὲν οὖν.
ἆρʼ οὖν ῥᾳδίως οὕτω παρήσομεν τοὺς ἐπιτυχόντας ὑπὸ τῶν ἐπιτυχόντων μύθους πλασθέντας ἀκούειν τοὺς παῖδας καὶ λαμβάνειν ἐν ταῖς ψυχαῖς ὡς ἐπὶ τὸ πολὺ ἐναντίας δόξας ἐκείναις ἅς, ἐπειδὰν τελεωθῶσιν, ἔχειν οἰησόμεθα δεῖν αὐτούς;
οὐδʼ ὁπωστιοῦν παρήσομεν.
πρῶτον δὴ ἡμῖν, ὡς ἔοικεν, ἐπιστατητέον τοῖς μυθοποιοῖς, [377c] καὶ ὃν μὲν ἂν καλὸν [μῦθον] ποιήσωσιν, ἐγκριτέον, ὃν δʼ ἂν μή, ἀποκριτέον. τοὺς δʼ ἐγκριθέντας πείσομεν τὰς τροφούς τε καὶ μητέρας λέγειν τοῖς παισίν, καὶ πλάττειν τὰς ψυχὰς αὐτῶν τοῖς μύθοις πολὺ μᾶλλον ἢ τὰ σώματα ταῖς χερσίν· ὧν δὲ νῦν λέγουσι τοὺς πολλοὺς ἐκβλητέον.
ποίους δή; ἔφη.
ἐν τοῖς μείζοσιν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, μύθοις ὀψόμεθα καὶ τοὺς ἐλάττους. δεῖ γὰρ δὴ τὸν αὐτὸν τύπον εἶναι καὶ ταὐτὸν [377d] δύνασθαι τούς τε μείζους καὶ τοὺς ἐλάττους. ἢ οὐκ οἴει;
ἔγωγʼ, ἔφη· ἀλλʼ οὐκ ἐννοῶ οὐδὲ τοὺς μείζους τίνας λέγεις.
οὓς Ἡσίοδός τε, εἶπον, καὶ Ὅμηρος ἡμῖν ἐλεγέτην καὶ οἱ ἄλλοι ποιηταί. οὗτοι γάρ που μύθους τοῖς ἀνθρώποις ψευδεῖς συντιθέντες ἔλεγόν τε καὶ λέγουσι.
ποίους δή, ἦ δʼ ὅς, καὶ τί αὐτῶν μεμφόμενος λέγεις;
ὅπερ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, χρὴ καὶ πρῶτον καὶ μάλιστα μέμφεσθαι, ἄλλως τε καὶ ἐάν τις μὴ καλῶς ψεύδηται.
τί τοῦτο; [377e]
ὅταν εἰκάζῃ τις κακῶς [οὐσίαν] τῷ λόγῳ, περὶ θεῶν τε καὶ ἡρώων οἷοί εἰσιν, ὥσπερ γραφεὺς μηδὲν ἐοικότα γράφων οἷς ἂν ὅμοια βουληθῇ γράψαι.
καὶ γάρ, ἔφη, ὀρθῶς ἔχει τά γε τοιαῦτα μέμφεσθαι. ἀλλὰ πῶς δὴ λέγομεν καὶ ποῖα;
πρῶτον μέν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τὸ μέγιστον καὶ περὶ τῶν μεγίστων ψεῦδος ὁ εἰπὼν οὐ καλῶς ἐψεύσατο ὡς Οὐρανός τε ἠργάσατο ἅ φησι δρᾶσαι αὐτὸν Ἡσίοδος, ὅ τε αὖ Κρόνος

[378a]
ὡς ἐτιμωρήσατο αὐτόν. τὰ δὲ δὴ τοῦ Κρόνου ἔργα καὶ πάθη ὑπὸ τοῦ ὑέος, οὐδʼ ἂν εἰ ἦν ἀληθῆ ᾤμην δεῖν ῥᾳδίως οὕτως λέγεσθαι πρὸς ἄφρονάς τε καὶ νέους, ἀλλὰ μάλιστα μὲν σιγᾶσθαι, εἰ δὲ ἀνάγκη τις ἦν λέγειν, διʼ ἀπορρήτων ἀκούειν ὡς ὀλιγίστους, θυσαμένους οὐ χοῖρον ἀλλά τι μέγα καὶ ἄπορον θῦμα, ὅπως ὅτι ἐλαχίστοις συνέβη ἀκοῦσαι.
καὶ γάρ, ἦ δʼ ὅς, οὗτοί γε οἱ λόγοι χαλεποί. [378b]
καὶ οὐ λεκτέοι γʼ, ἔφην, ὦ Ἀδείμαντε, ἐν τῇ ἡμετέρᾳ πόλει. οὐδὲ λεκτέον νέῳ ἀκούοντι ὡς ἀδικῶν τὰ ἔσχατα οὐδὲν ἂν θαυμαστὸν ποιοῖ, οὐδʼ αὖ ἀδικοῦντα πατέρα κολάζων παντὶ τρόπῳ, ἀλλὰ δρῴη ἂν ὅπερ θεῶν οἱ πρῶτοί τε καὶ μέγιστοι.
οὐ μὰ τὸν Δία, ἦ δʼ ὅς, οὐδὲ αὐτῷ μοι δοκεῖ ἐπιτήδεια εἶναι λέγειν.
οὐδέ γε, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τὸ παράπαν ὡς θεοὶ θεοῖς πολεμοῦσί [378c] τε καὶ ἐπιβουλεύουσι καὶ μάχονται—οὐδὲ γὰρ ἀληθῆ—εἴ γε δεῖ ἡμῖν τοὺς μέλλοντας τὴν πόλιν φυλάξειν αἴσχιστον νομίζειν τὸ ῥᾳδίως ἀλλήλοις ἀπεχθάνεσθαι—πολλοῦ δεῖ γιγαντομαχίας τε μυθολογητέον αὐτοῖς καὶ ποικιλτέον, καὶ ἄλλας ἔχθρας πολλὰς καὶ παντοδαπὰς θεῶν τε καὶ ἡρώων πρὸς συγγενεῖς τε καὶ οἰκείους αὐτῶν—ἀλλʼ εἴ πως μέλλομεν πείσειν ὡς οὐδεὶς πώποτε πολίτης ἕτερος ἑτέρῳ ἀπήχθετο οὐδʼ ἔστιν τοῦτο ὅσιον, τοιαῦτα λεκτέα μᾶλλον πρὸς [378d] τὰ παιδία εὐθὺς καὶ γέρουσι καὶ γραυσί, καὶ πρεσβυτέροις γιγνομένοις καὶ τοὺς ποιητὰς ἐγγὺς τούτων ἀναγκαστέον λογοποιεῖν. Ἥρας δὲ δεσμοὺς ὑπὸ ὑέος καὶ Ἡφαίστου ῥίψεις ὑπὸ πατρός, μέλλοντος τῇ μητρὶ τυπτομένῃ ἀμυνεῖν, καὶ θεομαχίας ὅσας Ὅμηρος πεποίηκεν οὐ παραδεκτέον εἰς τὴν πόλιν, οὔτʼ ἐν ὑπονοίαις πεποιημένας οὔτε ἄνευ ὑπονοιῶν. ὁ γὰρ νέος οὐχ οἷός τε κρίνειν ὅτι τε ὑπόνοια καὶ ὃ μή, ἀλλʼ ἃ ἂν τηλικοῦτος ὢν λάβῃ ἐν ταῖς δόξαις δυσέκνιπτά [378e] τε καὶ ἀμετάστατα φιλεῖ γίγνεσθαι· ὧν δὴ ἴσως ἕνεκα περὶ παντὸς ποιητέον ἃ πρῶτα ἀκούουσιν ὅτι κάλλιστα μεμυθολογημένα πρὸς ἀρετὴν ἀκούειν.
ἔχει γάρ, ἔφη, λόγον. ἀλλʼ εἴ τις αὖ καὶ ταῦτα ἐρωτῴη ἡμᾶς, ταῦτα ἅττα τʼ ἐστὶν καὶ τίνες οἱ μῦθοι, τίνας ἂν φαῖμεν;
καὶ ἐγὼ εἶπον· ὦ Ἀδείμαντε, οὐκ ἐσμὲν ποιηταὶ ἐγώ τε

[379a]
καὶ σὺ ἐν τῷ παρόντι, ἀλλʼ οἰκισταὶ πόλεως· οἰκισταῖς δὲ τοὺς μὲν τύπους προσήκει εἰδέναι ἐν οἷς δεῖ μυθολογεῖν τοὺς ποιητάς, παρʼ οὓς ἐὰν ποιῶσιν οὐκ ἐπιτρεπτέον, οὐ μὴν αὐτοῖς γε ποιητέον μύθους.
ὀρθῶς, ἔφη· ἀλλʼ αὐτὸ δὴ τοῦτο, οἱ τύποι περὶ θεολογίας τίνες ἂν εἶεν;
τοιοίδε πού τινες, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ· οἷος τυγχάνει ὁ θεὸς ὤν, ἀεὶ δήπου ἀποδοτέον, ἐάντέ τις αὐτὸν ἐν ἔπεσιν ποιῇ ἐάντε ἐν μέλεσιν ἐάντε ἐν τραγῳδίᾳ.
δεῖ γάρ. [379b]
οὐκοῦν ἀγαθὸς ὅ γε θεὸς τῷ ὄντι τε καὶ λεκτέον οὕτω;
τί μήν;
ἀλλὰ μὴν οὐδέν γε τῶν ἀγαθῶν βλαβερόν· ἦ γάρ;
οὔ μοι δοκεῖ.
ἆρʼ οὖν ὃ μὴ βλαβερὸν βλάπτει;
οὐδαμῶς.
ὃ δὲ μὴ βλάπτει κακόν τι ποιεῖ;
οὐδὲ τοῦτο.
ὃ δέ γε μηδὲν κακὸν ποιεῖ οὐδʼ ἄν τινος εἴη κακοῦ αἴτιον;
πῶς γάρ;
τί δέ; ὠφέλιμον τὸ ἀγαθόν;
ναί.
αἴτιον ἄρα εὐπραγίας;
ναί.
οὐκ ἄρα πάντων γε αἴτιον τὸ ἀγαθόν, ἀλλὰ τῶν μὲν εὖ ἐχόντων αἴτιον, τῶν δὲ κακῶν ἀναίτιον. [379c]
παντελῶς γʼ, ἔφη.
οὐδʼ ἄρα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὁ θεός, ἐπειδὴ ἀγαθός, πάντων ἂν εἴη αἴτιος, ὡς οἱ πολλοὶ λέγουσιν, ἀλλὰ ὀλίγων μὲν τοῖς ἀνθρώποις αἴτιος, πολλῶν δὲ ἀναίτιος· πολὺ γὰρ ἐλάττω τἀγαθὰ τῶν κακῶν ἡμῖν, καὶ τῶν μὲν ἀγαθῶν οὐδένα ἄλλον αἰτιατέον, τῶν δὲ κακῶν ἄλλʼ ἄττα δεῖ ζητεῖν τὰ αἴτια, ἀλλʼ οὐ τὸν θεόν.
ἀληθέστατα, ἔφη, δοκεῖς μοι λέγειν.
οὐκ ἄρα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἀποδεκτέον οὔτε Ὁμήρου οὔτʼ ἄλλου [379d] ποιητοῦ ταύτην τὴν ἁμαρτίαν περὶ τοὺς θεοὺς ἀνοήτως ἁμαρτάνοντος καὶ λέγοντος—
ὡς δοιοί τε πίθοι κατακείαται ἐν Διὸς οὔδει
κηρῶν ἔμπλειοι, ὁ μὲν ἐσθλῶν, αὐτὰρ ὃ δειλῶν·
καὶ ᾧ μὲν ἂν μείξας ὁ Ζεὺς δῷ ἀμφοτέρων,
ἄλλοτε μέν τε κακῷ ὅ γε κύρεται, ἄλλοτε δʼ ἐσθλῷ·
ᾧ δʼ ἂν μή, ἀλλʼ ἄκρατα τὰ ἕτερα,
τὸν δὲ κακὴ βούβρωστις ἐπὶ χθόνα δῖαν ἐλαύνει·
[379e] οὐδʼ ὡς ταμίας ἡμῖν Ζεὺς—
ἀγαθῶν τε κακῶν τε τέτυκται.
τὴν δὲ τῶν ὅρκων καὶ σπονδῶν σύγχυσιν, ἣν ὁ Πάνδαρος συνέχεεν, ἐάν τις φῇ διʼ Ἀθηνᾶς τε καὶ Διὸς γεγονέναι, οὐκ ἐπαινεσόμεθα, οὐδὲ θεῶν ἔριν τε καὶ κρίσιν

[380a]
διὰ Θέμιτός τε καὶ Διός, οὐδʼ αὖ, ὡς Αἰσχύλος λέγει, ἐατέον ἀκούειν τοὺς νέους, ὅτι—
θεὸς μὲν αἰτίαν φύει βροτοῖς,
ὅταν κακῶσαι δῶμα παμπήδην θέλῃ.
ἀλλʼ ἐάν τις ποιῇ ἐν οἷς ταῦτα τὰ ἰαμβεῖα ἔνεστιν, τὰ τῆς Νιόβης πάθη, ἢ τὰ Πελοπιδῶν ἢ τὰ Τρωικὰ ἤ τι ἄλλο τῶν τοιούτων, ἢ οὐ θεοῦ ἔργα ἐατέον αὐτὰ λέγειν, ἢ εἰ θεοῦ, ἐξευρετέον αὐτοῖς σχεδὸν ὃν νῦν ἡμεῖς λόγον ζητοῦμεν, καὶ [380b] λεκτέον ὡς ὁ μὲν θεὸς δίκαιά τε καὶ ἀγαθὰ ἠργάζετο, οἱ δὲ ὠνίναντο κολαζόμενοι· ὡς δὲ ἄθλιοι μὲν οἱ δίκην διδόντες, ἦν δὲ δὴ ὁ δρῶν ταῦτα θεός, οὐκ ἐατέον λέγειν τὸν ποιητήν. ἀλλʼ εἰ μὲν ὅτι ἐδεήθησαν κολάσεως λέγοιεν ὡς ἄθλιοι οἱ κακοί, διδόντες δὲ δίκην ὠφελοῦντο ὑπὸ τοῦ θεοῦ, ἐατέον· κακῶν δὲ αἴτιον φάναι θεόν τινι γίγνεσθαι ἀγαθὸν ὄντα, διαμαχετέον παντὶ τρόπῳ μήτε τινὰ λέγειν ταῦτα ἐν τῇ αὑτοῦ πόλει, εἰ μέλλει εὐνομήσεσθαι, μήτε τινὰ ἀκούειν, [380c] μήτε νεώτερον μήτε πρεσβύτερον, μήτʼ ἐν μέτρῳ μήτε ἄνευ μέτρου μυθολογοῦντα, ὡς οὔτε ὅσια ἂν λεγόμενα εἰ λέγοιτο, οὔτε σύμφορα ἡμῖν οὔτε σύμφωνα αὐτὰ αὑτοῖς.
σύμψηφός σοί εἰμι, ἔφη, τούτου τοῦ νόμου, καί μοι ἀρέσκει.
οὗτος μὲν τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, εἷς ἂν εἴη τῶν περὶ θεοὺς νόμων τε καὶ τύπων, ἐν ᾧ δεήσει τούς τε λέγοντας λέγειν καὶ τοὺς ποιοῦντας ποιεῖν, μὴ πάντων αἴτιον τὸν θεὸν ἀλλὰ τῶν ἀγαθῶν.
καὶ μάλʼ, ἔφη, ἀπόχρη. [380d]
τί δὲ δὴ ὁ δεύτερος ὅδε; ἆρα γόητα τὸν θεὸν οἴει εἶναι καὶ οἷον ἐξ ἐπιβουλῆς φαντάζεσθαι ἄλλοτε ἐν ἄλλαις ἰδέαις τοτὲ μὲν αὐτὸν γιγνόμενον, [καὶ] ἀλλάττοντα τὸ αὑτοῦ εἶδος εἰς πολλὰς μορφάς, τοτὲ δὲ ἡμᾶς ἀπατῶντα καὶ ποιοῦντα περὶ αὑτοῦ τοιαῦτα δοκεῖν, ἢ ἁπλοῦν τε εἶναι καὶ πάντων ἥκιστα τῆς ἑαυτοῦ ἰδέας ἐκβαίνειν;
οὐκ ἔχω, ἔφη, νῦν γε οὕτως εἰπεῖν.
τί δὲ τόδε; οὐκ ἀνάγκη, εἴπερ τι ἐξίσταιτο τῆς αὑτοῦ [380e] ἰδέας, ἢ αὐτὸ ὑφʼ ἑαυτοῦ μεθίστασθαι ἢ ὑπʼ ἄλλου;
ἀνάγκη.
οὐκοῦν ὑπὸ μὲν ἄλλου τὰ ἄριστα ἔχοντα ἥκιστα ἀλλοιοῦταί τε καὶ κινεῖται;
οἷον σῶμα ὑπὸ σιτίων τε καὶ ποτῶν καὶ πόνων, καὶ πᾶν φυτὸν ὑπὸ εἱλήσεών τε καὶ ἀνέμων καὶ τῶν τοιούτων παθημάτων, οὐ τὸ ὑγιέστατον καὶ ἰσχυρότατον

[381a]
ἥκιστα ἀλλοιοῦται;
πῶς δʼ οὔ;
ψυχὴν δὲ οὐ τὴν ἀνδρειοτάτην καὶ φρονιμωτάτην ἥκιστʼ ἄν τι ἔξωθεν πάθος ταράξειέν τε καὶ ἀλλοιώσειεν;
ναί.
καὶ μήν που καὶ τά γε σύνθετα πάντα σκεύη τε καὶ οἰκοδομήματα καὶ ἀμφιέσματα κατὰ τὸν αὐτὸν λόγον τὰ εὖ εἰργασμένα καὶ εὖ ἔχοντα ὑπὸ χρόνου τε καὶ τῶν ἄλλων παθημάτων ἥκιστα ἀλλοιοῦται.
ἔστι δὴ ταῦτα. [381b]
πᾶν δὴ τὸ καλῶς ἔχον ἢ φύσει ἢ τέχνῃ ἢ ἀμφοτέροις ἐλαχίστην μεταβολὴν ὑπʼ ἄλλου ἐνδέχεται.
ἔοικεν.
ἀλλὰ μὴν ὁ θεός γε καὶ τὰ τοῦ θεοῦ πάντῃ ἄριστα ἔχει.
πῶς δʼ οὔ;
ταύτῃ μὲν δὴ ἥκιστα ἂν πολλὰς μορφὰς ἴσχοι ὁ θεός.
ἥκιστα δῆτα.
ἀλλʼ ἆρα αὐτὸς αὑτὸν μεταβάλλοι ἂν καὶ ἀλλοιοῖ;
δῆλον, ἔφη, ὅτι, εἴπερ ἀλλοιοῦται.
πότερον οὖν ἐπὶ τὸ βέλτιόν τε καὶ κάλλιον μεταβάλλει ἑαυτὸν ἢ ἐπὶ τὸ χεῖρον καὶ τὸ αἴσχιον ἑαυτοῦ; [381c]
ἀνάγκη, ἔφη, ἐπὶ τὸ χεῖρον, εἴπερ ἀλλοιοῦται· οὐ γάρ που ἐνδεᾶ γε φήσομεν τὸν θεὸν κάλλους ἢ ἀρετῆς εἶναι.
ὀρθότατα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, λέγεις. καὶ οὕτως ἔχοντος δοκεῖ ἄν τίς σοι, ὦ Ἀδείμαντε, ἑκὼν αὑτὸν χείρω ποιεῖν ὁπῃοῦν ἢ θεῶν ἢ ἀνθρώπων;
ἀδύνατον, ἔφη.
ἀδύνατον ἄρα, ἔφην, καὶ θεῷ ἐθέλειν αὑτὸν ἀλλοιοῦν, ἀλλʼ ὡς ἔοικε, κάλλιστος καὶ ἄριστος ὢν εἰς τὸ δυνατὸν ἕκαστος αὐτῶν μένει ἀεὶ ἁπλῶς ἐν τῇ αὑτοῦ μορφῇ.
ἅπασα, ἔφη, ἀνάγκη ἔμοιγε δοκεῖ. [381d]
μηδεὶς ἄρα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὦ ἄριστε, λεγέτω ἡμῖν τῶν ποιητῶν, ὡς—
θεοὶ ξείνοισιν ἐοικότες ἀλλοδαποῖσι,
παντοῖοι τελέθοντες, ἐπιστρωφῶσι πόληας·
μηδὲ Πρωτέως καὶ Θέτιδος καταψευδέσθω μηδείς, μηδʼ ἐν τραγῳδίαις μηδʼ ἐν τοῖς ἄλλοις ποιήμασιν εἰσαγέτω Ἥραν ἠλλοιωμένην, ὡς ἱέρειαν ἀγείρουσαν—
Ἰνάχου Ἀργείου ποταμοῦ παισὶν βιοδώροις·
[381e] καὶ ἄλλα τοιαῦτα πολλὰ μὴ ἡμῖν ψευδέσθων. μηδʼ αὖ ὑπὸ τούτων ἀναπειθόμεναι αἱ μητέρες τὰ παιδία ἐκδειματούντων, λέγουσαι τοὺς μύθους κακῶς, ὡς ἄρα θεοί τινες περιέρχονται νύκτωρ πολλοῖς ξένοις καὶ παντοδαποῖς ἰνδαλλόμενοι, ἵνα μὴ ἅμα μὲν εἰς θεοὺς βλασφημῶσιν, ἅμα δὲ τοὺς παῖδας ἀπεργάζωνται δειλοτέρους.
μὴ γάρ, ἔφη.
ἀλλʼ ἆρα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, αὐτοὶ μὲν οἱ θεοί εἰσιν οἷοι μὴ μεταβάλλειν, ἡμῖν δὲ ποιοῦσιν δοκεῖν σφᾶς παντοδαποὺς φαίνεσθαι, ἐξαπατῶντες καὶ γοητεύοντες;
ἴσως, ἔφη.

### Book II, 382–383

[382a]
τί δέ; ἦν δʼ ἐγώ· ψεύδεσθαι θεὸς ἐθέλοι ἂν ἢ λόγῳ ἢ ἔργῳ φάντασμα προτείνων;
οὐκ οἶδα, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
οὐκ οἶσθα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὅτι τό γε ὡς ἀληθῶς ψεῦδος, εἰ οἷόν τε τοῦτο εἰπεῖν, πάντες θεοί τε καὶ ἄνθρωποι μισοῦσιν;
πῶς, ἔφη, λέγεις;
οὕτως, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὅτι τῷ κυριωτάτῳ που ἑαυτῶν ψεύδεσθαι καὶ περὶ τὰ κυριώτατα οὐδεὶς ἑκὼν ἐθέλει, ἀλλὰ πάντων μάλιστα φοβεῖται ἐκεῖ αὐτὸ κεκτῆσθαι.
οὐδὲ νῦν πω, ἦ δʼ ὅς, μανθάνω. [382b]
οἴει γάρ τί με, ἔφην, σεμνὸν λέγειν· ἐγὼ δὲ λέγω ὅτι τῇ ψυχῇ περὶ τὰ ὄντα ψεύδεσθαί τε καὶ ἐψεῦσθαι καὶ ἀμαθῆ εἶναι καὶ ἐνταῦθα ἔχειν τε καὶ κεκτῆσθαι τὸ ψεῦδος πάντες ἥκιστα ἂν δέξαιντο, καὶ μισοῦσι μάλιστα αὐτὸ ἐν τῷ τοιούτῳ.
πολύ γε, ἔφη.
ἀλλὰ μὴν ὀρθότατά γʼ ἄν, ὃ νυνδὴ ἔλεγον, τοῦτο ὡς ἀληθῶς ψεῦδος καλοῖτο, ἡ ἐν τῇ ψυχῇ ἄγνοια ἡ τοῦ ἐψευσμένου· ἐπεὶ τό γε ἐν τοῖς λόγοις μίμημά τι τοῦ ἐν τῇ ψυχῇ ἐστὶν παθήματος καὶ ὕστερον γεγονὸς εἴδωλον, οὐ πάνυ [382c] ἄκρατον ψεῦδος. ἢ οὐχ οὕτω;
πάνυ μὲν οὖν.
τὸ μὲν δὴ τῷ ὄντι ψεῦδος οὐ μόνον ὑπὸ θεῶν ἀλλὰ καὶ ὑπʼ ἀνθρώπων μισεῖται.
δοκεῖ μοι.
τί δὲ δὴ τὸ ἐν τοῖς λόγοις [ψεῦδος]; πότε καὶ τῷ χρήσιμον, ὥστε μὴ ἄξιον εἶναι μίσους; ἆρʼ οὐ πρός τε τοὺς πολεμίους καὶ τῶν καλουμένων φίλων, ὅταν διὰ μανίαν ἤ τινα ἄνοιαν κακόν τι ἐπιχειρῶσιν πράττειν, τότε ἀποτροπῆς ἕνεκα ὡς φάρμακον χρήσιμον γίγνεται; καὶ ἐν αἷς νυνδὴ [382d] ἐλέγομεν ταῖς μυθολογίαις, διὰ τὸ μὴ εἰδέναι ὅπῃ τἀληθὲς ἔχει περὶ τῶν παλαιῶν, ἀφομοιοῦντες τῷ ἀληθεῖ τὸ ψεῦδος ὅτι μάλιστα, οὕτω χρήσιμον ποιοῦμεν;
καὶ μάλα, ἦ δʼ ὅς, οὕτως ἔχει.
κατὰ τί δὴ οὖν τούτων τῷ θεῷ τὸ ψεῦδος χρήσιμον; πότερον διὰ τὸ μὴ εἰδέναι τὰ παλαιὰ ἀφομοιῶν ἂν ψεύδοιτο;
γελοῖον μεντἂν εἴη, ἔφη.
ποιητὴς μὲν ἄρα ψευδὴς ἐν θεῷ οὐκ ἔνι.
οὔ μοι δοκεῖ.
ἀλλὰ δεδιὼς τοὺς ἐχθροὺς ψεύδοιτο; [382e]
πολλοῦ γε δεῖ.
ἀλλὰ διʼ οἰκείων ἄνοιαν ἢ μανίαν;
ἀλλʼ οὐδείς, ἔφη, τῶν ἀνοήτων καὶ μαινομένων θεοφιλής.
οὐκ ἄρα ἔστιν οὗ ἕνεκα ἂν θεὸς ψεύδοιτο.
οὐκ ἔστιν.
πάντῃ ἄρα ἀψευδὲς τὸ δαιμόνιόν τε καὶ τὸ θεῖον.
παντάπασι μὲν οὖν, ἔφη.
κομιδῇ ἄρα ὁ θεὸς ἁπλοῦν καὶ ἀληθὲς ἔν τε ἔργῳ καὶ λόγῳ, καὶ οὔτε αὐτὸς μεθίσταται οὔτε ἄλλους ἐξαπατᾷ, οὔτε κατὰ φαντασίας οὔτε κατὰ λόγους οὔτε κατὰ σημείων πομπάς, οὔθʼ ὕπαρ οὐδʼ ὄναρ.

[383a]
οὕτως, ἔφη, ἔμοιγε καὶ αὐτῷ φαίνεται σοῦ λέγοντος.
συγχωρεῖς ἄρα, ἔφην, τοῦτον δεύτερον τύπον εἶναι ἐν ᾧ δεῖ περὶ θεῶν καὶ λέγειν καὶ ποιεῖν, ὡς μήτε αὐτοὺς γόητας ὄντας τῷ μεταβάλλειν ἑαυτοὺς μήτε ἡμᾶς ψεύδεσι παράγειν ἐν λόγῳ ἢ ἐν ἔργῳ;
συγχωρῶ.
πολλὰ ἄρα Ὁμήρου ἐπαινοῦντες, ἀλλὰ τοῦτο οὐκ ἐπαινεσόμεθα, τὴν τοῦ ἐνυπνίου πομπὴν ὑπὸ Διὸς τῷ Ἀγαμέμνονι· οὐδὲ Αἰσχύλου, ὅταν φῇ ἡ Θέτις τὸν Ἀπόλλω ἐν τοῖς αὑτῆς [383b] γάμοις ᾄδοντα ἐνδατεῖσθαι τὰς ἑὰς εὐπαιδίας —
νόσων τʼ ἀπείρους καὶ μακραίωνας βίους,
ξύμπαντά τʼ εἰπὼν θεοφιλεῖς ἐμὰς τύχας
παιᾶνʼ ἐπηυφήμησεν, εὐθυμῶν ἐμέ.
κἀγὼ τὸ Φοίβου θεῖον ἀψευδὲς στόμα
ἤλπιζον εἶναι, μαντικῇ βρύον τέχνῃ·
ὁ δʼ, αὐτὸς ὑμνῶν, αὐτὸς ἐν θοίνῃ παρών,
αὐτὸς τάδʼ εἰπών, αὐτός ἐστιν ὁ κτανὼν
τὸν παῖδα τὸν ἐμόν—
[383c] ὅταν τις τοιαῦτα λέγῃ περὶ θεῶν, χαλεπανοῦμέν τε καὶ χορὸν οὐ δώσομεν, οὐδὲ τοὺς διδασκάλους ἐάσομεν ἐπὶ παιδείᾳ χρῆσθαι τῶν νέων, εἰ μέλλουσιν ἡμῖν οἱ φύλακες θεοσεβεῖς τε καὶ θεῖοι γίγνεσθαι, καθʼ ὅσον ἀνθρώπῳ ἐπὶ πλεῖστον οἷόν τε.
παντάπασιν, ἔφη, ἔγωγε τοὺς τύπους τούτους συγχωρῶ, καὶ ὡς νόμοις ἂν χρῴμην.

### Book III, 386–394

[386a]
τὰ μὲν δὴ περὶ θεούς, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τοιαῦτʼ ἄττα, ὡς ἔοικεν, ἀκουστέον τε καὶ οὐκ ἀκουστέον εὐθὺς ἐκ παίδων τοῖς θεούς τε τιμήσουσιν καὶ γονέας τήν τε ἀλλήλων φιλίαν μὴ περὶ σμικροῦ ποιησομένοις.
καὶ οἶμαί γʼ, ἔφη, ὀρθῶς ἡμῖν φαίνεσθαι.
τί δὲ δὴ εἰ μέλλουσιν εἶναι ἀνδρεῖοι; ἆρα οὐ ταῦτά τε λεκτέον καὶ οἷα αὐτοὺς ποιῆσαι ἥκιστα τὸν θάνατον δεδιέναι; [386b] ἢ ἡγῇ τινά ποτʼ ἂν γενέσθαι ἀνδρεῖον ἔχοντα ἐν αὑτῷ τοῦτο τὸ δεῖμα;
μὰ Δία, ἦ δʼ ὅς, οὐκ ἔγωγε.
τί δέ; τἀν Ἅιδου ἡγούμενον εἶναί τε καὶ δεινὰ εἶναι οἴει τινὰ θανάτου ἀδεῆ ἔσεσθαι καὶ ἐν ταῖς μάχαις αἱρήσεσθαι πρὸ ἥττης τε καὶ δουλείας θάνατον;
οὐδαμῶς.
δεῖ δή, ὡς ἔοικεν, ἡμᾶς ἐπιστατεῖν καὶ περὶ τούτων τῶν μύθων τοῖς ἐπιχειροῦσιν λέγειν, καὶ δεῖσθαι μὴ λοιδορεῖν ἁπλῶς οὕτως τὰ ἐν Ἅιδου ἀλλὰ μᾶλλον ἐπαινεῖν, ὡς οὔτε ἀληθῆ [386c] ἂν λέγοντας οὔτε ὠφέλιμα τοῖς μέλλουσιν μαχίμοις ἔσεσθαι.
δεῖ μέντοι, ἔφη.
ἐξαλείψομεν ἄρα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἀπὸ τοῦδε τοῦ ἔπους ἀρξάμενοι πάντα τὰ τοιαῦτα—
βουλοίμην κʼ ἐπάρουρος ἐὼν θητευέμεν ἄλλῳ
ἀνδρὶ παρʼ ἀκλήρῳ, ᾧ μὴ βίοτος πολὺς εἴη
ἢ πᾶσιν νεκύεσσι καταφθιμένοισιν ἀνάσσειν
καὶ τὸ— [386d]
οἰκία δὲ θνητοῖσι καὶ ἀθανάτοισι φανείη
σμερδαλέʼ, εὐρώεντα, τά τε στυγέουσι θεοί περ
καὶ—
ὢ πόποι, ἦ ῥά τις ἔστι καὶ εἰν Ἀΐδαο δόμοισιν
ψυχὴ καὶ εἴδωλον, ἀτὰρ φρένες οὐκ ἔνι πάμπαν
καὶ τὸ—
οἴῳ πεπνῦσθαι, ταὶ δὲ σκιαὶ ἀΐσσουσι
καὶ—
ψυχὴ δʼ ἐκ ῥεθέων πταμένη Ἄϊδόσδε βεβήκει,
ὃν πότμον γοόωσα, λιποῦσʼ ἀνδροτῆτα καὶ ἥβην

[387a] καὶ τὸ—
ψυχὴ δὲ κατὰ χθονός, ἠΰτε καπνός,
ᾤχετο τετριγυῖα
καὶ—
ὡς δʼ ὅτε νυκτερίδες μυχῷ ἄντρου θεσπεσίοιο
τρίζουσαι ποτέονται, ἐπεί κέ τις ἀποπέσῃσιν
ὁρμαθοῦ ἐκ πέτρης, ἀνά τʼ ἀλλήλῃσιν ἔχονται,
ὣς αἳ τετριγυῖαι ἅμʼ ᾔεσαν.
[387b] ταῦτα καὶ τὰ τοιαῦτα πάντα παραιτησόμεθα Ὅμηρόν τε καὶ τοὺς ἄλλους ποιητὰς μὴ χαλεπαίνειν ἂν διαγράφωμεν, οὐχ ὡς οὐ ποιητικὰ καὶ ἡδέα τοῖς πολλοῖς ἀκούειν, ἀλλʼ ὅσῳ ποιητικώτερα, τοσούτῳ ἧττον ἀκουστέον παισὶ καὶ ἀνδράσιν οὓς δεῖ ἐλευθέρους εἶναι, δουλείαν θανάτου μᾶλλον πεφοβημένους.
παντάπασι μὲν οὖν.
οὐκοῦν ἔτι καὶ τὰ περὶ ταῦτα ὀνόματα πάντα τὰ δεινά τε καὶ φοβερὰ ἀποβλητέα, Κωκυτούς τε καὶ Στύγας καὶ [387c] νέρους καὶ ἀλίβαντας, καὶ ἄλλα ὅσα τούτου τοῦ τύπου ὀνομαζόμενα φρίττειν δὴ ποιεῖ ὡς οἴεται πάντας τοὺς ἀκούοντας. καὶ ἴσως εὖ ἔχει πρὸς ἄλλο τι· ἡμεῖς δὲ ὑπὲρ τῶν φυλάκων φοβούμεθα μὴ ἐκ τῆς τοιαύτης φρίκης θερμότεροι καὶ μαλακώτεροι τοῦ δέοντος γένωνται ἡμῖν.
καὶ ὀρθῶς γʼ, ἔφη, φοβούμεθα.
ἀφαιρετέα ἄρα;
ναί.
τὸν δὲ ἐναντίον τύπον τούτοις λεκτέον τε καὶ ποιητέον;
δῆλα δή. [387d]
καὶ τοὺς ὀδυρμοὺς ἄρα ἐξαιρήσομεν καὶ τοὺς οἴκτους τοὺς τῶν ἐλλογίμων ἀνδρῶν;
ἀνάγκη, ἔφη, εἴπερ καὶ τὰ πρότερα.
σκόπει δή, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, εἰ ὀρθῶς ἐξαιρήσομεν ἢ οὔ. φαμὲν δὲ δὴ ὅτι ὁ ἐπιεικὴς ἀνὴρ τῷ ἐπιεικεῖ, οὗπερ καὶ ἑταῖρός ἐστιν, τὸ τεθνάναι οὐ δεινὸν ἡγήσεται.
φαμὲν γάρ.
οὐκ ἄρα ὑπέρ γʼ ἐκείνου ὡς δεινόν τι πεπονθότος ὀδύροιτʼ ἄν.
οὐ δῆτα.
ἀλλὰ μὴν καὶ τόδε λέγομεν, ὡς ὁ τοιοῦτος μάλιστα αὐτὸς αὑτῷ αὐτάρκης πρὸς τὸ εὖ ζῆν καὶ διαφερόντως τῶν [387e] ἄλλων ἥκιστα ἑτέρου προσδεῖται.
ἀληθῆ, ἔφη.
ἥκιστα ἄρʼ αὐτῷ δεινὸν στερηθῆναι ὑέος ἢ ἀδελφοῦ ἢ χρημάτων ἢ ἄλλου του τῶν τοιούτων.
ἥκιστα μέντοι.
ἥκιστʼ ἄρα καὶ ὀδύρεσθαι, φέρειν δὲ ὡς πρᾳότατα, ὅταν τις αὐτὸν τοιαύτη συμφορὰ καταλάβῃ.
πολύ γε.
ὀρθῶς ἄρʼ ἂν ἐξαιροῖμεν τοὺς θρήνους τῶν ὀνομαστῶν ἀνδρῶν, γυναιξὶ δὲ ἀποδιδοῖμεν, καὶ οὐδὲ ταύταις σπουδαίαις,

[388a]
καὶ ὅσοι κακοὶ τῶν ἀνδρῶν, ἵνα ἡμῖν δυσχεραίνωσιν ὅμοια τούτοις ποιεῖν οὓς δή φαμεν ἐπὶ φυλακῇ τῆς χώρας τρέφειν.
ὀρθῶς, ἔφη.
πάλιν δὴ Ὁμήρου τε δεησόμεθα καὶ τῶν ἄλλων ποιητῶν μὴ ποιεῖν Ἀχιλλέα θεᾶς παῖδα—
ἄλλοτʼ ἐπὶ πλευρᾶς κατακείμενον, ἄλλοτε δʼ αὖτε
ὕπτιον, ἄλλοτε δὲ πρηνῆ,
τοτὲ δʼ ὀρθὸν ἀναστάντα πλωΐζοντʼ ἀλύοντʼ ἐπὶ [388b] θῖνʼ ἁλὸς ἀτρυγέτοιο, μηδὲ ἀμφοτέραισιν χερσὶν ἑλόντα κόνιν αἰθαλόεσσαν χευάμενον κὰκ κεφαλῆς, μηδὲ ἄλλα κλαίοντά τε καὶ ὀδυρόμενον ὅσα καὶ οἷα ἐκεῖνος ἐποίησε, μηδὲ Πρίαμον ἐγγὺς θεῶν γεγονότα λιτανεύοντά τε καὶ—
κυλινδόμενον κατὰ κόπρον,
ἐξονομακλήδην ὀνομάζοντʼ ἄνδρα ἕκαστον.
πολὺ δʼ ἔτι τούτων μᾶλλον δεησόμεθα μήτοι θεούς γε ποιεῖν ὀδυρομένους καὶ λέγοντας— [388c]
ὤμοι ἐγὼ δειλή, ὤμοι δυσαριστοτόκεια·
εἰ δʼ οὖν θεούς, μήτοι τόν γε μέγιστον τῶν θεῶν τολμῆσαι οὕτως ἀνομοίως μιμήσασθαι, ὥστε
ὢ πόποι, φάναι, ἦ φίλον ἄνδρα διωκόμενον περὶ ἄστυ
ὀφθαλμοῖσιν ὁρῶμαι, ἐμὸν δʼ ὀλοφύρεται ἦτορ·
καὶ—
αἲ αἲ ἐγών, ὅ τέ μοι Σαρπηδόνα φίλτατον ἀνδρῶν
[388d]
μοῖρʼ ὑπὸ Πατρόκλοιο Μενοιτιάδαο δαμῆναι.
εἰ γάρ, ὦ φίλε Ἀδείμαντε, τὰ τοιαῦτα ἡμῖν οἱ νέοι σπουδῇ ἀκούοιεν καὶ μὴ καταγελῷεν ὡς ἀναξίως λεγομένων, σχολῇ ἂν ἑαυτόν γέ τις ἄνθρωπον ὄντα ἀνάξιον ἡγήσαιτο τούτων καὶ ἐπιπλήξειεν, εἰ καὶ ἐπίοι αὐτῷ τι τοιοῦτον ἢ λέγειν ἢ ποιεῖν, ἀλλʼ οὐδὲν αἰσχυνόμενος οὐδὲ καρτερῶν πολλοὺς ἐπὶ σμικροῖσιν παθήμασιν θρήνους ἂν ᾄδοι καὶ ὀδυρμούς. [388e]
ἀληθέστατα, ἔφη, λέγεις.
δεῖ δέ γε οὔχ, ὡς ἄρτι ἡμῖν ὁ λόγος ἐσήμαινεν· ᾧ πειστέον, ἕως ἄν τις ἡμᾶς ἄλλῳ καλλίονι πείσῃ.
οὐ γὰρ οὖν δεῖ.
ἀλλὰ μὴν οὐδὲ φιλογέλωτάς γε δεῖ εἶναι. σχεδὸν γὰρ ὅταν τις ἐφιῇ ἰσχυρῷ γέλωτι, ἰσχυρὰν καὶ μεταβολὴν ζητεῖ τὸ τοιοῦτον.
δοκεῖ μοι, ἔφη.
οὔτε ἄρα ἀνθρώπους ἀξίους λόγου κρατουμένους ὑπὸ

[389a]
γέλωτος ἄν τις ποιῇ, ἀποδεκτέον, πολὺ δὲ ἧττον, ἐὰν θεούς.
πολὺ μέντοι, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
οὐκοῦν Ὁμήρου οὐδὲ τὰ τοιαῦτα ἀποδεξόμεθα περὶ θεῶν—
ἄσβεστος δʼ ἄρʼ ἐνῶρτο γέλως μακάρεσσι θεοῖσιν,
ὡς ἴδον Ἥφαιστον διὰ δώματα ποιπνύοντα·
οὐκ ἀποδεκτέον κατὰ τὸν σὸν λόγον.
εἰ σύ, ἔφη, βούλει ἐμὸν τιθέναι· οὐ γὰρ οὖν δὴ [389b] ἀποδεκτέον.
ἀλλὰ μὴν καὶ ἀλήθειάν γε περὶ πολλοῦ ποιητέον. εἰ γὰρ ὀρθῶς ἐλέγομεν ἄρτι, καὶ τῷ ὄντι θεοῖσι μὲν ἄχρηστον ψεῦδος, ἀνθρώποις δὲ χρήσιμον ὡς ἐν φαρμάκου εἴδει, δῆλον ὅτι τό γε τοιοῦτον ἰατροῖς δοτέον, ἰδιώταις δὲ οὐχ ἁπτέον.
δῆλον, ἔφη.
τοῖς ἄρχουσιν δὴ τῆς πόλεως, εἴπερ τισὶν ἄλλοις, προσήκει ψεύδεσθαι ἢ πολεμίων ἢ πολιτῶν ἕνεκα ἐπʼ ὠφελίᾳ τῆς πόλεως, τοῖς δὲ ἄλλοις πᾶσιν οὐχ ἁπτέον τοῦ τοιούτου· [389c] ἀλλὰ πρός γε δὴ τοὺς τοιούτους ἄρχοντας ἰδιώτῃ ψεύσασθαι ταὐτὸν καὶ μεῖζον ἁμάρτημα φήσομεν ἢ κάμνοντι πρὸς ἰατρὸν ἢ ἀσκοῦντι πρὸς παιδοτρίβην περὶ τῶν τοῦ αὑτοῦ σώματος παθημάτων μὴ τἀληθῆ λέγειν, ἢ πρὸς κυβερνήτην περὶ τῆς νεώς τε καὶ τῶν ναυτῶν μὴ τὰ ὄντα λέγοντι ὅπως ἢ αὐτὸς ἤ τις τῶν συνναυτῶν πράξεως ἔχει.
ἀληθέστατα, ἔφη. [389d]
ἂν ἄρʼ ἄλλον τινὰ λαμβάνῃ ψευδόμενον ἐν τῇ πόλει—
τῶν οἳ δημιοεργοὶ ἔασι,
μάντιν ἢ ἰητῆρα κακῶν ἢ τέκτονα δούρων,
κολάσει ὡς ἐπιτήδευμα εἰσάγοντα πόλεως ὥσπερ νεὼς ἀνατρεπτικόν τε καὶ ὀλέθριον.
ἐάνπερ, ἦ δʼ ὅς, ἐπί γε λόγῳ ἔργα τελῆται.
τί δέ; σωφροσύνης ἆρα οὐ δεήσει ἡμῖν τοῖς νεανίαις;
πῶς δʼ οὔ;
σωφροσύνης δὲ ὡς πλήθει οὐ τὰ τοιάδε μέγιστα, ἀρχόντων [389e] μὲν ὑπηκόους εἶναι, αὐτοὺς δὲ ἄρχοντας τῶν περὶ πότους καὶ ἀφροδίσια καὶ περὶ ἐδωδὰς ἡδονῶν;
ἔμοιγε δοκεῖ.
τὰ δὴ τοιάδε φήσομεν οἶμαι καλῶς λέγεσθαι, οἷα καὶ Ὁμήρῳ Διομήδης λέγει—
τέττα, σιωπῇ ἧσο, ἐμῷ δʼ ἐπιπείθεο μύθῳ,
καὶ τὰ τούτων ἐχόμενα, τὰ—
ἴσαν μένεα πνείοντες Ἀχαιοί,
σιγῇ δειδιότες σημάντορας,
καὶ ὅσα ἄλλα τοιαῦτα.
καλῶς.
τί δέ; τὰ τοιάδε—
οἰνοβαρές, κυνὸς ὄμματʼ ἔχων, κραδίην δʼ ἐλάφοιο

[390a] καὶ τὰ τούτων ἑξῆς ἆρα καλῶς, καὶ ὅσα ἄλλα τις ἐν λόγῳ ἢ ἐν ποιήσει εἴρηκε νεανιεύματα ἰδιωτῶν εἰς ἄρχοντας;
οὐ καλῶς.
οὐ γὰρ οἶμαι εἴς γε σωφροσύνην νέοις ἐπιτήδεια ἀκούειν· εἰ δέ τινα ἄλλην ἡδονὴν παρέχεται, θαυμαστὸν οὐδέν. ἢ πῶς σοι φαίνεται;
οὕτως, ἔφη.
τί δέ; ποιεῖν ἄνδρα τὸν σοφώτατον λέγοντα ὡς δοκεῖ αὐτῷ κάλλιστον εἶναι πάντων, ὅταν—
παρὰ πλεῖαι ὦσι τράπεζαι
[390b]
σίτου καὶ κρειῶν, μέθυ δʼ ἐκ κρητῆρος ἀφύσσων
οἰνοχόος φορέῃσι καὶ ἐγχείῃ δεπάεσσι,
δοκεῖ σοι ἐπιτήδειον εἶναι πρὸς ἐγκράτειαν ἑαυτοῦ ἀκούειν νέῳ; ἢ τὸ—
λιμῷ δʼ οἴκτιστον θανέειν καὶ πότμον ἐπισπεῖν;
ἢ Δία, καθευδόντων τῶν ἄλλων θεῶν τε καὶ ἀνθρώπων ὡς, μόνος ἐγρηγορὼς ἃ ἐβουλεύσατο, τούτων πάντων ῥᾳδίως [390c] ἐπιλανθανόμενον διὰ τὴν τῶν ἀφροδισίων ἐπιθυμίαν, καὶ οὕτως ἐκπλαγέντα ἰδόντα τὴν Ἥραν, ὥστε μηδʼ εἰς τὸ δωμάτιον ἐθέλειν ἐλθεῖν, ἀλλʼ αὐτοῦ βουλόμενον χαμαὶ συγγίγνεσθαι, λέγοντα ὡς οὕτως ὑπὸ ἐπιθυμίας ἔχεται, ὡς οὐδʼ ὅτε τὸ πρῶτον ἐφοίτων πρὸς ἀλλήλους φίλους λήθοντε τοκῆας· οὐδὲ Ἄρεώς τε καὶ ἀφροδίτης ὑπὸ Ἡφαίστου δεσμὸν διʼ ἕτερα τοιαῦτα.
οὐ μὰ τὸν Δία, ἦ δʼ ὅς, οὔ μοι φαίνεται ἐπιτήδειον. [390d]
ἀλλʼ εἴ πού τινες, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καρτερίαι πρὸς ἅπαντα καὶ λέγονται καὶ πράττονται ὑπὸ ἐλλογίμων ἀνδρῶν, θεατέον τε καὶ ἀκουστέον, οἷον καὶ τὸ—
στῆθος δὲ πλήξας κραδίην ἠνίπαπε μύθῳ·
τέτλαθι δή, κραδίη· καὶ κύντερον ἄλλο ποτʼ ἔτλης.
παντάπασι μὲν οὖν, ἔφη.
οὐ μὲν δὴ δωροδόκους γε ἐατέον εἶναι τοὺς ἄνδρας οὐδὲ φιλοχρημάτους. [390e]
οὐδαμῶς.
οὐδʼ ᾀστέον αὐτοῖς ὅτι—
δῶρα θεοὺς πείθει, δῶρʼ αἰδοίους βασιλῆας·
οὐδὲ τὸν τοῦ Ἀχιλλέως παιδαγωγὸν Φοίνικα ἐπαινετέον ὡς μετρίως ἔλεγε συμβουλεύων αὐτῷ δῶρα μὲν λαβόντι ἐπαμύνειν τοῖς Ἀχαιοῖς, ἄνευ δὲ δώρων μὴ ἀπαλλάττεσθαι τῆς μήνιος.
οὐδʼ αὐτὸν τὸν Ἀχιλλέα ἀξιώσομεν οὐδʼ ὁμολογήσομεν οὕτω φιλοχρήματον εἶναι, ὥστε παρὰ τοῦ Ἀγαμέμνονος δῶρα λαβεῖν, καὶ τιμὴν αὖ λαβόντα νεκροῦ

[391a]
ἀπολύειν, ἄλλως δὲ μὴ ʼθέλειν.
οὔκουν δίκαιόν γε, ἔφη, ἐπαινεῖν τὰ τοιαῦτα.
ὀκνῶ δέ γε, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, διʼ Ὅμηρον λέγειν ὅτι οὐδʼ ὅσιον ταῦτά γε κατὰ Ἀχιλλέως φάναι καὶ ἄλλων λεγόντων πείθεσθαι, καὶ αὖ ὡς πρὸς τὸν Ἀπόλλω εἶπεν—
ἔβλαψάς μʼ ἑκάεργε, θεῶν ὀλοώτατε πάντων·
ἦ σʼ ἂν τισαίμην, εἴ μοι δύναμίς γε παρείη·
[391b] καὶ ὡς πρὸς τὸν ποταμόν, θεὸν ὄντα, ἀπειθῶς εἶχεν καὶ μάχεσθαι ἕτοιμος ἦν, καὶ αὖ τὰς τοῦ ἑτέρου ποταμοῦ Σπερχειοῦ ἱερὰς τρίχας Πατρόκλῳ ἥρωϊ, ἔφη, κόμην ὀπάσαιμι φέρεσθαι, νεκρῷ ὄντι, καὶ ὡς ἔδρασεν τοῦτο, οὐ πειστέον· τάς τε αὖ Ἕκτορος ἕλξεις περὶ τὸ σῆμα τὸ Πατρόκλου καὶ τὰς τῶν ζωγρηθέντων σφαγὰς εἰς τὴν πυράν, σύμπαντα ταῦτα οὐ φήσομεν ἀληθῆ εἰρῆσθαι, οὐδʼ ἐάσομεν [391c] πείθεσθαι τοὺς ἡμετέρους ὡς Ἀχιλλεύς, θεᾶς ὢν παῖς καὶ Πηλέως, σωφρονεστάτου τε καὶ τρίτου ἀπὸ Διός, καὶ ὑπὸ τῷ σοφωτάτῳ Χείρωνι τεθραμμένος, τοσαύτης ἦν ταραχῆς πλέως, ὥστʼ ἔχειν ἐν αὑτῷ νοσήματε δύο ἐναντίω ἀλλήλοιν, ἀνελευθερίαν μετὰ φιλοχρηματίας καὶ αὖ ὑπερηφανίαν θεῶν τε καὶ ἀνθρώπων.
ὀρθῶς, ἔφη, λέγεις.
μὴ τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, μηδὲ τάδε πειθώμεθα μηδʼ ἐῶμεν λέγειν, ὡς Θησεὺς Ποσειδῶνος ὑὸς Πειρίθους τε Διὸς [391d] ὥρμησαν οὕτως ἐπὶ δεινὰς ἁρπαγάς, μηδέ τινʼ ἄλλον θεοῦ παῖδά τε καὶ ἥρω τολμῆσαι ἂν δεινὰ καὶ ἀσεβῆ ἐργάσασθαι, οἷα νῦν καταψεύδονται αὐτῶν· ἀλλὰ προσαναγκάζωμεν τοὺς ποιητὰς ἢ μὴ τούτων αὐτὰ ἔργα φάναι ἢ τούτους μὴ εἶναι θεῶν παῖδας, ἀμφότερα δὲ μὴ λέγειν, μηδὲ ἡμῖν ἐπιχειρεῖν πείθειν τοὺς νέους ὡς οἱ θεοὶ κακὰ γεννῶσιν, καὶ ἥρωες ἀνθρώπων οὐδὲν βελτίους· ὅπερ γὰρ ἐν τοῖς πρόσθεν ἐλέγομεν, [391e] οὔθʼ ὅσια ταῦτα οὔτε ἀληθῆ· ἐπεδείξαμεν γάρ που ὅτι ἐκ θεῶν κακὰ γίγνεσθαι ἀδύνατον.
πῶς γὰρ οὔ;
καὶ μὴν τοῖς γε ἀκούουσιν βλαβερά· πᾶς γὰρ ἑαυτῷ συγγνώμην ἕξει κακῷ ὄντι, πεισθεὶς ὡς ἄρα τοιαῦτα πράττουσίν τε καὶ ἔπραττον καὶ—
οἱ θεῶν ἀγχίσποροι,
οἱ Ζηνὸς ἐγγύς, ὧν κατʼ Ἰδαῖον πάγον
Διὸς πατρῴου βωμός ἐστʼ ἐν αἰθέρι,
καὶ—
οὔ πώ σφιν ἐξίτηλον αἷμα δαιμόνων.
ὧν ἕνεκα παυστέον τοὺς τοιούτους μύθους, μὴ ἡμῖν πολλὴν

[392a] εὐχέρειαν ἐντίκτωσι τοῖς νέοις πονηρίας.
κομιδῇ μὲν οὖν, ἔφη.
τί οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἡμῖν ἔτι λοιπὸν εἶδος λόγων πέρι ὁριζομένοις οἵους τε λεκτέον καὶ μή; περὶ γὰρ θεῶν ὡς δεῖ λέγεσθαι εἴρηται, καὶ περὶ δαιμόνων τε καὶ ἡρώων καὶ τῶν ἐν Ἅιδου.
πάνυ μὲν οὖν.
οὐκοῦν καὶ περὶ ἀνθρώπων τὸ λοιπὸν εἴη ἄν;
δῆλα δή.
ἀδύνατον δή, ὦ φίλε, ἡμῖν τοῦτό γε ἐν τῷ παρόντι τάξαι.
πῶς;
ὅτι οἶμαι ἡμᾶς ἐρεῖν ὡς ἄρα καὶ ποιηταὶ καὶ λογοποιοὶ [392b] κακῶς λέγουσιν περὶ ἀνθρώπων τὰ μέγιστα, ὅτι εἰσὶν ἄδικοι μὲν εὐδαίμονες πολλοί, δίκαιοι δὲ ἄθλιοι, καὶ ὡς λυσιτελεῖ τὸ ἀδικεῖν, ἐὰν λανθάνῃ, ἡ δὲ δικαιοσύνη ἀλλότριον μὲν ἀγαθόν, οἰκεία δὲ ζημία· καὶ τὰ μὲν τοιαῦτα ἀπερεῖν λέγειν, τὰ δʼ ἐναντία τούτων προστάξειν ᾄδειν τε καὶ μυθολογεῖν. ἢ οὐκ οἴει;
εὖ μὲν οὖν, ἔφη, οἶδα.
οὐκοῦν ἐὰν ὁμολογῇς ὀρθῶς με λέγειν, φήσω σε ὡμολογηκέναι ἃ πάλαι ζητοῦμεν;
ὀρθῶς, ἔφη, ὑπέλαβες. [392c]
οὐκοῦν περί γε ἀνθρώπων ὅτι τοιούτους δεῖ λόγους λέγεσθαι, τότε διομολογησόμεθα, ὅταν εὕρωμεν οἷόν ἐστιν δικαιοσύνη καὶ ὡς φύσει λυσιτελοῦν τῷ ἔχοντι, ἐάντε δοκῇ ἐάντε μὴ τοιοῦτος εἶναι;
ἀληθέστατα, ἔφη.
τὰ μὲν δὴ λόγων πέρι ἐχέτω τέλος· τὸ δὲ λέξεως, ὡς ἐγὼ οἶμαι, μετὰ τοῦτο σκεπτέον, καὶ ἡμῖν ἅ τε λεκτέον καὶ ὡς λεκτέον παντελῶς ἐσκέψεται.
καὶ ὁ Ἀδείμαντος, τοῦτο, ἦ δʼ ὅς, οὐ μανθάνω ὅτι λέγεις. [392d]
ἀλλὰ μέντοι, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, δεῖ γε· ἴσως οὖν τῇδε μᾶλλον εἴσῃ. ἆρʼ οὐ πάντα ὅσα ὑπὸ μυθολόγων ἢ ποιητῶν λέγεται διήγησις οὖσα τυγχάνει ἢ γεγονότων ἢ ὄντων ἢ μελλόντων;
τί γάρ, ἔφη, ἄλλο;
ἆρʼ οὖν οὐχὶ ἤτοι ἁπλῇ διηγήσει ἢ διὰ μιμήσεως γιγνομένῃ ἢ διʼ ἀμφοτέρων περαίνουσιν;
καὶ τοῦτο, ἦ δʼ ὅς, ἔτι δέομαι σαφέστερον μαθεῖν.
γελοῖος, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἔοικα διδάσκαλος εἶναι καὶ ἀσαφής· ὥσπερ οὖν οἱ ἀδύνατοι λέγειν, οὐ κατὰ ὅλον ἀλλʼ ἀπολαβὼν [392e] μέρος τι πειράσομαί σοι ἐν τούτῳ δηλῶσαι ὃ βούλομαι.
καί μοι εἰπέ· ἐπίστασαι τῆς Ἰλιάδος τὰ πρῶτα, ἐν οἷς ὁ ποιητής φησι τὸν μὲν Χρύσην δεῖσθαι τοῦ Ἀγαμέμνονος ἀπολῦσαι τὴν θυγατέρα, τὸν δὲ χαλεπαίνειν, τὸν δέ, ἐπειδὴ

[393a]
οὐκ ἐτύγχανεν, κατεύχεσθαι τῶν Ἀχαιῶν πρὸς τὸν θεόν;
ἔγωγε.
οἶσθʼ οὖν ὅτι μέχρι μὲν τούτων τῶν ἐπῶν—
καὶ ἐλίσσετο πάντας Ἀχαιούς,
Ἀτρείδα δὲ μάλιστα δύω, κοσμήτορε λαῶν
λέγει τε αὐτὸς ὁ ποιητὴς καὶ οὐδὲ ἐπιχειρεῖ ἡμῶν τὴν διάνοιαν ἄλλοσε τρέπειν ὡς ἄλλος τις ὁ λέγων ἢ αὐτός· τὰ δὲ μετὰ ταῦτα ὥσπερ αὐτὸς ὢν ὁ Χρύσης λέγει καὶ πειρᾶται [393b] ἡμᾶς ὅτι μάλιστα ποιῆσαι μὴ Ὅμηρον δοκεῖν εἶναι τὸν λέγοντα ἀλλὰ τὸν ἱερέα, πρεσβύτην ὄντα. καὶ τὴν ἄλλην δὴ πᾶσαν σχεδόν τι οὕτω πεποίηται διήγησιν περί τε τῶν ἐν Ἰλίῳ καὶ περὶ τῶν ἐν Ἰθάκῃ καὶ ὅλῃ Ὀδυσσείᾳ παθημάτων.
πάνυ μὲν οὖν, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν διήγησις μέν ἐστιν καὶ ὅταν τὰς ῥήσεις ἑκάστοτε λέγῃ καὶ ὅταν τὰ μεταξὺ τῶν ῥήσεων;
πῶς γὰρ οὔ; [393c]
ἀλλʼ ὅταν γέ τινα λέγῃ ῥῆσιν ὥς τις ἄλλος ὤν, ἆρʼ οὐ τότε ὁμοιοῦν αὐτὸν φήσομεν ὅτι μάλιστα τὴν αὑτοῦ λέξιν ἑκάστῳ ὃν ἂν προείπῃ ὡς ἐροῦντα;
φήσομεν· τί γάρ;
οὐκοῦν τό γε ὁμοιοῦν ἑαυτὸν ἄλλῳ ἢ κατὰ φωνὴν ἢ κατὰ σχῆμα μιμεῖσθαί ἐστιν ἐκεῖνον ᾧ ἄν τις ὁμοιοῖ;
τί μήν;
ἐν δὴ τῷ τοιούτῳ, ὡς ἔοικεν, οὗτός τε καὶ οἱ ἄλλοι ποιηταὶ διὰ μιμήσεως τὴν διήγησιν ποιοῦνται.
πάνυ μὲν οὖν.
εἰ δέ γε μηδαμοῦ ἑαυτὸν ἀποκρύπτοιτο ὁ ποιητής, πᾶσα [393d] ἂν αὐτῷ ἄνευ μιμήσεως ἡ ποίησίς τε καὶ διήγησις γεγονυῖα εἴη. ἵνα δὲ μὴ εἴπῃς ὅτι οὐκ αὖ μανθάνεις, ὅπως ἂν τοῦτο γένοιτο ἐγὼ φράσω. εἰ γὰρ Ὅμηρος εἰπὼν ὅτι ἦλθεν ὁ Χρύσης τῆς τε θυγατρὸς λύτρα φέρων καὶ ἱκέτης τῶν Ἀχαιῶν, μάλιστα δὲ τῶν βασιλέων, μετὰ τοῦτο μὴ ὡς Χρύσης γενόμενος ἔλεγεν ἀλλʼ ἔτι ὡς Ὅμηρος, οἶσθʼ ὅτι οὐκ ἂν μίμησις ἦν ἀλλὰ ἁπλῆ διήγησις. εἶχε δʼ ἂν ὧδε πως—φράσω δὲ ἄνευ μέτρου· οὐ γάρ εἰμι ποιητικός—ἐλθὼν [393e] ὁ ἱερεὺς ηὔχετο ἐκείνοις μὲν τοὺς θεοὺς δοῦναι ἑλόντας τὴν Τροίαν αὐτοὺς σωθῆναι, τὴν δὲ θυγατέρα οἱ λῦσαι δεξαμένους ἄποινα καὶ τὸν θεὸν αἰδεσθέντας.
ταῦτα δὲ εἰπόντος αὐτοῦ οἱ μὲν ἄλλοι ἐσέβοντο καὶ συνῄνουν, ὁ δὲ Ἀγαμέμνων ἠγρίαινεν ἐντελλόμενος νῦν τε ἀπιέναι καὶ αὖθις μὴ ἐλθεῖν, μὴ αὐτῷ τό τε σκῆπτρον καὶ τὰ τοῦ θεοῦ στέμματα οὐκ ἐπαρκέσοι· πρὶν δὲ λυθῆναι αὐτοῦ τὴν θυγατέρα, ἐν Ἄργει ἔφη γηράσειν μετὰ οὗ· ἀπιέναι δʼ ἐκέλευεν καὶ μὴ ἐρεθίζειν,

[394a]
>ἵνα σῶς οἴκαδε ἔλθοι. ὁ δὲ πρεσβύτης ἀκούσας ἔδεισέν τε καὶ ἀπῄει σιγῇ, ἀποχωρήσας δὲ ἐκ τοῦ στρατοπέδου πολλὰ τῷ Ἀπόλλωνι ηὔχετο, τάς τε ἐπωνυμίας τοῦ θεοῦ ἀνακαλῶν καὶ ὑπομιμνῄσκων καὶ ἀπαιτῶν, εἴ τι πώποτε ἢ ἐν ναῶν οἰκοδομήσεσιν ἢ ἐν ἱερῶν θυσίαις κεχαρισμένον δωρήσαιτο· ὧν δὴ χάριν κατηύχετο τεῖσαι τοὺς Ἀχαιοὺς τὰ ἃ δάκρυα τοῖς ἐκείνου βέλεσιν. οὕτως, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὦ ἑταῖρε, ἄνευ [394b] μιμήσεως ἁπλῆ διήγησις γίγνεται.
μανθάνω, ἔφη.
μάνθανε τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὅτι ταύτης αὖ ἐναντία γίγνεται, ὅταν τις τὰ τοῦ ποιητοῦ τὰ μεταξὺ τῶν ῥήσεων ἐξαιρῶν τὰ ἀμοιβαῖα καταλείπῃ.
καὶ τοῦτο, ἔφη, μανθάνω, ὅτι ἔστιν τὸ περὶ τὰς τραγῳδίας τοιοῦτον.
ὀρθότατα, ἔφην, ὑπέλαβες, καὶ οἶμαί σοι ἤδη δηλοῦν ὃ ἔμπροσθεν οὐχ οἷός τʼ ἦ, ὅτι τῆς ποιήσεώς τε καὶ μυθολογίας [394c] ἡ μὲν διὰ μιμήσεως ὅλη ἐστίν, ὥσπερ σὺ λέγεις, τραγῳδία τε καὶ κωμῳδία, ἡ δὲ διʼ ἀπαγγελίας αὐτοῦ τοῦ ποιητοῦ—εὕροις δʼ ἂν αὐτὴν μάλιστά που ἐν διθυράμβοις— ἡ δʼ αὖ διʼ ἀμφοτέρων ἔν τε τῇ τῶν ἐπῶν ποιήσει, πολλαχοῦ δὲ καὶ ἄλλοθι, εἴ μοι μανθάνεις.
ἀλλὰ συνίημι, ἔφη, ὃ τότε ἐβούλου λέγειν.
καὶ τὸ πρὸ τούτου δὴ ἀναμνήσθητι, ὅτι ἔφαμεν ἃ μὲν λεκτέον ἤδη εἰρῆσθαι, ὡς δὲ λεκτέον ἔτι σκεπτέον εἶναι.
ἀλλὰ μέμνημαι. [394d]
τοῦτο τοίνυν αὐτὸ ἦν ὃ ἔλεγον, ὅτι χρείη διομολογήσασθαι πότερον ἐάσομεν τοὺς ποιητὰς μιμουμένους ἡμῖν τὰς διηγήσεις ποιεῖσθαι ἢ τὰ μὲν μιμουμένους, τὰ δὲ μή, καὶ ὁποῖα ἑκάτερα, ἢ οὐδὲ μιμεῖσθαι.
μαντεύομαι, ἔφη, σκοπεῖσθαί σε εἴτε παραδεξόμεθα τραγῳδίαν τε καὶ κωμῳδίαν εἰς τὴν πόλιν, εἴτε καὶ οὔ.
ἴσως, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἴσως δὲ καὶ πλείω ἔτι τούτων· οὐ γὰρ δὴ ἔγωγέ πω οἶδα, ἀλλʼ ὅπῃ ἂν ὁ λόγος ὥσπερ πνεῦμα φέρῃ, ταύτῃ ἰτέον.
καὶ καλῶς γʼ, ἔφη, λέγεις. [394e]
τόδε τοίνυν, ὦ Ἀδείμαντε, ἄθρει, πότερον μιμητικοὺς ἡμῖν δεῖ εἶναι τοὺς φύλακας ἢ οὔ· ἢ καὶ τοῦτο τοῖς ἔμπροσθεν ἕπεται, ὅτι εἷς ἕκαστος ἓν μὲν ἂν ἐπιτήδευμα καλῶς ἐπιτηδεύοι, πολλὰ δʼ οὔ, ἀλλʼ εἰ τοῦτο ἐπιχειροῖ, πολλῶν ἐφαπτόμενος πάντων ἀποτυγχάνοι ἄν, ὥστʼ εἶναί που ἐλλόγιμος;
τί δʼ οὐ μέλλει;
οὐκοῦν καὶ περὶ μιμήσεως ὁ αὐτὸς λόγος, ὅτι πολλὰ ὁ αὐτὸς μιμεῖσθαι εὖ ὥσπερ ἓν οὐ δυνατός;
οὐ γὰρ οὖν.

### Book III, 395–402

[395a]
σχολῇ ἄρα ἐπιτηδεύσει γέ τι ἅμα τῶν ἀξίων λόγου ἐπιτηδευμάτων καὶ πολλὰ μιμήσεται καὶ ἔσται μιμητικός, ἐπεί που οὐδὲ τὰ δοκοῦντα ἐγγὺς ἀλλήλων εἶναι δύο μιμήματα δύνανται οἱ αὐτοὶ ἅμα εὖ μιμεῖσθαι, οἷον κωμῳδίαν καὶ τραγῳδίαν ποιοῦντες. ἢ οὐ μιμήματε ἄρτι τούτω ἐκάλεις;
ἔγωγε· καὶ ἀληθῆ γε λέγεις, ὅτι οὐ δύνανται οἱ αὐτοί.
οὐδὲ μὴν ῥαψῳδοί γε καὶ ὑποκριταὶ ἅμα.
ἀληθῆ.
ἀλλʼ οὐδέ τοι ὑποκριταὶ κωμῳδοῖς τε καὶ τραγῳδοῖς οἱ [395b] αὐτοί· πάντα δὲ ταῦτα μιμήματα. ἢ οὔ;
μιμήματα.
καὶ ἔτι γε τούτων, ὦ Ἀδείμαντε, φαίνεταί μοι εἰς σμικρότερα κατακεκερματίσθαι ἡ τοῦ ἀνθρώπου φύσις, ὥστε ἀδύνατος εἶναι πολλὰ καλῶς μιμεῖσθαι ἢ αὐτὰ ἐκεῖνα πράττειν ὧν δὴ καὶ τὰ μιμήματά ἐστιν ἀφομοιώματα.
ἀληθέστατα, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
εἰ ἄρα τὸν πρῶτον λόγον διασώσομεν, τοὺς φύλακας ἡμῖν τῶν ἄλλων πασῶν δημιουργιῶν ἀφειμένους δεῖν εἶναι [395c] δημιουργοὺς ἐλευθερίας τῆς πόλεως πάνυ ἀκριβεῖς καὶ μηδὲν ἄλλο ἐπιτηδεύειν ὅτι μὴ εἰς τοῦτο φέρει, οὐδὲν δὴ δέοι ἂν αὐτοὺς ἄλλο πράττειν οὐδὲ μιμεῖσθαι· ἐὰν δὲ μιμῶνται, μιμεῖσθαι τὰ τούτοις προσήκοντα εὐθὺς ἐκ παίδων, ἀνδρείους, σώφρονας, ὁσίους, ἐλευθέρους, καὶ τὰ τοιαῦτα πάντα, τὰ δὲ ἀνελεύθερα μήτε ποιεῖν μήτε δεινοὺς εἶναι μιμήσασθαι, μηδὲ ἄλλο μηδὲν τῶν αἰσχρῶν, ἵνα μὴ ἐκ τῆς μιμήσεως τοῦ εἶναι [395d] ἀπολαύσωσιν. ἢ οὐκ ᾔσθησαι ὅτι αἱ μιμήσεις, ἐὰν ἐκ νέων πόρρω διατελέσωσιν, εἰς ἔθη τε καὶ φύσιν καθίστανται καὶ κατὰ σῶμα καὶ φωνὰς καὶ κατὰ τὴν διάνοιαν;
καὶ μάλα, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
οὐ δὴ ἐπιτρέψομεν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὧν φαμὲν κήδεσθαι καὶ δεῖν αὐτοὺς ἄνδρας ἀγαθοὺς γενέσθαι, γυναῖκα μιμεῖσθαι ἄνδρας ὄντας, ἢ νέαν ἢ πρεσβυτέραν, ἢ ἀνδρὶ λοιδορουμένην ἢ πρὸς θεοὺς ἐρίζουσάν τε καὶ μεγαλαυχουμένην, οἰομένην [395e] εὐδαίμονα εἶναι, ἢ ἐν συμφοραῖς τε καὶ πένθεσιν καὶ θρήνοις ἐχομένην· κάμνουσαν δὲ ἢ ἐρῶσαν ἢ ὠδίνουσαν, πολλοῦ καὶ δεήσομεν.
παντάπασι μὲν οὖν, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
οὐδέ γε δούλας τε καὶ δούλους πράττοντας ὅσα δούλων.
οὐδὲ τοῦτο.
οὐδέ γε ἄνδρας κακούς, ὡς ἔοικεν, δειλούς τε καὶ τὰ ἐναντία πράττοντας ὧν νυνδὴ εἴπομεν, κακηγοροῦντάς τε καὶ κωμῳδοῦντας ἀλλήλους καὶ αἰσχρολογοῦντας, μεθύοντας ἢ

[396a]
καὶ νήφοντας, ἢ καὶ ἄλλα ὅσα οἱ τοιοῦτοι καὶ ἐν λόγοις καὶ ἐν ἔργοις ἁμαρτάνουσιν εἰς αὑτούς τε καὶ εἰς ἄλλους, οἶμαι δὲ οὐδὲ μαινομένοις ἐθιστέον ἀφομοιοῦν αὑτοὺς ἐν λόγοις οὐδὲ ἐν ἔργοις· γνωστέον μὲν γὰρ καὶ μαινομένους καὶ πονηροὺς ἄνδρας τε καὶ γυναῖκας, ποιητέον δὲ οὐδὲν τούτων οὐδὲ μιμητέον.
ἀληθέστατα, ἔφη.
τί δέ; ἦν δʼ ἐγώ· χαλκεύοντας ἤ τι ἄλλο δημιουργοῦντας, [396b] ἢ ἐλαύνοντας τριήρεις ἢ κελεύοντας τούτοις, ἤ τι ἄλλο τῶν περὶ ταῦτα μιμητέον;
καὶ πῶς; ἔφη, οἷς γε οὐδὲ προσέχειν τὸν νοῦν τούτων οὐδενὶ ἐξέσται;
τί δέ; ἵππους χρεμετίζοντας καὶ ταύρους μυκωμένους καὶ ποταμοὺς ψοφοῦντας καὶ θάλατταν κτυποῦσαν καὶ βροντὰς καὶ πάντα αὖ τὰ τοιαῦτα ἦ μιμήσονται;
ἀλλʼ ἀπείρηται αὐτοῖς, ἔφη, μήτε μαίνεσθαι μήτε μαινομένοις ἀφομοιοῦσθαι.
εἰ ἄρα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, μανθάνω ἃ σὺ λέγεις, ἔστιν τι εἶδος λέξεώς τε καὶ διηγήσεως ἐν ᾧ ἂν διηγοῖτο ὁ τῷ ὄντι καλὸς [396c] κἀγαθός, ὁπότε τι δέοι αὐτὸν λέγειν, καὶ ἕτερον αὖ ἀνόμοιον τούτῳ εἶδος, οὗ ἂν ἔχοιτο ἀεὶ καὶ ἐν ᾧ διηγοῖτο ὁ ἐναντίως ἐκείνῳ φύς τε καὶ τραφείς.
ποῖα δή, ἔφη, ταῦτα;
ὁ μέν μοι δοκεῖ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, μέτριος ἀνήρ, ἐπειδὰν ἀφίκηται ἐν τῇ διηγήσει ἐπὶ λέξιν τινὰ ἢ πρᾶξιν ἀνδρὸς ἀγαθοῦ, ἐθελήσειν ὡς αὐτὸς ὢν ἐκεῖνος ἀπαγγέλλειν καὶ οὐκ αἰσχυνεῖσθαι ἐπὶ τῇ τοιαύτῃ μιμήσει, μάλιστα μὲν μιμούμενος [396d] τὸν ἀγαθὸν ἀσφαλῶς τε καὶ ἐμφρόνως πράττοντα, ἐλάττω δὲ καὶ ἧττον ἢ ὑπὸ νόσων ἢ ὑπὸ ἐρώτων ἐσφαλμένον ἢ καὶ ὑπὸ μέθης ἤ τινος ἄλλης συμφορᾶς· ὅταν δὲ γίγνηται κατά τινα ἑαυτοῦ ἀνάξιον, οὐκ ἐθελήσειν σπουδῇ ἀπεικάζειν ἑαυτὸν τῷ χείρονι, εἰ μὴ ἄρα κατὰ βραχύ, ὅταν τι χρηστὸν ποιῇ, ἀλλʼ αἰσχυνεῖσθαι, ἅμα μὲν ἀγύμναστος ὢν τοῦ μιμεῖσθαι τοὺς τοιούτους, ἅμα δὲ καὶ δυσχεραίνων αὑτὸν ἐκμάττειν τε καὶ [396e] ἐνιστάναι εἰς τοὺς τῶν κακιόνων τύπους, ἀτιμάζων τῇ διανοίᾳ, ὅτι μὴ παιδιᾶς χάριν.
εἰκός, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν διηγήσει χρήσεται οἵᾳ ἡμεῖς ὀλίγον πρότερον διήλθομεν περὶ τὰ τοῦ Ὁμήρου ἔπη, καὶ ἔσται αὐτοῦ ἡ λέξις μετέχουσα μὲν ἀμφοτέρων, μιμήσεώς τε καὶ τῆς ἄλλης διηγήσεως, σμικρὸν δέ τι μέρος ἐν πολλῷ λόγῳ τῆς μιμήσεως; ἢ οὐδὲν λέγω;
καὶ μάλα, ἔφη, οἷόν γε ἀνάγκη τὸν τύπον εἶναι τοῦ τοιούτου ῥήτορος.

[397a]
οὐκοῦν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὁ μὴ τοιοῦτος αὖ, ὅσῳ ἂν φαυλότερος ᾖ, πάντα τε μᾶλλον διηγήσεται καὶ οὐδὲν ἑαυτοῦ ἀνάξιον οἰήσεται εἶναι, ὥστε πάντα ἐπιχειρήσει μιμεῖσθαι σπουδῇ τε καὶ ἐναντίον πολλῶν, καὶ ἃ νυνδὴ ἐλέγομεν, βροντάς τε καὶ ψόφους ἀνέμων τε καὶ χαλαζῶν καὶ ἀξόνων τε καὶ τροχιλιῶν, καὶ σαλπίγγων καὶ αὐλῶν καὶ συρίγγων καὶ πάντων ὀργάνων φωνάς, καὶ ἔτι κυνῶν καὶ προβάτων καὶ ὀρνέων φθόγγους· [397b] καὶ ἔσται δὴ ἡ τούτου λέξις ἅπασα διὰ μιμήσεως φωναῖς τε καὶ σχήμασιν, ἢ σμικρόν τι διηγήσεως ἔχουσα;
ἀνάγκη, ἔφη, καὶ τοῦτο.
ταῦτα τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἔλεγον τὰ δύο εἴδη τῆς λέξεως.
καὶ γὰρ ἔστιν, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν αὐτοῖν τὸ μὲν σμικρὰς τὰς μεταβολὰς ἔχει, καὶ ἐάν τις ἀποδιδῷ πρέπουσαν ἁρμονίαν καὶ ῥυθμὸν τῇ λέξει, ὀλίγου πρὸς τὴν αὐτὴν γίγνεται λέγειν τῷ ὀρθῶς λέγοντι καὶ ἐν μιᾷ ἁρμονίᾳ—σμικραὶ γὰρ αἱ μεταβολαί—καὶ δὴ καὶ ἐν [397c] ῥυθμῷ ὡσαύτως παραπλησίῳ τινί;
κομιδῇ μὲν οὖν, ἔφη, οὕτως ἔχει.
τί δὲ τὸ τοῦ ἑτέρου εἶδος; οὐ τῶν ἐναντίων δεῖται, πασῶν μὲν ἁρμονιῶν, πάντων δὲ ῥυθμῶν, εἰ μέλλει αὖ οἰκείως λέγεσθαι, διὰ τὸ παντοδαπὰς μορφὰς τῶν μεταβολῶν ἔχειν;
καὶ σφόδρα γε οὕτως ἔχει.
ἆρʼ οὖν πάντες οἱ ποιηταὶ καὶ οἵ τι λέγοντες ἢ τῷ ἑτέρῳ τούτων ἐπιτυγχάνουσιν τύπῳ τῆς λέξεως ἢ τῷ ἑτέρῳ ἢ ἐξ ἀμφοτέρων τινὶ συγκεραννύντες;
ἀνάγκη, ἔφη. [397d]
τί οὖν ποιήσομεν; ἦν δʼ ἐγώ· πότερον εἰς τὴν πόλιν πάντας τούτους παραδεξόμεθα ἢ τῶν ἀκράτων τὸν ἕτερον ἢ τὸν κεκραμένον;
ἐὰν ἡ ἐμή, ἔφη, νικᾷ, τὸν τοῦ ἐπιεικοῦς μιμητὴν ἄκρατον.
ἀλλὰ μήν, ὦ Ἀδείμαντε, ἡδύς γε καὶ ὁ κεκραμένος, πολὺ δὲ ἥδιστος παισί τε καὶ παιδαγωγοῖς ὁ ἐναντίος οὗ σὺ αἱρῇ καὶ τῷ πλείστῳ ὄχλῳ.
ἥδιστος γάρ.
ἀλλʼ ἴσως, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, οὐκ ἂν αὐτὸν ἁρμόττειν φαίης τῇ [397e] ἡμετέρᾳ πολιτείᾳ, ὅτι οὐκ ἔστιν διπλοῦς ἀνὴρ παρʼ ἡμῖν οὐδὲ πολλαπλοῦς, ἐπειδὴ ἕκαστος ἓν πράττει.
οὐ γὰρ οὖν ἁρμόττει.
οὐκοῦν διὰ ταῦτα ἐν μόνῃ τῇ τοιαύτῃ πόλει τόν τε σκυτοτόμον σκυτοτόμον εὑρήσομεν καὶ οὐ κυβερνήτην πρὸς τῇ σκυτοτομίᾳ, καὶ τὸν γεωργὸν γεωργὸν καὶ οὐ δικαστὴν πρὸς τῇ γεωργίᾳ, καὶ τὸν πολεμικὸν πολεμικὸν καὶ οὐ χρηματιστὴν πρὸς τῇ πολεμικῇ, καὶ πάντας οὕτω;
ἀληθῆ, ἔφη.

[398a]
ἄνδρα δή, ὡς ἔοικε, δυνάμενον ὑπὸ σοφίας παντοδαπὸν γίγνεσθαι καὶ μιμεῖσθαι πάντα χρήματα, εἰ ἡμῖν ἀφίκοιτο εἰς τὴν πόλιν αὐτός τε καὶ τὰ ποιήματα βουλόμενος ἐπιδείξασθαι, προσκυνοῖμεν ἂν αὐτὸν ὡς ἱερὸν καὶ θαυμαστὸν καὶ ἡδύν, εἴποιμεν δʼ ἂν ὅτι οὐκ ἔστιν τοιοῦτος ἀνὴρ ἐν τῇ πόλει παρʼ ἡμῖν οὔτε θέμις ἐγγενέσθαι, ἀποπέμποιμέν τε εἰς ἄλλην πόλιν μύρον κατὰ τῆς κεφαλῆς καταχέαντες καὶ ἐρίῳ στέψαντες, αὐτοὶ δʼ ἂν τῷ αὐστηροτέρῳ καὶ ἀηδεστέρῳ ποιητῇ [398b] χρῴμεθα καὶ μυθολόγῳ ὠφελίας ἕνεκα, ὃς ἡμῖν τὴν τοῦ ἐπιεικοῦς λέξιν μιμοῖτο καὶ τὰ λεγόμενα λέγοι ἐν ἐκείνοις τοῖς τύποις οἷς κατʼ ἀρχὰς ἐνομοθετησάμεθα, ὅτε τοὺς στρατιώτας ἐπεχειροῦμεν παιδεύειν.
καὶ μάλʼ, ἔφη, οὕτως ἂν ποιοῖμεν, εἰ ἐφʼ ἡμῖν εἴη.
νῦν δή, εἶπον ἐγώ, ὦ φίλε, κινδυνεύει ἡμῖν τῆς μουσικῆς τὸ περὶ λόγους τε καὶ μύθους παντελῶς διαπεπεράνθαι· ἅ τε γὰρ λεκτέον καὶ ὡς λεκτέον εἴρηται.
καὶ αὐτῷ μοι δοκεῖ, ἔφη. [398c]
οὐκοῦν μετὰ τοῦτο, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τὸ περὶ ᾠδῆς τρόπου καὶ μελῶν λοιπόν;
δῆλα δή.
ἆρʼ οὖν οὐ πᾶς ἤδη ἂν εὕροι ἃ ἡμῖν λεκτέον περὶ αὐτῶν οἷα δεῖ εἶναι, εἴπερ μέλλομεν τοῖς προειρημένοις συμφωνήσειν;
καὶ ὁ Γλαύκων ἐπιγελάσας, ἐγὼ τοίνυν, ἔφη, ὦ Σώκρατες, κινδυνεύω ἐκτὸς τῶν πάντων εἶναι· οὔκουν ἱκανῶς γε ἔχω ἐν τῷ παρόντι συμβαλέσθαι ποῖα ἄττα δεῖ ἡμᾶς λέγειν· ὑποπτεύω μέντοι.
πάντως δήπου, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, πρῶτον μὲν τόδε ἱκανῶς ἔχεις [398d] λέγειν, ὅτι τὸ μέλος ἐκ τριῶν ἐστιν συγκείμενον, λόγου τε καὶ ἁρμονίας καὶ ῥυθμοῦ.
ναί, ἔφη, τοῦτό γε.
οὐκοῦν ὅσον γε αὐτοῦ λόγος ἐστίν, οὐδὲν δήπου διαφέρει τοῦ μὴ ᾀδομένου λόγου πρὸς τὸ ἐν τοῖς αὐτοῖς δεῖν τύποις λέγεσθαι οἷς ἄρτι προείπομεν καὶ ὡσαύτως;
ἀληθῆ, ἔφη.
καὶ μὴν τήν γε ἁρμονίαν καὶ ῥυθμὸν ἀκολουθεῖν δεῖ τῷ λόγῳ.
πῶς δʼ οὔ;
ἀλλὰ μέντοι θρήνων γε καὶ ὀδυρμῶν ἔφαμεν ἐν λόγοις οὐδὲν προσδεῖσθαι.
οὐ γὰρ οὖν. [398e]
τίνες οὖν θρηνώδεις ἁρμονίαι; λέγε μοι· σὺ γὰρ μουσικός.
μειξολυδιστί, ἔφη, καὶ συντονολυδιστὶ καὶ τοιαῦταί τινες.
οὐκοῦν αὗται, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἀφαιρετέαι; ἄχρηστοι γὰρ καὶ γυναιξὶν ἃς δεῖ ἐπιεικεῖς εἶναι, μὴ ὅτι ἀνδράσι.
πάνυ γε.
ἀλλὰ μὴν μέθη γε φύλαξιν ἀπρεπέστατον καὶ μαλακία καὶ ἀργία.
πῶς γὰρ οὔ;
τίνες οὖν μαλακαί τε καὶ συμποτικαὶ τῶν ἁρμονιῶν;
ἰαστί, ἦ δʼ ὅς, καὶ λυδιστὶ αὖ τινες χαλαραὶ καλοῦνται.

[399a]
ταύταις οὖν, ὦ φίλε, ἐπὶ πολεμικῶν ἀνδρῶν ἔσθʼ ὅτι χρήσῃ;
οὐδαμῶς, ἔφη· ἀλλὰ κινδυνεύει σοι δωριστὶ λείπεσθαι καὶ φρυγιστί.
οὐκ οἶδα, ἔφην ἐγώ, τὰς ἁρμονίας, ἀλλὰ κατάλειπε ἐκείνην τὴν ἁρμονίαν, ἣ ἔν τε πολεμικῇ πράξει ὄντος ἀνδρείου καὶ ἐν πάσῃ βιαίῳ ἐργασίᾳ πρεπόντως ἂν μιμήσαιτο φθόγγους τε καὶ προσῳδίας, καὶ ἀποτυχόντος ἢ εἰς τραύματα ἢ εἰς [399b] θανάτους ἰόντος ἢ εἴς τινα ἄλλην συμφορὰν πεσόντος, ἐν πᾶσι τούτοις παρατεταγμένως καὶ καρτερούντως ἀμυνομένου τὴν τύχην· καὶ ἄλλην αὖ ἐν εἰρηνικῇ τε καὶ μὴ βιαίῳ ἀλλʼ ἐν ἑκουσίᾳ πράξει ὄντος, ἢ τινά τι πείθοντός τε καὶ δεομένου, ἢ εὐχῇ θεὸν ἢ διδαχῇ καὶ νουθετήσει ἄνθρωπον, ἢ τοὐναντίον ἄλλῳ δεομένῳ ἢ διδάσκοντι ἢ μεταπείθοντι ἑαυτὸν ἐπέχοντα, καὶ ἐκ τούτων πράξαντα κατὰ νοῦν, καὶ μὴ ὑπερηφάνως ἔχοντα, ἀλλὰ σωφρόνως τε καὶ μετρίως ἐν πᾶσι τούτοις [399c] πράττοντά τε καὶ τὰ ἀποβαίνοντα ἀγαπῶντα. ταύτας δύο ἁρμονίας, βίαιον, ἑκούσιον, δυστυχούντων, εὐτυχούντων, σωφρόνων, ἀνδρείων [ἁρμονίας] αἵτινες φθόγγους μιμήσονται κάλλιστα, ταύτας λεῖπε.
ἀλλʼ, ἦ δʼ ὅς, οὐκ ἄλλας αἰτεῖς λείπειν ἢ ἃς νυνδὴ ἐγὼ ἔλεγον.
οὐκ ἄρα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, πολυχορδίας γε οὐδὲ παναρμονίου ἡμῖν δεήσει ἐν ταῖς ᾠδαῖς τε καὶ μέλεσιν.
οὔ μοι, ἔφη, φαίνεται.
τριγώνων ἄρα καὶ πηκτίδων καὶ πάντων ὀργάνων ὅσα [399d] πολύχορδα καὶ πολυαρμόνια, δημιουργοὺς οὐ θρέψομεν.
οὐ φαινόμεθα.
τί δέ; αὐλοποιοὺς ἢ αὐλητὰς παραδέξῃ εἰς τὴν πόλιν; ἢ οὐ τοῦτο πολυχορδότατον, καὶ αὐτὰ τὰ παναρμόνια αὐλοῦ τυγχάνει ὄντα μίμημα;
δῆλα δή, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
λύρα δή σοι, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καὶ κιθάρα λείπεται [καὶ] κατὰ πόλιν χρήσιμα· καὶ αὖ κατʼ ἀγροὺς τοῖς νομεῦσι σῦριγξ ἄν τις εἴη.
ὡς γοῦν, ἔφη, ὁ λόγος ἡμῖν σημαίνει. [399e]
οὐδέν γε, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καινὸν ποιοῦμεν, ὦ φίλε, κρίνοντες τὸν Ἀπόλλω καὶ τὰ τοῦ Ἀπόλλωνος ὄργανα πρὸ Μαρσύου τε καὶ τῶν ἐκείνου ὀργάνων.
μὰ Δία, ἦ δʼ ὅς, οὔ μοι φαινόμεθα.
καὶ νὴ τὸν κύνα, εἶπον, λελήθαμέν γε διακαθαίροντες πάλιν ἣν ἄρτι τρυφᾶν ἔφαμεν πόλιν.
σωφρονοῦντές γε ἡμεῖς, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
ἴθι δή, ἔφην, καὶ τὰ λοιπὰ καθαίρωμεν.
ἑπόμενον γὰρ δὴ ταῖς ἁρμονίαις ἂν ἡμῖν εἴη τὸ περὶ ῥυθμούς, μὴ ποικίλους αὐτοὺς διώκειν μηδὲ παντοδαπὰς βάσεις, ἀλλὰ βίου ῥυθμοὺς ἰδεῖν κοσμίου τε καὶ ἀνδρείου τίνες εἰσίν· οὓς ἰδόντα τὸν

[400a]
πόδα τῷ τοῦ τοιούτου λόγῳ ἀναγκάζειν ἕπεσθαι καὶ τὸ μέλος, ἀλλὰ μὴ λόγον ποδί τε καὶ μέλει. οἵτινες δʼ ἂν εἶεν οὗτοι οἱ ῥυθμοί, σὸν ἔργον, ὥσπερ τὰς ἁρμονίας, φράσαι.
ἀλλὰ μὰ Δίʼ, ἔφη, οὐκ ἔχω λέγειν. ὅτι μὲν γὰρ τρίʼ ἄττα ἐστὶν εἴδη ἐξ ὧν αἱ βάσεις πλέκονται, ὥσπερ ἐν τοῖς φθόγγοις τέτταρα, ὅθεν αἱ πᾶσαι ἁρμονίαι, τεθεαμένος ἂν εἴποιμι· ποῖα δὲ ὁποίου βίου μιμήματα, λέγειν οὐκ ἔχω. [400b]
ἀλλὰ ταῦτα μέν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καὶ μετὰ Δάμωνος βουλευσόμεθα, τίνες τε ἀνελευθερίας καὶ ὕβρεως ἢ μανίας καὶ ἄλλης κακίας πρέπουσαι βάσεις, καὶ τίνας τοῖς ἐναντίοις λειπτέον ῥυθμούς· οἶμαι δέ με ἀκηκοέναι οὐ σαφῶς ἐνόπλιόν τέ τινα ὀνομάζοντος αὐτοῦ σύνθετον καὶ δάκτυλον καὶ ἡρῷόν γε, οὐκ οἶδα ὅπως διακοσμοῦντος καὶ ἴσον ἄνω καὶ κάτω τιθέντος, εἰς βραχύ τε καὶ μακρὸν γιγνόμενον, καί, ὡς ἐγὼ οἶμαι, ἴαμβον καί τινʼ ἄλλον τροχαῖον ὠνόμαζε, μήκη δὲ καὶ [400c] βραχύτητας προσῆπτε. καὶ τούτων τισὶν οἶμαι τὰς ἀγωγὰς τοῦ ποδὸς αὐτὸν οὐχ ἧττον ψέγειν τε καὶ ἐπαινεῖν ἢ τοὺς ῥυθμοὺς αὐτούς—ἤτοι συναμφότερόν τι· οὐ γὰρ ἔχω λέγειν —ἀλλὰ ταῦτα μέν, ὥσπερ εἶπον, εἰς Δάμωνα ἀναβεβλήσθω· διελέσθαι γὰρ οὐ σμικροῦ λόγου. ἢ σὺ οἴει;
μὰ Δίʼ, οὐκ ἔγωγε.
ἀλλὰ τόδε γε, ὅτι τὸ τῆς εὐσχημοσύνης τε καὶ ἀσχημοσύνης τῷ εὐρύθμῳ τε καὶ ἀρρύθμῳ ἀκολουθεῖ, δύνασαι διελέσθαι;
πῶς δʼ οὔ; [400d]
ἀλλὰ μὴν τὸ εὔρυθμόν γε καὶ τὸ ἄρρυθμον τὸ μὲν τῇ καλῇ λέξει ἕπεται ὁμοιούμενον, τὸ δὲ τῇ ἐναντίᾳ, καὶ τὸ εὐάρμοστον καὶ ἀνάρμοστον ὡσαύτως, εἴπερ ῥυθμός γε καὶ ἁρμονία λόγῳ, ὥσπερ ἄρτι ἐλέγετο, ἀλλὰ μὴ λόγος τούτοις.
ἀλλὰ μήν, ἦ δʼ ὅς, ταῦτά γε λόγῳ ἀκολουθητέον.
τί δʼ ὁ τρόπος τῆς λέξεως, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καὶ ὁ λόγος; οὐ τῷ τῆς ψυχῆς ἤθει ἕπεται;
πῶς γὰρ οὔ;
τῇ δὲ λέξει τὰ ἄλλα;
ναί.
εὐλογία ἄρα καὶ εὐαρμοστία καὶ εὐσχημοσύνη καὶ εὐρυθμία [400e] εὐηθείᾳ ἀκολουθεῖ, οὐχ ἣν ἄνοιαν οὖσαν ὑποκοριζόμενοι καλοῦμεν [ὡς εὐήθειαν], ἀλλὰ τὴν ὡς ἀληθῶς εὖ τε καὶ καλῶς τὸ ἦθος κατεσκευασμένην διάνοιαν.
παντάπασι μὲν οὖν, ἔφη.
ἆρʼ οὖν οὐ πανταχοῦ ταῦτα διωκτέα τοῖς νέοις, εἰ μέλλουσι τὸ αὑτῶν πράττειν;
διωκτέα μὲν οὖν.

[401a]
ἔστιν δέ γέ που πλήρης μὲν γραφικὴ αὐτῶν καὶ πᾶσα ἡ τοιαύτη δημιουργία, πλήρης δὲ ὑφαντικὴ καὶ ποικιλία καὶ οἰκοδομία καὶ πᾶσα αὖ ἡ τῶν ἄλλων σκευῶν ἐργασία, ἔτι δὲ ἡ τῶν σωμάτων φύσις καὶ ἡ τῶν ἄλλων φυτῶν· ἐν πᾶσι γὰρ τούτοις ἔνεστιν εὐσχημοσύνη ἢ ἀσχημοσύνη. καὶ ἡ μὲν ἀσχημοσύνη καὶ ἀρρυθμία καὶ ἀναρμοστία κακολογίας καὶ κακοηθείας ἀδελφά, τὰ δʼ ἐναντία τοῦ ἐναντίου, σώφρονός τε καὶ ἀγαθοῦ ἤθους, ἀδελφά τε καὶ μιμήματα.
παντελῶς μὲν οὖν, ἔφη. [401b]
ἆρʼ οὖν τοῖς ποιηταῖς ἡμῖν μόνον ἐπιστατητέον καὶ προσαναγκαστέον τὴν τοῦ ἀγαθοῦ εἰκόνα ἤθους ἐμποιεῖν τοῖς ποιήμασιν ἢ μὴ παρʼ ἡμῖν ποιεῖν, ἢ καὶ τοῖς ἄλλοις δημιουργοῖς ἐπιστατητέον καὶ διακωλυτέον τὸ κακόηθες τοῦτο καὶ ἀκόλαστον καὶ ἀνελεύθερον καὶ ἄσχημον μήτε ἐν εἰκόσι ζῴων μήτε ἐν οἰκοδομήμασι μήτε ἐν ἄλλῳ μηδενὶ δημιουργουμένῳ ἐμποιεῖν, ἢ ὁ μὴ οἷός τε ὢν οὐκ ἐατέος παρʼ ἡμῖν δημιουργεῖν, ἵνα μὴ ἐν κακίας εἰκόσι τρεφόμενοι ἡμῖν οἱ [401c] φύλακες ὥσπερ ἐν κακῇ βοτάνῃ, πολλὰ ἑκάστης ἡμέρας κατὰ σμικρὸν ἀπὸ πολλῶν δρεπόμενοί τε καὶ νεμόμενοι, ἕν τι συνιστάντες λανθάνωσιν κακὸν μέγα ἐν τῇ αὑτῶν ψυχῇ, ἀλλʼ ἐκείνους ζητητέον τοὺς δημιουργοὺς τοὺς εὐφυῶς δυναμένους ἰχνεύειν τὴν τοῦ καλοῦ τε καὶ εὐσχήμονος φύσιν, ἵνα ὥσπερ ἐν ὑγιεινῷ τόπῳ οἰκοῦντες οἱ νέοι ἀπὸ παντὸς ὠφελῶνται, ὁπόθεν ἂν αὐτοῖς ἀπὸ τῶν καλῶν ἔργων ἢ πρὸς ὄψιν ἢ πρὸς ἀκοήν τι προσβάλῃ, ὥσπερ αὔρα φέρουσα ἀπὸ [401d] χρηστῶν τόπων ὑγίειαν, καὶ εὐθὺς ἐκ παίδων λανθάνῃ εἰς ὁμοιότητά τε καὶ φιλίαν καὶ συμφωνίαν τῷ καλῷ λόγῳ ἄγουσα;
πολὺ γὰρ ἄν, ἔφη, κάλλιστα οὕτω τραφεῖεν.
ἆρʼ οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὦ Γλαύκων, τούτων ἕνεκα κυριωτάτη ἐν μουσικῇ τροφή, ὅτι μάλιστα καταδύεται εἰς τὸ ἐντὸς τῆς ψυχῆς ὅ τε ῥυθμὸς καὶ ἁρμονία, καὶ ἐρρωμενέστατα ἅπτεται αὐτῆς φέροντα τὴν εὐσχημοσύνην, καὶ ποιεῖ εὐσχήμονα, [401e] ἐάν τις ὀρθῶς τραφῇ, εἰ δὲ μή, τοὐναντίον;
καὶ ὅτι αὖ τῶν παραλειπομένων καὶ μὴ καλῶς δημιουργηθέντων ἢ μὴ καλῶς φύντων ὀξύτατʼ ἂν αἰσθάνοιτο ὁ ἐκεῖ τραφεὶς ὡς ἔδει, καὶ ὀρθῶς δὴ δυσχεραίνων τὰ μὲν καλὰ ἐπαινοῖ καὶ χαίρων καὶ καταδεχόμενος εἰς τὴν ψυχὴν τρέφοιτʼ ἂν ἀπʼ αὐτῶν καὶ

[402a]
γίγνοιτο καλός τε κἀγαθός, τὰ δʼ αἰσχρὰ ψέγοι τʼ ἂν ὀρθῶς καὶ μισοῖ ἔτι νέος ὤν, πρὶν λόγον δυνατὸς εἶναι λαβεῖν, ἐλθόντος δὲ τοῦ λόγου ἀσπάζοιτʼ ἂν αὐτὸν γνωρίζων διʼ οἰκειότητα μάλιστα ὁ οὕτω τραφείς;
ἐμοὶ γοῦν δοκεῖ, ἔφη, τῶν τοιούτων ἕνεκα ἐν μουσικῇ εἶναι ἡ τροφή.
ὥσπερ ἄρα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, γραμμάτων πέρι τότε ἱκανῶς εἴχομεν, ὅτε τὰ στοιχεῖα μὴ λανθάνοι ἡμᾶς ὀλίγα ὄντα ἐν ἅπασιν οἷς ἔστιν περιφερόμενα, καὶ οὔτʼ ἐν σμικρῷ οὔτʼ ἐν [402b] μεγάλῳ ἠτιμάζομεν αὐτά, ὡς οὐ δέοι αἰσθάνεσθαι, ἀλλὰ πανταχοῦ προυθυμούμεθα διαγιγνώσκειν, ὡς οὐ πρότερον ἐσόμενοι γραμματικοὶ πρὶν οὕτως ἔχοιμεν—
ἀληθῆ.
οὐκοῦν καὶ εἰκόνας γραμμάτων, εἴ που ἢ ἐν ὕδασιν ἢ ἐν κατόπτροις ἐμφαίνοιντο, οὐ πρότερον γνωσόμεθα, πρὶν ἂν αὐτὰ γνῶμεν, ἀλλʼ ἔστιν τῆς αὐτῆς τέχνης τε καὶ μελέτης;
παντάπασι μὲν οὖν.
ἆρʼ οὖν, ὃ λέγω, πρὸς θεῶν, οὕτως οὐδὲ μουσικοὶ πρότερον [402c] ἐσόμεθα, οὔτε αὐτοὶ οὔτε οὕς φαμεν ἡμῖν παιδευτέον εἶναι τοὺς φύλακας, πρὶν ἂν τὰ τῆς σωφροσύνης εἴδη καὶ ἀνδρείας καὶ ἐλευθεριότητος καὶ μεγαλοπρεπείας καὶ ὅσα τούτων ἀδελφὰ καὶ τὰ τούτων αὖ ἐναντία πανταχοῦ περιφερόμενα γνωρίζωμεν καὶ ἐνόντα ἐν οἷς ἔνεστιν αἰσθανώμεθα καὶ αὐτὰ καὶ εἰκόνας αὐτῶν, καὶ μήτε ἐν σμικροῖς μήτε ἐν μεγάλοις ἀτιμάζωμεν, ἀλλὰ τῆς αὐτῆς οἰώμεθα τέχνης εἶναι καὶ μελέτης;
πολλὴ ἀνάγκη, ἔφη. [402d]
οὐκοῦν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὅτου ἂν συμπίπτῃ ἔν τε τῇ ψυχῇ καλὰ ἤθη ἐνόντα καὶ ἐν τῷ εἴδει ὁμολογοῦντα ἐκείνοις καὶ συμφωνοῦντα, τοῦ αὐτοῦ μετέχοντα τύπου, τοῦτʼ ἂν εἴη κάλλιστον θέαμα τῷ δυναμένῳ θεᾶσθαι;
πολύ γε.
καὶ μὴν τό γε κάλλιστον ἐρασμιώτατον;
πῶς δʼ οὔ;
τῶν δὴ ὅτι μάλιστα τοιούτων ἀνθρώπων ὅ γε μουσικὸς ἐρῴη ἄν· εἰ δὲ ἀσύμφωνος εἴη, οὐκ ἂν ἐρῴη.
οὐκ ἄν, εἴ γέ τι, ἔφη, κατὰ τὴν ψυχὴν ἐλλείποι· εἰ μέντοι τι κατὰ τὸ σῶμα, ὑπομείνειεν ἂν ὥστε ἐθέλειν [402e] ἀσπάζεσθαι.
μανθάνω, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ· ὅτι ἔστιν σοι ἢ γέγονεν παιδικὰ τοιαῦτα, καὶ συγχωρῶ. ἀλλὰ τόδε μοι εἰπέ· σωφροσύνῃ καὶ ἡδονῇ ὑπερβαλλούσῃ ἔστι τις κοινωνία;
καὶ πῶς; ἔφη, ἥ γε ἔκφρονα ποιεῖ οὐχ ἧττον ἢ λύπη;
ἀλλὰ τῇ ἄλλῃ ἀρετῇ;

### Book III, 403–410

[403a]
οὐδαμῶς.
τί δέ; ὕβρει τε καὶ ἀκολασίᾳ;
πάντων μάλιστα.
μείζω δέ τινα καὶ ὀξυτέραν ἔχεις εἰπεῖν ἡδονὴν τῆς περὶ τὰ ἀφροδίσια;
οὐκ ἔχω, ἦ δʼ ὅς, οὐδέ γε μανικωτέραν.
ὁ δὲ ὀρθὸς ἔρως πέφυκε κοσμίου τε καὶ καλοῦ σωφρόνως τε καὶ μουσικῶς ἐρᾶν;
καὶ μάλα, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
οὐδὲν ἄρα προσοιστέον μανικὸν οὐδὲ συγγενὲς ἀκολασίας τῷ ὀρθῷ ἔρωτι;
οὐ προσοιστέον. [403b]
οὐ προσοιστέον ἄρα αὕτη ἡ ἡδονή, οὐδὲ κοινωνητέον αὐτῆς ἐραστῇ τε καὶ παιδικοῖς ὀρθῶς ἐρῶσί τε καὶ ἐρωμένοις;
οὐ μέντοι μὰ Δίʼ, ἔφη, ὦ Σώκρατες, προσοιστέον.
οὕτω δή, ὡς ἔοικε, νομοθετήσεις ἐν τῇ οἰκιζομένῃ πόλει φιλεῖν μὲν καὶ συνεῖναι καὶ ἅπτεσθαι ὥσπερ ὑέος παιδικῶν ἐραστήν, τῶν καλῶν χάριν, ἐὰν πείθῃ, τὰ δʼ ἄλλα οὕτως ὁμιλεῖν πρὸς ὅν τις σπουδάζοι, ὅπως μηδέποτε δόξει μακρότερα [403c] τούτων συγγίγνεσθαι· εἰ δὲ μή, ψόγον ἀμουσίας καὶ ἀπειροκαλίας ὑφέξοντα.
οὕτως, ἔφη.
ἆρʼ οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καὶ σοὶ φαίνεται τέλος ἡμῖν ἔχειν ὁ περὶ μουσικῆς λόγος; οἷ γοῦν δεῖ τελευτᾶν, τετελεύτηκεν· δεῖ δέ που τελευτᾶν τὰ μουσικὰ εἰς τὰ τοῦ καλοῦ ἐρωτικά.
σύμφημι, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
μετὰ δὴ μουσικὴν γυμναστικῇ θρεπτέοι οἱ νεανίαι.
τί μήν;
δεῖ μὲν δὴ καὶ ταύτῃ ἀκριβῶς τρέφεσθαι ἐκ παίδων διὰ [403d] βίου. ἔχει δέ πως, ὡς ἐγᾦμαι, ὧδε· σκόπει δὲ καὶ σύ. ἐμοὶ μὲν γὰρ οὐ φαίνεται, ὃ ἂν χρηστὸν ᾖ σῶμα, τοῦτο τῇ αὑτοῦ ἀρετῇ ψυχὴν ἀγαθὴν ποιεῖν, ἀλλὰ τοὐναντίον ψυχὴ ἀγαθὴ τῇ αὑτῆς ἀρετῇ σῶμα παρέχειν ὡς οἷόν τε βέλτιστον· σοὶ δὲ πῶς φαίνεται;
καὶ ἐμοί, ἔφη, οὕτως.
οὐκοῦν εἰ τὴν διάνοιαν ἱκανῶς θεραπεύσαντες παραδοῖμεν αὐτῇ τὰ περὶ τὸ σῶμα ἀκριβολογεῖσθαι, ἡμεῖς δὲ ὅσον τοὺς [403e] τύπους ὑφηγησαίμεθα, ἵνα μὴ μακρολογῶμεν, ὀρθῶς ἂν ποιοῖμεν;
πάνυ μὲν οὖν.
μέθης μὲν δὴ εἴπομεν ὅτι ἀφεκτέον αὐτοῖς· παντὶ γάρ που μᾶλλον ἐγχωρεῖ ἢ φύλακι μεθυσθέντι μὴ εἰδέναι ὅπου γῆς ἐστιν.
γελοῖον γάρ, ἦ δʼ ὅς, τόν γε φύλακα φύλακος δεῖσθαι.
τί δὲ δὴ σίτων πέρι; ἀθληταὶ μὲν γὰρ οἱ ἄνδρες τοῦ μεγίστου ἀγῶνος. ἢ οὐχί;
ναί.

[404a]
ἆρʼ οὖν ἡ τῶνδε τῶν ἀσκητῶν ἕξις προσήκουσʼ ἂν εἴη τούτοις;
ἴσως.
ἀλλʼ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὑπνώδης αὕτη γέ τις καὶ σφαλερὰ πρὸς ὑγίειαν. ἢ οὐχ ὁρᾷς ὅτι καθεύδουσί τε τὸν βίον καί, ἐὰν σμικρὰ ἐκβῶσιν τῆς τεταγμένης διαίτης, μεγάλα καὶ σφόδρα νοσοῦσιν οὗτοι οἱ ἀσκηταί;
ὁρῶ.
κομψοτέρας δή τινος, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἀσκήσεως δεῖ τοῖς πολεμικοῖς ἀθληταῖς, οὕς γε ὥσπερ κύνας ἀγρύπνους τε ἀνάγκη εἶναι καὶ ὅτι μάλιστα ὀξὺ ὁρᾶν καὶ ἀκούειν καὶ πολλὰς μεταβολὰς ἐν ταῖς στρατείαις μεταβάλλοντας ὑδάτων [404b] τε καὶ τῶν ἄλλων σίτων καὶ εἱλήσεων καὶ χειμώνων μὴ ἀκροσφαλεῖς εἶναι πρὸς ὑγίειαν.
φαίνεταί μοι.
ἆρʼ οὖν ἡ βελτίστη γυμναστικὴ ἀδελφή τις ἂν εἴη τῆς ἁπλῆς μουσικῆς ἣν ὀλίγον πρότερον διῇμεν;
πῶς λέγεις;
ἁπλῆ που καὶ ἐπιεικὴς γυμναστική, καὶ μάλιστα ἡ τῶν περὶ τὸν πόλεμον.
πῇ δή;
καὶ παρʼ Ὁμήρου, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τά γε τοιαῦτα μάθοι ἄν τις. οἶσθα γὰρ ὅτι ἐπὶ στρατιᾶς ἐν ταῖς τῶν ἡρώων ἑστιάσεσιν οὔτε ἰχθύσιν αὐτοὺς ἑστιᾷ, καὶ ταῦτα ἐπὶ [404c] θαλάττῃ ἐν Ἑλλησπόντῳ ὄντας, οὔτε ἑφθοῖς κρέασιν ἀλλὰ μόνον ὀπτοῖς, ἃ δὴ μάλιστʼ ἂν εἴη στρατιώταις εὔπορα· πανταχοῦ γὰρ ὡς ἔπος εἰπεῖν αὐτῷ τῷ πυρὶ χρῆσθαι εὐπορώτερον ἢ ἀγγεῖα συμπεριφέρειν.
καὶ μάλα.
οὐδὲ μὴν ἡδυσμάτων, ὡς ἐγᾦμαι, Ὅμηρος πώποτε ἐμνήσθη. ἢ τοῦτο μὲν καὶ οἱ ἄλλοι ἀσκηταὶ ἴσασιν, ὅτι τῷ μέλλοντι σώματι εὖ ἕξειν ἀφεκτέον τῶν τοιούτων ἁπάντων;
καὶ ὀρθῶς γε, ἔφη, ἴσασί τε καὶ ἀπέχονται. [404d]
Συρακοσίαν δέ, ὦ φίλε, τράπεζαν καὶ Σικελικὴν ποικιλίαν ὄψου, ὡς ἔοικας, οὐκ αἰνεῖς, εἴπερ σοι ταῦτα δοκεῖ ὀρθῶς ἔχειν.
οὔ μοι δοκῶ.
ψέγεις ἄρα καὶ Κορινθίαν κόρην φίλην εἶναι ἀνδράσιν μέλλουσιν εὖ σώματος ἕξειν.
παντάπασι μὲν οὖν.
οὐκοῦν καὶ Ἀττικῶν πεμμάτων τὰς δοκούσας εἶναι εὐπαθείας;
ἀνάγκη.
ὅλην γὰρ οἶμαι τὴν τοιαύτην σίτησιν καὶ δίαιταν τῇ μελοποιίᾳ τε καὶ ᾠδῇ τῇ ἐν τῷ παναρμονίῳ καὶ ἐν πᾶσι [404e] ῥυθμοῖς πεποιημένῃ ἀπεικάζοντες ὀρθῶς ἂν ἀπεικάζοιμεν.
πῶς γὰρ οὔ;
οὐκοῦν ἐκεῖ μὲν ἀκολασίαν ἡ ποικιλία ἐνέτικτεν, ἐνταῦθα δὲ νόσον, ἡ δὲ ἁπλότης κατὰ μὲν μουσικὴν ἐν ψυχαῖς σωφροσύνην, κατὰ δὲ γυμναστικὴν ἐν σώμασιν ὑγίειαν;
ἀληθέστατα, ἔφη.

[405a]
ἀκολασίας δὲ καὶ νόσων πληθυουσῶν ἐν πόλει ἆρʼ οὐ δικαστήριά τε καὶ ἰατρεῖα πολλὰ ἀνοίγεται, καὶ δικανική τε καὶ ἰατρικὴ σεμνύνονται, ὅταν δὴ καὶ ἐλεύθεροι πολλοὶ καὶ σφόδρα περὶ αὐτὰ σπουδάζωσιν;
τί γὰρ οὐ μέλλει;
τῆς δὲ κακῆς τε καὶ αἰσχρᾶς παιδείας ἐν πόλει ἆρα μή τι μεῖζον ἕξεις λαβεῖν τεκμήριον ἢ τὸ δεῖσθαι ἰατρῶν καὶ δικαστῶν ἄκρων μὴ μόνον τοὺς φαύλους τε καὶ χειροτέχνας, ἀλλὰ καὶ τοὺς ἐν ἐλευθέρῳ σχήματι προσποιουμένους τεθράφθαι; [405b] ἢ οὐκ αἰσχρὸν δοκεῖ καὶ ἀπαιδευσίας μέγα τεκμήριον τὸ ἐπακτῷ παρʼ ἄλλων, ὡς δεσποτῶν τε καὶ κριτῶν, τῷ δικαίῳ ἀναγκάζεσθαι χρῆσθαι, καὶ ἀπορίᾳ οἰκείων;
πάντων μὲν οὖν, ἔφη, αἴσχιστον.
ἦ δοκεῖ σοι, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τούτου αἴσχιον εἶναι τοῦτο, ὅταν δή τις μὴ μόνον τὸ πολὺ τοῦ βίου ἐν δικαστηρίοις φεύγων τε καὶ διώκων κατατρίβηται, ἀλλὰ καὶ ὑπὸ ἀπειροκαλίας ἐπʼ αὐτῷ δὴ τούτῳ πεισθῇ καλλωπίζεσθαι, ὡς δεινὸς [405c] ὢν περὶ τὸ ἀδικεῖν καὶ ἱκανὸς πάσας μὲν στροφὰς στρέφεσθαι, πάσας δὲ διεξόδους διεξελθὼν ἀποστραφῆναι λυγιζόμενος, ὥστε μὴ παρασχεῖν δίκην, καὶ ταῦτα σμικρῶν τε καὶ οὐδενὸς ἀξίων ἕνεκα, ἀγνοῶν ὅσῳ κάλλιον καὶ ἄμεινον τὸ παρασκευάζειν τὸν βίον αὑτῷ μηδὲν δεῖσθαι νυστάζοντος δικαστοῦ;
οὔκ, ἀλλὰ τοῦτʼ, ἔφη, ἐκείνου ἔτι αἴσχιον.
τὸ δὲ ἰατρικῆς, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, δεῖσθαι ὅτι μὴ τραυμάτων ἕνεκα ἤ τινων ἐπετείων νοσημάτων ἐπιπεσόντων, ἀλλὰ διʼ [405d] ἀργίαν τε καὶ δίαιταν οἵαν διήλθομεν, ῥευμάτων τε καὶ πνευμάτων ὥσπερ λίμνας ἐμπιμπλαμένους φύσας τε καὶ κατάρρους νοσήμασιν ὀνόματα τίθεσθαι ἀναγκάζειν τοὺς κομψοὺς Ἀσκληπιάδας, οὐκ αἰσχρὸν δοκεῖ;
καὶ μάλʼ, ἔφη· ὡς ἀληθῶς καινὰ ταῦτα καὶ ἄτοπα νοσημάτων ὀνόματα.
οἷα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὡς οἶμαι, οὐκ ἦν ἐπʼ Ἀσκληπιοῦ. [405e] τεκμαίρομαι δέ, ὅτι αὐτοῦ οἱ ὑεῖς ἐν Τροίᾳ Εὐρυπύλῳ τετρωμένῳ ἐπʼ οἶνον Πράμνειον ἄλφιτα πολλὰ ἐπιπασθέντα

[406a] καὶ τυρὸν ἐπιξυσθέντα, ἃ δὴ δοκεῖ φλεγματώδη εἶναι, οὐκ ἐμέμψαντο τῇ δούσῃ πιεῖν, οὐδὲ Πατρόκλῳ τῷ ἰωμένῳ ἐπετίμησαν.
καὶ μὲν δή, ἔφη, ἄτοπόν γε τὸ πῶμα οὕτως ἔχοντι.
οὔκ, εἴ γʼ ἐννοεῖς, εἶπον, ὅτι τῇ παιδαγωγικῇ τῶν νοσημάτων ταύτῃ τῇ νῦν ἰατρικῇ πρὸ τοῦ Ἀσκληπιάδαι οὐκ ἐχρῶντο, ὥς φασι, πρὶν Ἡρόδικον γενέσθαι· Ἡρόδικος δὲ παιδοτρίβης ὢν καὶ νοσώδης γενόμενος, μείξας γυμναστικὴν [406b] ἰατρικῇ, ἀπέκναισε πρῶτον μὲν καὶ μάλιστα ἑαυτόν, ἔπειτʼ ἄλλους ὕστερον πολλούς.
πῇ δή; ἔφη.
μακρόν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τὸν θάνατον αὑτῷ ποιήσας. παρακολουθῶν γὰρ τῷ νοσήματι θανασίμῳ ὄντι οὔτε ἰάσασθαι οἶμαι οἷός τʼ ἦν ἑαυτόν, ἐν ἀσχολίᾳ τε πάντων ἰατρευόμενος διὰ βίου ἔζη, ἀποκναιόμενος εἴ τι τῆς εἰωθυίας διαίτης ἐκβαίη, δυσθανατῶν δὲ ὑπὸ σοφίας εἰς γῆρας ἀφίκετο.
καλὸν ἄρα τὸ γέρας, ἔφη, τῆς τέχνης ἠνέγκατο. [406c]
οἷον εἰκός, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τὸν μὴ εἰδότα ὅτι Ἀσκληπιὸς οὐκ ἀγνοίᾳ οὐδὲ ἀπειρίᾳ τούτου τοῦ εἴδους τῆς ἰατρικῆς τοῖς ἐκγόνοις οὐ κατέδειξεν αὐτό, ἀλλʼ εἰδὼς ὅτι πᾶσι τοῖς εὐνομουμένοις ἔργον τι ἑκάστῳ ἐν τῇ πόλει προστέτακται, ὃ ἀναγκαῖον ἐργάζεσθαι, καὶ οὐδενὶ σχολὴ διὰ βίου κάμνειν ἰατρευομένῳ. ὃ ἡμεῖς γελοίως ἐπὶ μὲν τῶν δημιουργῶν αἰσθανόμεθα, ἐπὶ δὲ τῶν πλουσίων τε καὶ εὐδαιμόνων δοκούντων εἶναι οὐκ αἰσθανόμεθα.
πῶς; ἔφη. [406d]
τέκτων μέν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, κάμνων ἀξιοῖ παρὰ τοῦ ἰατροῦ φάρμακον πιὼν ἐξεμέσαι τὸ νόσημα, ἢ κάτω καθαρθεὶς ἢ καύσει ἢ τομῇ χρησάμενος ἀπηλλάχθαι· ἐὰν δέ τις αὐτῷ μακρὰν δίαιταν προστάττῃ, πιλίδιά τε περὶ τὴν κεφαλὴν περιτιθεὶς καὶ τὰ τούτοις ἑπόμενα, ταχὺ εἶπεν ὅτι οὐ σχολὴ κάμνειν οὐδὲ λυσιτελεῖ οὕτω ζῆν, νοσήματι τὸν νοῦν προσέχοντα, τῆς δὲ προκειμένης ἐργασίας ἀμελοῦντα. καὶ μετὰ ταῦτα χαίρειν [406e] εἰπὼν τῷ τοιούτῳ ἰατρῷ, εἰς τὴν εἰωθυῖαν δίαιταν ἐμβάς, ὑγιὴς γενόμενος ζῇ τὰ ἑαυτοῦ πράττων· ἐὰν δὲ μὴ ἱκανὸν ᾖ τὸ σῶμα ὑπενεγκεῖν, τελευτήσας πραγμάτων ἀπηλλάγη.
καὶ τῷ τοιούτῳ μέν γʼ, ἔφη, δοκεῖ πρέπειν οὕτω ἰατρικῇ χρῆσθαι.

[407a]
ἆρα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὅτι ἦν τι αὐτῷ ἔργον, ὃ εἰ μὴ πράττοι, οὐκ ἐλυσιτέλει ζῆν;
δῆλον, ἔφη.
ὁ δὲ δὴ πλούσιος, ὥς φαμεν, οὐδὲν ἔχει τοιοῦτον ἔργον προκείμενον, οὗ ἀναγκαζομένῳ ἀπέχεσθαι ἀβίωτον.
οὔκουν δὴ λέγεταί γε.
Φωκυλίδου γάρ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, οὐκ ἀκούεις πῶς φησι δεῖν, ὅταν τῳ ἤδη βίος ᾖ, ἀρετὴν ἀσκεῖν.
οἶμαι δέ γε, ἔφη, καὶ πρότερον.
μηδέν, εἶπον, περὶ τούτου αὐτῷ μαχώμεθα, ἀλλʼ ἡμᾶς αὐτοὺς διδάξωμεν πότερον μελετητέον τοῦτο τῷ πλουσίῳ [407b] καὶ ἀβίωτον τῷ μὴ μελετῶντι, ἢ νοσοτροφία τεκτονικῇ μὲν καὶ ταῖς ἄλλαις τέχναις ἐμπόδιον τῇ προσέξει τοῦ νοῦ, τὸ δὲ Φωκυλίδου παρακέλευμα οὐδὲν ἐμποδίζει.
ναὶ μὰ τὸν Δία, ἦ δʼ ὅς. σχεδόν γέ τι πάντων μάλιστα ἥ γε περαιτέρω γυμναστικῆς ἡ περιττὴ αὕτη ἐπιμέλεια τοῦ σώματος· καὶ γὰρ πρὸς οἰκονομίας καὶ πρὸς στρατείας καὶ πρὸς ἑδραίους ἐν πόλει ἀρχὰς δύσκολος.
τὸ δὲ δὴ μέγιστον, ὅτι καὶ πρὸς μαθήσεις ἁστινασοῦν καὶ [407c] ἐννοήσεις τε καὶ μελέτας πρὸς ἑαυτὸν χαλεπή, κεφαλῆς τινας ἀεὶ διατάσεις καὶ ἰλίγγους ὑποπτεύουσα καὶ αἰτιωμένη ἐκ φιλοσοφίας ἐγγίγνεσθαι, ὥστε, ὅπῃ ταύτῃ ἀρετὴ ἀσκεῖται καὶ δοκιμάζεται, πάντῃ ἐμπόδιος· κάμνειν γὰρ οἴεσθαι ποιεῖ ἀεὶ καὶ ὠδίνοντα μήποτε λήγειν περὶ τοῦ σώματος.
εἰκός γε, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν ταῦτα γιγνώσκοντα φῶμεν καὶ Ἀσκληπιὸν τοὺς μὲν φύσει τε καὶ διαίτῃ ὑγιεινῶς ἔχοντας τὰ σώματα, [407d] νόσημα δέ τι ἀποκεκριμένον ἴσχοντας ἐν αὑτοῖς, τούτοις μὲν καὶ ταύτῃ τῇ ἕξει καταδεῖξαι ἰατρικήν, φαρμάκοις τε καὶ τομαῖς τὰ νοσήματα ἐκβάλλοντα αὐτῶν τὴν εἰωθυῖαν προστάττειν δίαιταν, ἵνα μὴ τὰ πολιτικὰ βλάπτοι, τὰ δʼ εἴσω διὰ παντὸς νενοσηκότα σώματα οὐκ ἐπιχειρεῖν διαίταις κατὰ σμικρὸν ἀπαντλοῦντα καὶ ἐπιχέοντα μακρὸν καὶ κακὸν βίον ἀνθρώπῳ ποιεῖν, καὶ ἔκγονα αὐτῶν, ὡς τὸ εἰκός, ἕτερα τοιαῦτα φυτεύειν, ἀλλὰ τὸν μὴ δυνάμενον ἐν τῇ καθεστηκυίᾳ [407e] περιόδῳ ζῆν μὴ οἴεσθαι δεῖν θεραπεύειν, ὡς οὔτε αὑτῷ οὔτε πόλει λυσιτελῆ;
πολιτικόν, ἔφη, λέγεις Ἀσκληπιόν.
δῆλον, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ· καὶ οἱ παῖδες αὐτοῦ, ὅτι τοιοῦτος ἦν,

[408a]
οὐχ ὁρᾷς ὡς καὶ ἐν Τροίᾳ ἀγαθοὶ πρὸς τὸν πόλεμον ἐφάνησαν, καὶ τῇ ἰατρικῇ, ὡς ἐγὼ λέγω, ἐχρῶντο; ἢ οὐ μέμνησαι ὅτι καὶ τῷ Μενέλεῳ ἐκ τοῦ τραύματος οὗ ὁ Πάνδαρος ἔβαλεν—
αἷμʼ ἐκμυζήσαντες ἐπʼ ἤπια φάρμακʼ ἔπασσον,
ὅτι δʼ ἐχρῆν μετὰ τοῦτο ἢ πιεῖν ἢ φαγεῖν οὐδὲν μᾶλλον ἢ τῷ Εὐρυπύλῳ προσέταττον, ὡς ἱκανῶν ὄντων τῶν φαρμάκων ἰάσασθαι ἄνδρας πρὸ τῶν τραυμάτων ὑγιεινούς τε καὶ [408b] κοσμίους ἐν διαίτῃ, κἂν εἰ τύχοιεν ἐν τῷ παραχρῆμα κυκεῶνα πιόντες, νοσώδη δὲ φύσει τε καὶ ἀκόλαστον οὔτε αὐτοῖς οὔτε τοῖς ἄλλοις ᾤοντο λυσιτελεῖν ζῆν, οὐδʼ ἐπὶ τούτοις τὴν τέχνην δεῖν εἶναι, οὐδὲ θεραπευτέον αὐτούς, οὐδʼ εἰ Μίδου πλουσιώτεροι εἶεν.
πάνυ κομψούς, ἔφη, λέγεις Ἀσκληπιοῦ παῖδας.
πρέπει, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καίτοι ἀπειθοῦντές γε ἡμῖν οἱ τραγῳδοποιοί τε καὶ Πίνδαρος Ἀπόλλωνος μέν φασιν Ἀσκληπιὸν εἶναι, ὑπὸ δὲ χρυσοῦ πεισθῆναι πλούσιον ἄνδρα θανάσιμον [408c] ἤδη ὄντα ἰάσασθαι, ὅθεν δὴ καὶ κεραυνωθῆναι αὐτόν. ἡμεῖς δὲ κατὰ τὰ προειρημένα οὐ πεισόμεθα αὐτοῖς ἀμφότερα, ἀλλʼ εἰ μὲν θεοῦ ἦν, οὐκ ἦν, φήσομεν, αἰσχροκερδής· εἰ δʼ αἰσχροκερδής, οὐκ ἦν θεοῦ.
ὀρθότατα, ἦ δʼ ὅς, ταῦτά γε. ἀλλὰ περὶ τοῦδε τί λέγεις, ὦ Σώκρατες; ἆρʼ οὐκ ἀγαθοὺς δεῖ ἐν τῇ πόλει κεκτῆσθαι ἰατρούς; εἶεν δʼ ἄν που μάλιστα τοιοῦτοι ὅσοι [408d] πλείστους μὲν ὑγιεινούς, πλείστους δὲ νοσώδεις μετεχειρίσαντο, καὶ δικασταὶ αὖ ὡσαύτως οἱ παντοδαπαῖς φύσεσιν ὡμιληκότες.
καὶ μάλα, εἶπον, ἀγαθοὺς λέγω. ἀλλʼ οἶσθα οὓς ἡγοῦμαι τοιούτους;
ἂν εἴπῃς, ἔφη.
ἀλλὰ πειράσομαι, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ· σὺ μέντοι οὐχ ὅμοιον πρᾶγμα τῷ αὐτῷ λόγῳ ἤρου.
πῶς; ἔφη.
ἰατροὶ μέν, εἶπον, δεινότατοι ἂν γένοιντο, εἰ ἐκ παίδων ἀρξάμενοι πρὸς τῷ μανθάνειν τὴν τέχνην ὡς πλείστοις τε καὶ πονηροτάτοις σώμασιν ὁμιλήσειαν καὶ αὐτοὶ πάσας [408e] νόσους κάμοιεν καὶ εἶεν μὴ πάνυ ὑγιεινοὶ φύσει. οὐ γὰρ οἶμαι σώματι σῶμα θεραπεύουσιν—οὐ γὰρ ἂν αὐτὰ ἐνεχώρει κακὰ εἶναί ποτε καὶ γενέσθαι—ἀλλὰ ψυχῇ σῶμα, ᾗ οὐκ ἐγχωρεῖ κακὴν γενομένην τε καὶ οὖσαν εὖ τι θεραπεύειν.
ὀρθῶς, ἔφη.

[409a]
δικαστὴς δέ γε, ὦ φίλε, ψυχῇ ψυχῆς ἄρχει, ᾗ οὐκ ἐγχωρεῖ ἐκ νέας ἐν πονηραῖς ψυχαῖς τεθράφθαι τε καὶ ὡμιληκέναι καὶ πάντα ἀδικήματα αὐτὴν ἠδικηκυῖαν διεξεληλυθέναι, ὥστε ὀξέως ἀφʼ αὑτῆς τεκμαίρεσθαι τὰ τῶν ἄλλων ἀδικήματα οἷον κατὰ σῶμα νόσους· ἀλλʼ ἄπειρον αὐτὴν καὶ ἀκέραιον δεῖ κακῶν ἠθῶν νέαν οὖσαν γεγονέναι, εἰ μέλλει καλὴ κἀγαθὴ οὖσα κρινεῖν ὑγιῶς τὰ δίκαια. διὸ δὴ καὶ εὐήθεις νέοι ὄντες οἱ ἐπιεικεῖς φαίνονται καὶ εὐεξαπάτητοι [409b] ὑπὸ τῶν ἀδίκων, ἅτε οὐκ ἔχοντες ἐν ἑαυτοῖς παραδείγματα ὁμοιοπαθῆ τοῖς πονηροῖς.
καὶ μὲν δή, ἔφη, σφόδρα γε αὐτὸ πάσχουσι.
τῷ τοι, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, οὐ νέον ἀλλὰ γέροντα δεῖ τὸν ἀγαθὸν δικαστὴν εἶναι, ὀψιμαθῆ γεγονότα τῆς ἀδικίας οἷόν ἐστιν, οὐκ οἰκείαν ἐν τῇ αὑτοῦ ψυχῇ ἐνοῦσαν ᾐσθημένον, ἀλλʼ ἀλλοτρίαν ἐν ἀλλοτρίαις μεμελετηκότα ἐν πολλῷ χρόνῳ διαισθάνεσθαι οἷον πέφυκε κακόν, ἐπιστήμῃ, οὐκ [409c] ἐμπειρίᾳ οἰκείᾳ κεχρημένον.
γενναιότατος γοῦν, ἔφη, ἔοικεν εἶναι ὁ τοιοῦτος δικαστής.
καὶ ἀγαθός γε, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὃ σὺ ἠρώτας· ὁ γὰρ ἔχων ψυχὴν ἀγαθὴν ἀγαθός. ὁ δὲ δεινὸς ἐκεῖνος καὶ καχύποπτος, ὁ πολλὰ αὐτὸς ἠδικηκὼς καὶ πανοῦργός τε καὶ σοφὸς οἰόμενος εἶναι, ὅταν μὲν ὁμοίοις ὁμιλῇ, δεινὸς φαίνεται ἐξευλαβούμενος, πρὸς τὰ ἐν αὑτῷ παραδείγματα ἀποσκοπῶν· ὅταν δὲ ἀγαθοῖς καὶ πρεσβυτέροις ἤδη πλησιάσῃ, ἀβέλτερος [409d] αὖ φαίνεται, ἀπιστῶν παρὰ καιρὸν καὶ ἀγνοῶν ὑγιὲς ἦθος, ἅτε οὐκ ἔχων παράδειγμα τοῦ τοιούτου. πλεονάκις δὲ πονηροῖς ἢ χρηστοῖς ἐντυγχάνων σοφώτερος ἢ ἀμαθέστερος δοκεῖ εἶναι αὑτῷ τε καὶ ἄλλοις.
παντάπασι μὲν οὖν, ἔφη, ἀληθῆ.
οὐ τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τοιοῦτον χρὴ τὸν δικαστὴν ζητεῖν τὸν ἀγαθόν τε καὶ σοφόν, ἀλλὰ τὸν πρότερον· πονηρία μὲν γὰρ ἀρετήν τε καὶ αὑτὴν οὔποτʼ ἂν γνοίη, ἀρετὴ δὲ φύσεως παιδευομένης χρόνῳ ἅμα αὑτῆς τε καὶ πονηρίας ἐπιστήμην [409e] λήψεται. σοφὸς οὖν οὗτος, ὥς μοι δοκεῖ, ἀλλʼ οὐχ ὁ κακὸς γίγνεται.
καὶ ἐμοί, ἔφη, συνδοκεῖ.
οὐκοῦν καὶ ἰατρικήν, οἵαν εἴπομεν, μετὰ τῆς τοιαύτης δικαστικῆς κατὰ πόλιν νομοθετήσεις, αἳ τῶν πολιτῶν σοι

[410a]
τοὺς μὲν εὐφυεῖς τὰ σώματα καὶ τὰς ψυχὰς θεραπεύσουσι, τοὺς δὲ μή, ὅσοι μὲν κατὰ σῶμα τοιοῦτοι, ἀποθνῄσκειν ἐάσουσιν, τοὺς δὲ κατὰ τὴν ψυχὴν κακοφυεῖς καὶ ἀνιάτους αὐτοὶ ἀποκτενοῦσιν;
τὸ γοῦν ἄριστον, ἔφη, αὐτοῖς τε τοῖς πάσχουσιν καὶ τῇ πόλει οὕτω πέφανται.
οἱ δὲ δὴ νέοι, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, δῆλον ὅτι εὐλαβήσονταί σοι δικαστικῆς εἰς χρείαν ἰέναι, τῇ ἁπλῇ ἐκείνῃ μουσικῇ χρώμενοι ἣν δὴ ἔφαμεν σωφροσύνην ἐντίκτειν.
τί μήν; ἔφη. [410b]
ἆρʼ οὖν οὐ κατὰ ταὐτὰ ἴχνη ταῦτα ὁ μουσικὸς γυμναστικὴν διώκων, ἐὰν ἐθέλῃ, αἱρήσει, ὥστε μηδὲν ἰατρικῆς δεῖσθαι ὅτι μὴ ἀνάγκη;
ἔμοιγε δοκεῖ.
αὐτά γε μὴν τὰ γυμνάσια καὶ τοὺς πόνους πρὸς τὸ θυμοειδὲς τῆς φύσεως βλέπων κἀκεῖνο ἐγείρων πονήσει μᾶλλον ἢ πρὸς ἰσχύν, οὐχ ὥσπερ οἱ ἄλλοι ἀθληταὶ ῥώμης ἕνεκα σιτία καὶ πόνους μεταχειριεῖται.
ὀρθότατα, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
ἆρʼ οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὦ Γλαύκων, καὶ οἱ καθιστάντες [410c] μουσικῇ καὶ γυμναστικῇ παιδεύειν οὐχ οὗ ἕνεκά τινες οἴονται καθιστᾶσιν, ἵνα τῇ μὲν τὸ σῶμα θεραπεύοιντο, τῇ δὲ τὴν ψυχήν;
ἀλλὰ τί μήν; ἔφη.
κινδυνεύουσιν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἀμφότερα τῆς ψυχῆς ἕνεκα τὸ μέγιστον καθιστάναι.
πῶς δή;
οὐκ ἐννοεῖς, εἶπον, ὡς διατίθενται αὐτὴν τὴν διάνοιαν οἳ ἂν γυμναστικῇ μὲν διὰ βίου ὁμιλήσωσιν, μουσικῆς δὲ μὴ ἅψωνται; ἢ αὖ ὅσοι ἂν τοὐναντίον διατεθῶσιν;
τίνος δέ, ἦ δʼ ὅς, πέρι λέγεις; [410d]
ἀγριότητός τε καὶ σκληρότητος, καὶ αὖ μαλακίας τε καὶ ἡμερότητος, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ—
ἔγωγε, ἔφη· ὅτι οἱ μὲν γυμναστικῇ ἀκράτῳ χρησάμενοι ἀγριώτεροι τοῦ δέοντος ἀποβαίνουσιν, οἱ δὲ μουσικῇ μαλακώτεροι αὖ γίγνονται ἢ ὡς κάλλιον αὐτοῖς.
καὶ μήν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τό γε ἄγριον τὸ θυμοειδὲς ἂν τῆς φύσεως παρέχοιτο, καὶ ὀρθῶς μὲν τραφὲν ἀνδρεῖον ἂν εἴη, μᾶλλον δʼ ἐπιταθὲν τοῦ δέοντος σκληρόν τε καὶ χαλεπὸν γίγνοιτʼ ἄν, ὡς τὸ εἰκός.
δοκεῖ μοι, ἔφη. [410e]
τί δέ; τὸ ἥμερον οὐχ ἡ φιλόσοφος ἂν ἔχοι φύσις, καὶ μᾶλλον μὲν ἀνεθέντος αὐτοῦ μαλακώτερον εἴη τοῦ δέοντος, καλῶς δὲ τραφέντος ἥμερόν τε καὶ κόσμιον;
ἔστι ταῦτα.
δεῖν δέ γέ φαμεν τοὺς φύλακας ἀμφοτέρα ἔχειν τούτω τὼ φύσει.
δεῖ γάρ.
οὐκοῦν ἡρμόσθαι δεῖ αὐτὰς πρὸς ἀλλήλας;
πῶς δʼ οὔ;
καὶ τοῦ μὲν ἡρμοσμένου σώφρων τε καὶ ἀνδρεία ἡ

### Book III, 411–417

[411a]
ψυχή;
πάνυ γε.
τοῦ δὲ ἀναρμόστου δειλὴ καὶ ἄγροικος;
καὶ μάλα.
οὐκοῦν ὅταν μέν τις μουσικῇ παρέχῃ καταυλεῖν καὶ καταχεῖν τῆς ψυχῆς διὰ τῶν ὤτων ὥσπερ διὰ χώνης ἃς νυνδὴ ἡμεῖς ἐλέγομεν τὰς γλυκείας τε καὶ μαλακὰς καὶ θρηνώδεις ἁρμονίας, καὶ μινυρίζων τε καὶ γεγανωμένος ὑπὸ τῆς ᾠδῆς διατελῇ τὸν βίον ὅλον, οὗτος τὸ μὲν πρῶτον, εἴ τι θυμοειδὲς εἶχεν, ὥσπερ σίδηρον ἐμάλαξεν καὶ χρήσιμον [411b] ἐξ ἀχρήστου καὶ σκληροῦ ἐποίησεν· ὅταν δʼ ἐπέχων μὴ ἀνιῇ ἀλλὰ κηλῇ, τὸ δὴ μετὰ τοῦτο ἤδη τήκει καὶ λείβει, ἕως ἂν ἐκτήξῃ τὸν θυμὸν καὶ ἐκτέμῃ ὥσπερ νεῦρα ἐκ τῆς ψυχῆς καὶ ποιήσῃ μαλθακὸν αἰχμητήν.
πάνυ μὲν οὖν, ἔφη.
καὶ ἐὰν μέν γε, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἐξ ἀρχῆς φύσει ἄθυμον λάβῃ, ταχὺ τοῦτο διεπράξατο· ἐὰν δὲ θυμοειδῆ, ἀσθενῆ ποιήσας τὸν θυμὸν ὀξύρροπον ἀπηργάσατο, ἀπὸ σμικρῶν ταχὺ ἐρεθιζόμενόν [411c] τε καὶ κατασβεννύμενον. ἀκράχολοι οὖν καὶ ὀργίλοι ἀντὶ θυμοειδοῦς γεγένηνται, δυσκολίας ἔμπλεῳ.
κομιδῇ μὲν οὖν.
τί δὲ ἂν αὖ γυμναστικῇ πολλὰ πονῇ καὶ εὐωχῆται εὖ μάλα, μουσικῆς δὲ καὶ φιλοσοφίας μὴ ἅπτηται; οὐ πρῶτον μὲν εὖ ἴσχων τὸ σῶμα φρονήματός τε καὶ θυμοῦ ἐμπίμπλαται καὶ ἀνδρειότερος γίγνεται αὐτὸς αὑτοῦ;
καὶ μάλα γε.
τί δὲ ἐπειδὰν ἄλλο μηδὲν πράττῃ μηδὲ κοινωνῇ Μούσης [411d] μηδαμῇ; οὐκ εἴ τι καὶ ἐνῆν αὐτοῦ φιλομαθὲς ἐν τῇ ψυχῇ, ἅτε οὔτε μαθήματος γευόμενον οὐδενὸς οὔτε ζητήματος, οὔτε λόγου μετίσχον οὔτε τῆς ἄλλης μουσικῆς, ἀσθενές τε καὶ κωφὸν καὶ τυφλὸν γίγνεται, ἅτε οὐκ ἐγειρόμενον οὐδὲ τρεφόμενον οὐδὲ διακαθαιρομένων τῶν αἰσθήσεων αὐτοῦ;
οὕτως, ἔφη.
μισόλογος δὴ οἶμαι ὁ τοιοῦτος γίγνεται καὶ ἄμουσος, καὶ πειθοῖ μὲν διὰ λόγων οὐδὲν ἔτι χρῆται, βίᾳ δὲ καὶ [411e] ἀγριότητι ὥσπερ θηρίον πρὸς πάντα διαπράττεται, καὶ ἐν ἀμαθίᾳ καὶ σκαιότητι μετὰ ἀρρυθμίας τε καὶ ἀχαριστίας ζῇ.
παντάπασιν, ἦ δʼ ὅς, οὕτως ἔχει.
ἐπὶ δὴ δύʼ ὄντε τούτω, ὡς ἔοικε, δύο τέχνα θεὸν ἔγωγʼ ἄν τινα φαίην δεδωκέναι τοῖς ἀνθρώποις, μουσικήν τε καὶ γυμναστικὴν ἐπὶ τὸ θυμοειδὲς καὶ τὸ φιλόσοφον, οὐκ ἐπὶ ψυχὴν καὶ σῶμα, εἰ μὴ εἰ πάρεργον, ἀλλʼ ἐπʼ ἐκείνω, ὅπως

[412a]
ἂν ἀλλήλοιν συναρμοσθῆτον ἐπιτεινομένω καὶ ἀνιεμένω μέχρι τοῦ προσήκοντος.
καὶ γὰρ ἔοικεν, ἔφη.
τὸν κάλλιστʼ ἄρα μουσικῇ γυμναστικὴν κεραννύντα καὶ μετριώτατα τῇ ψυχῇ προσφέροντα, τοῦτον ὀρθότατʼ ἂν φαῖμεν εἶναι τελέως μουσικώτατον καὶ εὐαρμοστότατον, πολὺ μᾶλλον ἢ τὸν τὰς χορδὰς ἀλλήλαις συνιστάντα.
εἰκότως γʼ, ἔφη, ὦ Σώκρατες.
οὐκοῦν καὶ ἐν τῇ πόλει ἡμῖν, ὦ Γλαύκων, δεήσει τοῦ τοιούτου τινὸς ἀεὶ ἐπιστάτου, εἰ μέλλει ἡ πολιτεία σῴζεσθαι; [412b]
δεήσει μέντοι ὡς οἷόν τέ γε μάλιστα.
οἱ μὲν δὴ τύποι τῆς παιδείας τε καὶ τροφῆς οὗτοι ἂν εἶεν. χορείας γὰρ τί ἄν τις διεξίοι τῶν τοιούτων καὶ θήρας τε καὶ κυνηγέσια καὶ γυμνικοὺς ἀγῶνας καὶ ἱππικούς; σχεδὸν γάρ τι δῆλα δὴ ὅτι τούτοις ἑπόμενα δεῖ αὐτὰ εἶναι, καὶ οὐκέτι χαλεπὰ εὑρεῖν.
ἴσως, ἦ δʼ ὅς, οὐ χαλεπά.
εἶεν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ· τὸ δὴ μετὰ τοῦτο τί ἂν ἡμῖν διαιρετέον εἴη; ἆρʼ οὐκ αὐτῶν τούτων οἵτινες ἄρξουσί τε καὶ ἄρξονται; [412c]
τί μήν;
οὐκοῦν ὅτι μὲν πρεσβυτέρους τοὺς ἄρχοντας δεῖ εἶναι, νεωτέρους δὲ τοὺς ἀρχομένους, δῆλον;
δῆλον.
καὶ ὅτι γε τοὺς ἀρίστους αὐτῶν;
καὶ τοῦτο.
οἱ δὲ γεωργῶν ἄριστοι ἆρʼ οὐ γεωργικώτατοι γίγνονται;
ναί.
νῦν δʼ, ἐπειδὴ φυλάκων αὐτοὺς ἀρίστους δεῖ εἶναι, ἆρʼ οὐ φυλακικωτάτους πόλεως;
ναί.
οὐκοῦν φρονίμους τε εἰς τοῦτο δεῖ ὑπάρχειν καὶ δυνατοὺς καὶ ἔτι κηδεμόνας τῆς πόλεως; [412d]
ἔστι ταῦτα.
κήδοιτο δέ γʼ ἄν τις μάλιστα τούτου ὃ τυγχάνοι φιλῶν.
ἀνάγκη.
καὶ μὴν τοῦτό γʼ ἂν μάλιστα φιλοῖ, ᾧ συμφέρειν ἡγοῖτο τὰ αὐτὰ καὶ ἑαυτῷ καὶ [ὅταν μάλιστα] ἐκείνου μὲν εὖ πράττοντος οἴοιτο συμβαίνειν καὶ ἑαυτῷ εὖ πράττειν, μὴ δέ, τοὐναντίον.
οὕτως, ἔφη.
ἐκλεκτέον ἄρʼ ἐκ τῶν ἄλλων φυλάκων τοιούτους ἄνδρας, οἳ ἂν σκοποῦσιν ἡμῖν μάλιστα φαίνωνται παρὰ πάντα τὸν [412e] βίον, ὃ μὲν ἂν τῇ πόλει ἡγήσωνται συμφέρειν, πάσῃ προθυμίᾳ ποιεῖν, ὃ δʼ ἂν μή, μηδενὶ τρόπῳ πρᾶξαι ἂν ἐθέλειν.
ἐπιτήδειοι γάρ, ἔφη.
δοκεῖ δή μοι τηρητέον αὐτοὺς εἶναι ἐν ἁπάσαις ταῖς ἡλικίαις, εἰ φυλακικοί εἰσι τούτου τοῦ δόγματος καὶ μήτε γοητευόμενοι μήτε βιαζόμενοι ἐκβάλλουσιν ἐπιλανθανόμενοι δόξαν τὴν τοῦ ποιεῖν δεῖν ἃ τῇ πόλει βέλτιστα.
τίνα, ἔφη, λέγεις τὴν ἐκβολήν;
ἐγώ σοι, ἔφην, ἐρῶ. φαίνεταί μοι δόξα ἐξιέναι ἐκ διανοίας ἢ ἑκουσίως ἢ ἀκουσίως, ἑκουσίως μὲν ἡ ψευδὴς

[413a]
τοῦ μεταμανθάνοντος, ἀκουσίως δὲ πᾶσα ἡ ἀληθής.
τὸ μὲν τῆς ἑκουσίου, ἔφη, μανθάνω, τὸ δὲ τῆς ἀκουσίου δέομαι μαθεῖν.
τί δέ; οὐ καὶ σὺ ἡγῇ, ἔφην ἐγώ, τῶν μὲν ἀγαθῶν ἀκουσίως στέρεσθαι τοὺς ἀνθρώπους, τῶν δὲ κακῶν ἑκουσίως; ἢ οὐ τὸ μὲν ἐψεῦσθαι τῆς ἀληθείας κακόν, τὸ δὲ ἀληθεύειν ἀγαθόν; ἢ οὐ τὸ τὰ ὄντα δοξάζειν ἀληθεύειν δοκεῖ σοι εἶναι;
ἀλλʼ, ἦ δʼ ὅς, ὀρθῶς λέγεις, καί μοι δοκοῦσιν ἄκοντες ἀληθοῦς δόξης στερίσκεσθαι. [413b]
οὐκοῦν κλαπέντες ἢ γοητευθέντες ἢ βιασθέντες τοῦτο πάσχουσιν;
οὐδὲ νῦν, ἔφη, μανθάνω.
τραγικῶς, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, κινδυνεύω λέγειν. κλαπέντας μὲν γὰρ τοὺς μεταπεισθέντας λέγω καὶ τοὺς ἐπιλανθανομένους, ὅτι τῶν μὲν χρόνος, τῶν δὲ λόγος ἐξαιρούμενος λανθάνει· νῦν γάρ που μανθάνεις;
ναί.
τοὺς τοίνυν βιασθέντας λέγω οὓς ἂν ὀδύνη τις ἢ ἀλγηδὼν μεταδοξάσαι ποιήσῃ.
καὶ τοῦτʼ, ἔφη, ἔμαθον, καὶ ὀρθῶς λέγεις. [413c]
τοὺς μὴν γοητευθέντας, ὡς ἐγᾦμαι, κἂν σὺ φαίης εἶναι οἳ ἂν μεταδοξάσωσιν ἢ ὑφʼ ἡδονῆς κηληθέντες ἢ ὑπὸ φόβου τι δείσαντες.
ἔοικε γάρ, ἦ δʼ ὅς, γοητεύειν πάντα ὅσα ἀπατᾷ.
ὃ τοίνυν ἄρτι ἔλεγον, ζητητέον τίνες ἄριστοι φύλακες τοῦ παρʼ αὑτοῖς δόγματος, τοῦτο ὡς ποιητέον ὃ ἂν τῇ πόλει ἀεὶ δοκῶσι βέλτιστον εἶναι [αὑτοῖς ποιεῖν]. τηρητέον δὴ εὐθὺς ἐκ παίδων προθεμένοις ἔργα ἐν οἷς ἄν τις τὸ τοιοῦτον μάλιστα ἐπιλανθάνοιτο καὶ ἐξαπατῷτο, καὶ τὸν μὲν μνήμονα [413d] καὶ δυσεξαπάτητον ἐγκριτέον, τὸν δὲ μὴ ἀποκριτέον. ἦ γάρ;
ναί.
καὶ πόνους γε αὖ καὶ ἀλγηδόνας καὶ ἀγῶνας αὐτοῖς θετέον, ἐν οἷς ταὐτὰ ταῦτα τηρητέον.
ὀρθῶς, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καὶ τρίτου εἴδους τούτοις γοητείας ἅμιλλαν ποιητέον, καὶ θεατέον—ὥσπερ τοὺς πώλους ἐπὶ τοὺς ψόφους τε καὶ θορύβους ἄγοντες σκοποῦσιν εἰ φοβεροί, οὕτω νέους ὄντας εἰς δείματʼ ἄττα κομιστέον καὶ εἰς ἡδονὰς [413e] αὖ μεταβλητέον, βασανίζοντας πολὺ μᾶλλον ἢ χρυσὸν ἐν πυρί—εἰ δυσγοήτευτος καὶ εὐσχήμων ἐν πᾶσι φαίνεται, φύλαξ αὑτοῦ ὢν ἀγαθὸς καὶ μουσικῆς ἧς ἐμάνθανεν, εὔρυθμόν τε καὶ εὐάρμοστον ἑαυτὸν ἐν πᾶσι τούτοις παρέχων, οἷος δὴ ἂν ὢν καὶ ἑαυτῷ καὶ πόλει χρησιμώτατος εἴη.
καὶ τὸν ἀεὶ ἔν τε παισὶ καὶ νεανίσκοις καὶ ἐν ἀνδράσι βασανιζόμενον

[414a]
καὶ ἀκήρατον ἐκβαίνοντα καταστατέον ἄρχοντα τῆς πόλεως καὶ φύλακα, καὶ τιμὰς δοτέον καὶ ζῶντι καὶ τελευτήσαντι, τάφων τε καὶ τῶν ἄλλων μνημείων μέγιστα γέρα λαγχάνοντα· τὸν δὲ μὴ τοιοῦτον ἀποκριτέον. τοιαύτη τις, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, δοκεῖ μοι, ὦ Γλαύκων, ἡ ἐκλογὴ εἶναι καὶ κατάστασις τῶν ἀρχόντων τε καὶ φυλάκων, ὡς ἐν τύπῳ, μὴ διʼ ἀκριβείας, εἰρῆσθαι.
καὶ ἐμοί, ἦ δʼ ὅς, οὕτως πῃ φαίνεται. [414b]
ἆρʼ οὖν ὡς ἀληθῶς ὀρθότατον καλεῖν τούτους μὲν φύλακας παντελεῖς τῶν τε ἔξωθεν πολεμίων τῶν τε ἐντὸς φιλίων, ὅπως οἱ μὲν μὴ βουλήσονται, οἱ δὲ μὴ δυνήσονται κακουργεῖν, τοὺς δὲ νέους, οὓς δὴ νῦν φύλακας ἐκαλοῦμεν, ἐπικούρους τε καὶ βοηθοὺς τοῖς τῶν ἀρχόντων δόγμασιν;
ἔμοιγε δοκεῖ, ἔφη.
τίς ἂν οὖν ἡμῖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, μηχανὴ γένοιτο τῶν ψευδῶν τῶν ἐν δέοντι γιγνομένων, ὧν δὴ νῦν ἐλέγομεν, γενναῖόν [414c] τι ἓν ψευδομένους πεῖσαι μάλιστα μὲν καὶ αὐτοὺς τοὺς ἄρχοντας, εἰ δὲ μή, τὴν ἄλλην πόλιν;
ποῖόν τι; ἔφη.
μηδὲν καινόν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἀλλὰ Φοινικικόν τι, πρότερον μὲν ἤδη πολλαχοῦ γεγονός, ὥς φασιν οἱ ποιηταὶ καὶ πεπείκασιν, ἐφʼ ἡμῶν δὲ οὐ γεγονὸς οὐδʼ οἶδα εἰ γενόμενον ἄν, πεῖσαι δὲ συχνῆς πειθοῦς.
ὡς ἔοικας, ἔφη, ὀκνοῦντι λέγειν.
δόξω δέ σοι, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καὶ μάλʼ εἰκότως ὀκνεῖν, ἐπειδὰν εἴπω.
λέγʼ, ἔφη, καὶ μὴ φοβοῦ. [414d]
λέγω δή—καίτοι οὐκ οἶδα ὁποίᾳ τόλμῃ ἢ ποίοις λόγοις χρώμενος ἐρῶ—καὶ ἐπιχειρήσω πρῶτον μὲν αὐτοὺς τοὺς ἄρχοντας πείθειν καὶ τοὺς στρατιώτας, ἔπειτα δὲ καὶ τὴν ἄλλην πόλιν, ὡς ἄρʼ ἃ ἡμεῖς αὐτοὺς ἐτρέφομέν τε καὶ ἐπαιδεύομεν, ὥσπερ ὀνείρατα ἐδόκουν ταῦτα πάντα πάσχειν τε καὶ γίγνεσθαι περὶ αὐτούς, ἦσαν δὲ τότε τῇ ἀληθείᾳ ὑπὸ γῆς ἐντὸς πλαττόμενοι καὶ τρεφόμενοι καὶ αὐτοὶ καὶ τὰ [414e] ὅπλα αὐτῶν καὶ ἡ ἄλλη σκευὴ δημιουργουμένη, ἐπειδὴ δὲ παντελῶς ἐξειργασμένοι ἦσαν, καὶ ἡ γῆ αὐτοὺς μήτηρ οὖσα ἀνῆκεν, καὶ νῦν δεῖ ὡς περὶ μητρὸς καὶ τροφοῦ τῆς χώρας ἐν ᾗ εἰσι βουλεύεσθαί τε καὶ ἀμύνειν αὐτούς, ἐάν τις ἐπʼ αὐτὴν ἴῃ, καὶ ὑπὲρ τῶν ἄλλων πολιτῶν ὡς ἀδελφῶν ὄντων καὶ γηγενῶν διανοεῖσθαι.
οὐκ ἐτός, ἔφη, πάλαι ᾐσχύνου τὸ ψεῦδος λέγειν.

[415a]
πάνυ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, εἰκότως· ἀλλʼ ὅμως ἄκουε καὶ τὸ λοιπὸν τοῦ μύθου. ἐστὲ μὲν γὰρ δὴ πάντες οἱ ἐν τῇ πόλει ἀδελφοί, ὡς φήσομεν πρὸς αὐτοὺς μυθολογοῦντες, ἀλλʼ ὁ θεὸς πλάττων, ὅσοι μὲν ὑμῶν ἱκανοὶ ἄρχειν, χρυσὸν ἐν τῇ γενέσει συνέμειξεν αὐτοῖς, διὸ τιμιώτατοί εἰσιν· ὅσοι δʼ ἐπίκουροι, ἄργυρον· σίδηρον δὲ καὶ χαλκὸν τοῖς τε γεωργοῖς καὶ τοῖς ἄλλοις δημιουργοῖς. ἅτε οὖν συγγενεῖς ὄντες πάντες τὸ μὲν πολὺ ὁμοίους ἂν ὑμῖν αὐτοῖς γεννῷτε, [415b] ἔστι δʼ ὅτε ἐκ χρυσοῦ γεννηθείη ἂν ἀργυροῦν καὶ ἐξ ἀργύρου χρυσοῦν ἔκγονον καὶ τἆλλα πάντα οὕτως ἐξ ἀλλήλων. τοῖς οὖν ἄρχουσι καὶ πρῶτον καὶ μάλιστα παραγγέλλει ὁ θεός, ὅπως μηδενὸς οὕτω φύλακες ἀγαθοὶ ἔσονται μηδʼ οὕτω σφόδρα φυλάξουσι μηδὲν ὡς τοὺς ἐκγόνους, ὅτι αὐτοῖς τούτων ἐν ταῖς ψυχαῖς παραμέμεικται, καὶ ἐάν τε σφέτερος ἔκγονος ὑπόχαλκος ἢ ὑποσίδηρος γένηται, μηδενὶ [415c] τρόπῳ κατελεήσουσιν, ἀλλὰ τὴν τῇ φύσει προσήκουσαν τιμὴν ἀποδόντες ὤσουσιν εἰς δημιουργοὺς ἢ εἰς γεωργούς, καὶ ἂν αὖ ἐκ τούτων τις ὑπόχρυσος ἢ ὑπάργυρος φυῇ, τιμήσαντες ἀνάξουσι τοὺς μὲν εἰς φυλακήν, τοὺς δὲ εἰς ἐπικουρίαν, ὡς χρησμοῦ ὄντος τότε τὴν πόλιν διαφθαρῆναι, ὅταν αὐτὴν ὁ σιδηροῦς φύλαξ ἢ ὁ χαλκοῦς φυλάξῃ. τοῦτον οὖν τὸν μῦθον ὅπως ἂν πεισθεῖεν, ἔχεις τινὰ μηχανήν; [415d]
οὐδαμῶς, ἔφη, ὅπως γʼ ἂν αὐτοὶ οὗτοι· ὅπως μεντἂν οἱ τούτων ὑεῖς καὶ οἱ ἔπειτα οἵ τʼ ἄλλοι ἄνθρωποι οἱ ὕστερον.
ἀλλὰ καὶ τοῦτο, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, εὖ ἂν ἔχοι πρὸς τὸ μᾶλλον αὐτοὺς τῆς πόλεώς τε καὶ ἀλλήλων κήδεσθαι· σχεδὸν γάρ τι μανθάνω ὃ λέγεις.
καὶ τοῦτο μὲν δὴ ἕξει ὅπῃ ἂν αὐτὸ ἡ φήμη ἀγάγῃ· ἡμεῖς δὲ τούτους τοὺς γηγενεῖς ὁπλίσαντες προάγωμεν ἡγουμένων τῶν ἀρχόντων. ἐλθόντες δὲ θεασάσθων τῆς πόλεως ὅπου κάλλιστον στρατοπεδεύσασθαι, ὅθεν τούς τε [415e] ἔνδον μάλιστʼ ἂν κατέχοιεν, εἴ τις μὴ ἐθέλοι τοῖς νόμοις πείθεσθαι, τούς τε ἔξωθεν ἀπαμύνοιεν, εἰ πολέμιος ὥσπερ λύκος ἐπὶ ποίμνην τις ἴοι· στρατοπεδευσάμενοι δέ, θύσαντες οἷς χρή, εὐνὰς ποιησάσθων. ἢ πῶς;
οὕτως, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν τοιαύτας, οἵας χειμῶνός τε στέγειν καὶ θέρους ἱκανὰς εἶναι;
πῶς γὰρ οὐχί; οἰκήσεις γάρ, ἔφη, δοκεῖς μοι λέγειν.
ναί, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, στρατιωτικάς γε, ἀλλʼ οὐ χρηματιστικάς.

[416a]
πῶς, ἔφη, αὖ τοῦτο λέγεις διαφέρειν ἐκείνου;
ἐγώ σοι, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, πειράσομαι εἰπεῖν. δεινότατον γάρ που πάντων καὶ αἴσχιστον ποιμέσι τοιούτους γε καὶ οὕτω τρέφειν κύνας ἐπικούρους ποιμνίων, ὥστε ὑπὸ ἀκολασίας ἢ λιμοῦ ἤ τινος ἄλλου κακοῦ ἔθους αὐτοὺς τοὺς κύνας ἐπιχειρῆσαι τοῖς προβάτοις κακουργεῖν καὶ ἀντὶ κυνῶν λύκοις ὁμοιωθῆναι.
δεινόν, ἦ δʼ ὅς· πῶς δʼ οὔ; [416b]
οὐκοῦν φυλακτέον παντὶ τρόπῳ μὴ τοιοῦτον ἡμῖν οἱ ἐπίκουροι ποιήσωσι πρὸς τοὺς πολίτας, ἐπειδὴ αὐτῶν κρείττους εἰσίν, ἀντὶ συμμάχων εὐμενῶν δεσπόταις ἀγρίοις ἀφομοιωθῶσιν;
φυλακτέον, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν τὴν μεγίστην τῆς εὐλαβείας παρεσκευασμένοι ἂν εἶεν, εἰ τῷ ὄντι καλῶς πεπαιδευμένοι εἰσίν;
ἀλλὰ μὴν εἰσίν γʼ, ἔφη.
καὶ ἐγὼ εἶπον· τοῦτο μὲν οὐκ ἄξιον διισχυρίζεσθαι, ὦ φίλε Γλαύκων· ὃ μέντοι ἄρτι ἐλέγομεν, ἄξιον, ὅτι δεῖ [416c] αὐτοὺς τῆς ὀρθῆς τυχεῖν παιδείας, ἥτις ποτέ ἐστιν, εἰ μέλλουσι τὸ μέγιστον ἔχειν πρὸς τὸ ἥμεροι εἶναι αὑτοῖς τε καὶ τοῖς φυλαττομένοις ὑπʼ αὐτῶν.
καὶ ὀρθῶς γε, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
πρὸς τοίνυν τῇ παιδείᾳ ταύτῃ φαίη ἄν τις νοῦν ἔχων δεῖν καὶ τὰς οἰκήσεις καὶ τὴν ἄλλην οὐσίαν τοιαύτην αὐτοῖς παρεσκευάσθαι, ἥτις μήτε τοῦ φύλακας ὡς ἀρίστους εἶναι παύσει [416d] αὐτούς, κακουργεῖν τε μὴ ἐπαρεῖ περὶ τοὺς ἄλλους πολίτας.
καὶ ἀληθῶς γε φήσει.
ὅρα δή, εἶπον ἐγώ, εἰ τοιόνδε τινὰ τρόπον δεῖ αὐτοὺς ζῆν τε καὶ οἰκεῖν, εἰ μέλλουσι τοιοῦτοι ἔσεσθαι· πρῶτον μὲν οὐσίαν κεκτημένον μηδεμίαν μηδένα ἰδίαν, ἂν μὴ πᾶσα ἀνάγκη· ἔπειτα οἴκησιν καὶ ταμιεῖον μηδενὶ εἶναι μηδὲν τοιοῦτον, εἰς ὃ οὐ πᾶς ὁ βουλόμενος εἴσεισι· τὰ δʼ ἐπιτήδεια, ὅσων δέονται ἄνδρες ἀθληταὶ πολέμου σώφρονές τε καὶ [416e] ἀνδρεῖοι, ταξαμένους παρὰ τῶν ἄλλων πολιτῶν δέχεσθαι μισθὸν τῆς φυλακῆς τοσοῦτον ὅσον μήτε περιεῖναι αὐτοῖς εἰς τὸν ἐνιαυτὸν μήτε ἐνδεῖν· φοιτῶντας δὲ εἰς συσσίτια ὥσπερ ἐστρατοπεδευμένους κοινῇ ζῆν·
χρυσίον δὲ καὶ ἀργύριον εἰπεῖν αὐτοῖς ὅτι θεῖον παρὰ θεῶν ἀεὶ ἐν τῇ ψυχῇ ἔχουσι καὶ οὐδὲν προσδέονται τοῦ ἀνθρωπείου, οὐδὲ ὅσια τὴν ἐκείνου κτῆσιν τῇ τοῦ θνητοῦ χρυσοῦ κτήσει συμμειγνύντας μιαίνειν, διότι πολλὰ καὶ ἀνόσια περὶ τὸ τῶν

[417a]
πολλῶν νόμισμα γέγονεν, τὸ παρʼ ἐκείνοις δὲ ἀκήρατον· ἀλλὰ μόνοις αὐτοῖς τῶν ἐν τῇ πόλει μεταχειρίζεσθαι καὶ ἅπτεσθαι χρυσοῦ καὶ ἀργύρου οὐ θέμις, οὐδʼ ὑπὸ τὸν αὐτὸν ὄροφον ἰέναι οὐδὲ περιάψασθαι οὐδὲ πίνειν ἐξ ἀργύρου ἢ χρυσοῦ. καὶ οὕτω μὲν σῴζοιντό τʼ ἂν καὶ σῴζοιεν τὴν πόλιν· ὁπότε δʼ αὐτοὶ γῆν τε ἰδίαν καὶ οἰκίας καὶ νομίσματα κτήσονται, οἰκονόμοι μὲν καὶ γεωργοὶ ἀντὶ φυλάκων ἔσονται, [417b] δεσπόται δʼ ἐχθροὶ ἀντὶ συμμάχων τῶν ἄλλων πολιτῶν γενήσονται, μισοῦντες δὲ δὴ καὶ μισούμενοι καὶ ἐπιβουλεύοντες καὶ ἐπιβουλευόμενοι διάξουσι πάντα τὸν βίον, πολὺ πλείω καὶ μᾶλλον δεδιότες τοὺς ἔνδον ἢ τοὺς ἔξωθεν πολεμίους, θέοντες ἤδη τότε ἐγγύτατα ὀλέθρου αὐτοί τε καὶ ἡ ἄλλη πόλις. τούτων οὖν πάντων ἕνεκα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, φῶμεν οὕτω δεῖν κατεσκευάσθαι τοὺς φύλακας οἰκήσεώς τε πέρι καὶ τῶν ἄλλων, καὶ ταῦτα νομοθετήσωμεν, ἢ μή;
πάνυ γε, ἦ δʼ ὃς ὁ Γλαύκων.

### Book IV, 419–427

[419a]
καὶ ὁ Ἀδείμαντος ὑπολαβών, τί οὖν, ἔφη, ὦ Σώκρατες, ἀπολογήσῃ, ἐάν τίς σε φῇ μὴ πάνυ τι εὐδαίμονας ποιεῖν τούτους τοὺς ἄνδρας, καὶ ταῦτα διʼ ἑαυτούς, ὧν ἔστι μὲν ἡ πόλις τῇ ἀληθείᾳ, οἱ δὲ μηδὲν ἀπολαύουσιν ἀγαθὸν τῆς πόλεως, οἷον ἄλλοι ἀγρούς τε κεκτημένοι καὶ οἰκίας οἰκοδομούμενοι καλὰς καὶ μεγάλας, καὶ ταύταις πρέπουσαν κατασκευὴν κτώμενοι, καὶ θυσίας θεοῖς ἰδίας θύοντες, καὶ ξενοδοκοῦντες, καὶ δὴ καὶ ἃ νυνδὴ σὺ ἔλεγες, χρυσόν τε καὶ ἄργυρον κεκτημένοι καὶ πάντα ὅσα νομίζεται τοῖς μέλλουσιν μακαρίοις εἶναι;
ἀλλʼ ἀτεχνῶς, φαίη ἄν, ὥσπερ ἐπίκουροι μισθωτοὶ ἐν

[420a]
τῇ πόλει φαίνονται καθῆσθαι οὐδὲν ἄλλο ἢ φρουροῦντες.
ναί, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καὶ ταῦτά γε ἐπισίτιοι καὶ οὐδὲ μισθὸν πρὸς τοῖς σιτίοις λαμβάνοντες ὥσπερ οἱ ἄλλοι, ὥστε οὐδʼ ἂν ἀποδημῆσαι βούλωνται ἰδίᾳ, ἐξέσται αὐτοῖς, οὐδʼ ἑταίραις διδόναι, οὐδʼ ἀναλίσκειν ἄν ποι βούλωνται ἄλλοσε, οἷα δὴ οἱ εὐδαίμονες δοκοῦντες εἶναι ἀναλίσκουσι. ταῦτα καὶ ἄλλα τοιαῦτα συχνὰ τῆς κατηγορίας ἀπολείπεις.
ἀλλʼ, ἦ δʼ ὅς, ἔστω καὶ ταῦτα κατηγορημένα. [420b]
τί οὖν δὴ ἀπολογησόμεθα, φῄς;
ναί.
τὸν αὐτὸν οἶμον, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, πορευόμενοι εὑρήσομεν, ὡς ἐγᾦμαι, ἃ λεκτέα. ἐροῦμεν γὰρ ὅτι θαυμαστὸν μὲν ἂν οὐδὲν εἴη εἰ καὶ οὗτοι οὕτως εὐδαιμονέστατοί εἰσιν, οὐ μὴν πρὸς τοῦτο βλέποντες τὴν πόλιν οἰκίζομεν, ὅπως ἕν τι ἡμῖν ἔθνος ἔσται διαφερόντως εὔδαιμον, ἀλλʼ ὅπως ὅτι μάλιστα ὅλη ἡ πόλις. ᾠήθημεν γὰρ ἐν τῇ τοιαύτῃ μάλιστα ἂν εὑρεῖν δικαιοσύνην καὶ αὖ ἐν τῇ κάκιστα οἰκουμένῃ [420c] ἀδικίαν, κατιδόντες δὲ κρῖναι ἂν ὃ πάλαι ζητοῦμεν. νῦν μὲν οὖν, ὡς οἰόμεθα, τὴν εὐδαίμονα πλάττομεν οὐκ ἀπολαβόντες ὀλίγους ἐν αὐτῇ τοιούτους τινὰς τιθέντες, ἀλλʼ ὅλην· αὐτίκα δὲ τὴν ἐναντίαν σκεψόμεθα. ὥσπερ οὖν ἂν εἰ ἡμᾶς ἀνδριάντα γράφοντας προσελθών τις ἔψεγε λέγων ὅτι οὐ τοῖς καλλίστοις τοῦ ζῴου τὰ κάλλιστα φάρμακα προστίθεμεν—οἱ γὰρ ὀφθαλμοὶ κάλλιστον ὂν οὐκ ὀστρείῳ ἐναληλιμμένοι εἶεν ἀλλὰ μέλανι—μετρίως ἂν ἐδοκοῦμεν [420d] πρὸς αὐτὸν ἀπολογεῖσθαι λέγοντες· ὦ θαυμάσιε, μὴ οἴου δεῖν ἡμᾶς οὕτω καλοὺς ὀφθαλμοὺς γράφειν, ὥστε μηδὲ ὀφθαλμοὺς φαίνεσθαι, μηδʼ αὖ τἆλλα μέρη, ἀλλʼ ἄθρει εἰ τὰ προσήκοντα ἑκάστοις ἀποδιδόντες τὸ ὅλον καλὸν ποιοῦμεν· καὶ δὴ καὶ νῦν μὴ ἀνάγκαζε ἡμᾶς τοιαύτην εὐδαιμονίαν τοῖς φύλαξι προσάπτειν, ἣ ἐκείνους πᾶν μᾶλλον [420e] ἀπεργάσεται ἢ φύλακας. ἐπιστάμεθα γὰρ καὶ τοὺς γεωργοὺς ξυστίδας ἀμφιέσαντες καὶ χρυσὸν περιθέντες πρὸς ἡδονὴν ἐργάζεσθαι κελεύειν τὴν γῆν, καὶ τοὺς κεραμέας κατακλίναντες ἐπὶ δεξιὰ πρὸς τὸ πῦρ διαπίνοντάς τε καὶ εὐωχουμένους, τὸν τροχὸν παραθεμένους, ὅσον ἂν ἐπιθυμῶσι κεραμεύειν, καὶ τοὺς ἄλλους πάντας τοιούτῳ τρόπῳ μακαρίους ποιεῖν, ἵνα δὴ ὅλη ἡ πόλις εὐδαιμονῇ.
ἀλλʼ ἡμᾶς μὴ οὕτω νουθέτει· ὡς, ἄν σοι πειθώμεθα, οὔτε ὁ γεωργὸς γεωργὸς

[421a]
ἔσται οὔτε ὁ κεραμεὺς κεραμεὺς οὔτε ἄλλος οὐδεὶς οὐδὲν ἔχων σχῆμα ἐξ ὧν πόλις γίγνεται. ἀλλὰ τῶν μὲν ἄλλων ἐλάττων λόγος· νευρορράφοι γὰρ φαῦλοι γενόμενοι καὶ διαφθαρέντες καὶ προσποιησάμενοι εἶναι μὴ ὄντες πόλει οὐδὲν δεινόν, φύλακες δὲ νόμων τε καὶ πόλεως μὴ ὄντες ἀλλὰ δοκοῦντες ὁρᾷς δὴ ὅτι πᾶσαν ἄρδην πόλιν ἀπολλύασιν, καὶ αὖ τοῦ εὖ οἰκεῖν καὶ εὐδαιμονεῖν μόνοι τὸν καιρὸν ἔχουσιν. εἰ μὲν οὖν ἡμεῖς μὲν φύλακας ὡς ἀληθῶς [421b] ποιοῦμεν ἥκιστα κακούργους τῆς πόλεως, ὁ δʼ ἐκεῖνο λέγων γεωργούς τινας καὶ ὥσπερ ἐν πανηγύρει ἀλλʼ οὐκ ἐν πόλει ἑστιάτορας εὐδαίμονας, ἄλλο ἄν τι ἢ πόλιν λέγοι. σκεπτέον οὖν πότερον πρὸς τοῦτο βλέποντες τοὺς φύλακας καθιστῶμεν, ὅπως ὅτι πλείστη αὐτοῖς εὐδαιμονία ἐγγενήσεται, ἢ τοῦτο μὲν εἰς τὴν πόλιν ὅλην βλέποντας θεατέον εἰ ἐκείνῃ ἐγγίγνεται, τοὺς δʼ ἐπικούρους τούτους καὶ τοὺς [421c] φύλακας ἐκεῖνο ἀναγκαστέον ποιεῖν καὶ πειστέον, ὅπως ὅτι ἄριστοι δημιουργοὶ τοῦ ἑαυτῶν ἔργου ἔσονται, καὶ τοὺς ἄλλους ἅπαντας ὡσαύτως, καὶ οὕτω συμπάσης τῆς πόλεως αὐξανομένης καὶ καλῶς οἰκιζομένης ἐατέον ὅπως ἑκάστοις τοῖς ἔθνεσιν ἡ φύσις ἀποδίδωσι τοῦ μεταλαμβάνειν εὐδαιμονίας.
ἀλλʼ, ἦ δʼ ὅς, καλῶς μοι δοκεῖς λέγειν.
ἆρʼ οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καὶ τὸ τούτου ἀδελφὸν δόξω σοι μετρίως λέγειν;
τί μάλιστα; [421d]
τοὺς ἄλλους αὖ δημιουργοὺς σκόπει εἰ τάδε διαφθείρει, ὥστε καὶ κακοὺς γίγνεσθαι.
τὰ ποῖα δὴ ταῦτα;
πλοῦτος, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καὶ πενία.
πῶς δή;
ὧδε. πλουτήσας χυτρεὺς δοκεῖ σοι ἔτʼ ἐθελήσειν ἐπιμελεῖσθαι τῆς τέχνης;
οὐδαμῶς, ἔφη.
Ἀργὸς δὲ καὶ ἀμελὴς γενήσεται μᾶλλον αὐτὸς αὑτοῦ;
πολύ γε.
οὐκοῦν κακίων χυτρεὺς γίγνεται;
καὶ τοῦτο, ἔφη, πολύ.
καὶ μὴν καὶ ὄργανά γε μὴ ἔχων παρέχεσθαι ὑπὸ πενίας ἤ τι ἄλλο τῶν εἰς τὴν τέχνην τά τε ἔργα πονηρότερα [421e] ἐργάσεται καὶ τοὺς ὑεῖς ἢ ἄλλους οὓς ἂν διδάσκῃ χείρους δημιουργοὺς διδάξεται.
πῶς δʼ οὔ;
ὑπʼ ἀμφοτέρων δή, πενίας τε καὶ πλούτου, χείρω μὲν τὰ τῶν τεχνῶν ἔργα, χείρους δὲ αὐτοί.
φαίνεται.
ἕτερα δή, ὡς ἔοικε, τοῖς φύλαξιν ηὑρήκαμεν, ἃ παντὶ τρόπῳ φυλακτέον ὅπως μήποτε αὐτοὺς λήσει εἰς τὴν πόλιν παραδύντα.
τὰ ποῖα ταῦτα;

[422a]
πλοῦτός τε, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καὶ πενία· ὡς τοῦ μὲν τρυφὴν καὶ ἀργίαν καὶ νεωτερισμὸν ἐμποιοῦντος, τῆς δὲ ἀνελευθερίαν καὶ κακοεργίαν πρὸς τῷ νεωτερισμῷ.
πάνυ μὲν οὖν, ἔφη. τόδε μέντοι, ὦ Σώκρατες, σκόπει, πῶς ἡμῖν ἡ πόλις οἵα τʼ ἔσται πολεμεῖν, ἐπειδὰν χρήματα μὴ κεκτημένη ᾖ, ἄλλως τε κἂν πρὸς μεγάλην τε καὶ πλουσίαν ἀναγκασθῇ πολεμεῖν.
δῆλον, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὅτι πρὸς μὲν μίαν χαλεπώτερον, [422b] πρὸς δὲ δύο τοιαύτας ῥᾷον.
πῶς εἶπες; ἦ δʼ ὅς.
πρῶτον μέν που, εἶπον, ἐὰν δέῃ μάχεσθαι, ἆρα οὐ πλουσίοις ἀνδράσι μαχοῦνται αὐτοὶ ὄντες πολέμου ἀθληταί;
ναὶ τοῦτό γε, ἔφη.
τί οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὦ Ἀδείμαντε; εἷς πύκτης ὡς οἷόν τε κάλλιστα ἐπὶ τοῦτο παρεσκευασμένος δυοῖν μὴ πύκταιν, πλουσίοιν δὲ καὶ πιόνοιν, οὐκ ἂν δοκεῖ σοι ῥᾳδίως μάχεσθαι;
οὐκ ἂν ἴσως, ἔφη, ἅμα γε.
οὐδʼ εἰ ἐξείη, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὑποφεύγοντι τὸν πρότερον ἀεὶ [422c] προσφερόμενον ἀναστρέφοντα κρούειν, καὶ τοῦτο ποιοῖ πολλάκις ἐν ἡλίῳ τε καὶ πνίγει; ἆρά γε οὐ καὶ πλείους χειρώσαιτʼ ἂν τοιούτους ὁ τοιοῦτος;
ἀμέλει, ἔφη, οὐδὲν ἂν γένοιτο θαυμαστόν.
ἀλλʼ οὐκ οἴει πυκτικῆς πλέον μετέχειν τοὺς πλουσίους ἐπιστήμῃ τε καὶ ἐμπειρίᾳ ἢ πολεμικῆς;
ἔγωγʼ, ἔφη.
ῥᾳδίως ἄρα ἡμῖν οἱ ἀθληταὶ ἐκ τῶν εἰκότων διπλασίοις τε καὶ τριπλασίοις αὑτῶν μαχοῦνται.
συγχωρήσομαί σοι, ἔφη· δοκεῖς γάρ μοι ὀρθῶς λέγειν. [422d]
τί δʼ ἂν πρεσβείαν πέμψαντες εἰς τὴν ἑτέραν πόλιν τἀληθῆ εἴπωσιν, ὅτι ἡμεῖς μὲν οὐδὲν χρυσίῳ οὐδʼ ἀργυρίῳ χρώμεθα, οὐδʼ ἡμῖν θέμις, ὑμῖν δέ· συμπολεμήσαντες οὖν μεθʼ ἡμῶν ἔχετε τὰ τῶν ἑτέρων; οἴει τινὰς ἀκούσαντας ταῦτα αἱρήσεσθαι κυσὶ πολεμεῖν στερεοῖς τε καὶ ἰσχνοῖς μᾶλλον ἢ μετὰ κυνῶν προβάτοις πίοσί τε καὶ ἁπαλοῖς;
οὔ μοι δοκεῖ. ἀλλʼ ἐὰν εἰς μίαν, ἔφη, πόλιν συναθροισθῇ [422e] τὰ τῶν ἄλλων χρήματα, ὅρα μὴ κίνδυνον φέρῃ τῇ μὴ πλουτούσῃ.
εὐδαίμων εἶ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὅτι οἴει ἄξιον εἶναι ἄλλην τινὰ προσειπεῖν πόλιν ἢ τὴν τοιαύτην οἵαν ἡμεῖς κατεσκευάζομεν.
ἀλλὰ τί μήν; ἔφη.
μειζόνως, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, χρὴ προσαγορεύειν τὰς ἄλλας· ἑκάστη γὰρ αὐτῶν πόλεις εἰσὶ πάμπολλαι ἀλλʼ οὐ πόλις, τὸ τῶν παιζόντων.
δύο μέν, κἂν ὁτιοῦν ᾖ, πολεμία ἀλλήλαις,

[423a]
ἡ μὲν πενήτων, ἡ δὲ πλουσίων· τούτων δʼ ἐν ἑκατέρᾳ πάνυ πολλαί, αἷς ἐὰν μὲν ὡς μιᾷ προσφέρῃ, παντὸς ἂν ἁμάρτοις, ἐὰν δὲ ὡς πολλαῖς, διδοὺς τὰ τῶν ἑτέρων τοῖς ἑτέροις χρήματά τε καὶ δυνάμεις ἢ καὶ αὐτούς, συμμάχοις μὲν ἀεὶ πολλοῖς χρήσῃ, πολεμίοις δʼ ὀλίγοις. καὶ ἕως ἂν ἡ πόλις σοι οἰκῇ σωφρόνως ὡς ἄρτι ἐτάχθη, μεγίστη ἔσται, οὐ τῷ εὐδοκιμεῖν λέγω, ἀλλʼ ὡς ἀληθῶς μεγίστη, καὶ ἐὰν μόνον ᾖ χιλίων τῶν προπολεμούντων· οὕτω γὰρ μεγάλην πόλιν μίαν οὐ ῥᾳδίως οὔτε ἐν Ἕλλησιν οὔτε ἐν βαρβάροις [423b] εὑρήσεις, δοκούσας δὲ πολλὰς καὶ πολλαπλασίας τῆς τηλικαύτης. ἢ ἄλλως οἴει;
οὐ μὰ τὸν Δίʼ, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, οὗτος ἂν εἴη καὶ κάλλιστος ὅρος τοῖς ἡμετέροις ἄρχουσιν, ὅσην δεῖ τὸ μέγεθος τὴν πόλιν ποιεῖσθαι καὶ ἡλίκῃ οὔσῃ ὅσην χώραν ἀφορισαμένους τὴν ἄλλην χαίρειν ἐᾶν.
τίς, ἔφη, ὅρος;
οἶμαι μέν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τόνδε· μέχρι οὗ ἂν ἐθέλῃ αὐξομένη εἶναι μία, μέχρι τούτου αὔξειν, πέρα δὲ μή. [423c]
καὶ καλῶς γʼ, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν καὶ τοῦτο αὖ ἄλλο πρόσταγμα τοῖς φύλαξι προστάξομεν, φυλάττειν παντὶ τρόπῳ ὅπως μήτε σμικρὰ ἡ πόλις ἔσται μήτε μεγάλη δοκοῦσα, ἀλλά τις ἱκανὴ καὶ μία.
καὶ φαῦλόν γʼ, ἔφη, ἴσως αὐτοῖς προστάξομεν.
καὶ τούτου γε, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἔτι φαυλότερον τόδε, οὗ καὶ ἐν τῷ πρόσθεν ἐπεμνήσθημεν λέγοντες ὡς δέοι, ἐάντε τῶν φυλάκων τις φαῦλος ἔκγονος γένηται, εἰς τοὺς ἄλλους [423d] αὐτὸν ἀποπέμπεσθαι, ἐάντʼ ἐκ τῶν ἄλλων σπουδαῖος, εἰς τοὺς φύλακας. τοῦτο δʼ ἐβούλετο δηλοῦν ὅτι καὶ τοὺς ἄλλους πολίτας, πρὸς ὅ τις πέφυκεν, πρὸς τοῦτο ἕνα πρὸς ἓν ἕκαστον ἔργον δεῖ κομίζειν, ὅπως ἂν ἓν τὸ αὑτοῦ ἐπιτηδεύων ἕκαστος μὴ πολλοὶ ἀλλʼ εἷς γίγνηται, καὶ οὕτω δὴ σύμπασα ἡ πόλις μία φύηται ἀλλὰ μὴ πολλαί.
ἔστι γάρ, ἔφη, τοῦτο ἐκείνου σμικρότερον.
οὔτοι, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὦ ἀγαθὲ Ἀδείμαντε, ὡς δόξειεν ἄν τις, ταῦτα πολλὰ καὶ μεγάλα αὐτοῖς προστάττομεν ἀλλὰ [423e] πάντα φαῦλα, ἐὰν τὸ λεγόμενον ἓν μέγα φυλάττωσι, μᾶλλον δʼ ἀντὶ μεγάλου ἱκανόν.
τί τοῦτο; ἔφη.
τὴν παιδείαν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καὶ τροφήν· ἐὰν γὰρ εὖ παιδευόμενοι μέτριοι ἄνδρες γίγνωνται, πάντα ταῦτα ῥᾳδίως διόψονται, καὶ ἄλλα γε ὅσα νῦν ἡμεῖς παραλείπομεν, τήν τε τῶν γυναικῶν κτῆσιν καὶ γάμων καὶ παιδοποιίας, ὅτι

[424a]
δεῖ ταῦτα κατὰ τὴν παροιμίαν πάντα ὅτι μάλιστα κοινὰ τὰ φίλων ποιεῖσθαι.
ὀρθότατα γάρ, ἔφη, γίγνοιτʼ ἄν.
καὶ μήν, εἶπον, πολιτεία ἐάνπερ ἅπαξ ὁρμήσῃ εὖ, ἔρχεται ὥσπερ κύκλος αὐξανομένη· τροφὴ γὰρ καὶ παίδευσις χρηστὴ σῳζομένη φύσεις ἀγαθὰς ἐμποιεῖ, καὶ αὖ φύσεις χρησταὶ τοιαύτης παιδείας ἀντιλαμβανόμεναι ἔτι βελτίους τῶν προτέρων φύονται, εἴς τε τἆλλα καὶ εἰς τὸ [424b] γεννᾶν, ὥσπερ καὶ ἐν τοῖς ἄλλοις ζῴοις.
εἰκός γʼ, ἔφη.
ὡς τοίνυν διὰ βραχέων εἰπεῖν, τούτου ἀνθεκτέον τοῖς ἐπιμεληταῖς τῆς πόλεως, ὅπως ἂν αὐτοὺς μὴ λάθῃ διαφθαρὲν ἀλλὰ παρὰ πάντα αὐτὸ φυλάττωσι, τὸ μὴ νεωτερίζειν περὶ γυμναστικήν τε καὶ μουσικὴν παρὰ τὴν τάξιν, ἀλλʼ ὡς οἷόν τε μάλιστα φυλάττειν, φοβουμένους ὅταν τις λέγῃ ὡς τὴν
ἀοιδὴν μᾶλλον ἐπιφρονέουσʼ ἄνθρωποι,
ἥτις ἀειδόντεσσι νεωτάτη ἀμφιπέληται,
[424c] μὴ πολλάκις τὸν ποιητήν τις οἴηται λέγειν οὐκ ᾄσματα νέα ἀλλὰ τρόπον ᾠδῆς νέον, καὶ τοῦτο ἐπαινῇ. δεῖ δʼ οὔτʼ ἐπαινεῖν τὸ τοιοῦτον οὔτε ὑπολαμβάνειν. εἶδος γὰρ καινὸν μουσικῆς μεταβάλλειν εὐλαβητέον ὡς ἐν ὅλῳ κινδυνεύοντα· οὐδαμοῦ γὰρ κινοῦνται μουσικῆς τρόποι ἄνευ πολιτικῶν νόμων τῶν μεγίστων, ὥς φησί τε Δάμων καὶ ἐγὼ πείθομαι.
καὶ ἐμὲ τοίνυν, ἔφη ὁ Ἀδείμαντος, θὲς τῶν πεπεισμένων. [424d]
τὸ δὴ φυλακτήριον, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὡς ἔοικεν, ἐνταῦθά που οἰκοδομητέον τοῖς φύλαξιν, ἐν μουσικῇ.
ἡ γοῦν παρανομία, ἔφη, ῥᾳδίως αὕτη λανθάνει παραδυομένη.
ναί, ἔφην, ὡς ἐν παιδιᾶς γε μέρει καὶ ὡς κακὸν οὐδὲν ἐργαζομένη.
οὐδὲ γὰρ ἐργάζεται, ἔφη, ἄλλο γε ἢ κατὰ σμικρὸν εἰσοικισαμένη ἠρέμα ὑπορρεῖ πρὸς τὰ ἤθη τε καὶ τὰ ἐπιτηδεύματα· ἐκ δὲ τούτων εἰς τὰ πρὸς ἀλλήλους συμβόλαια μείζων ἐκβαίνει, ἐκ δὲ δὴ τῶν συμβολαίων ἔρχεται ἐπὶ [424e] τοὺς νόμους καὶ πολιτείας σὺν πολλῇ, ὦ Σώκρατες, ἀσελγείᾳ, ἕως ἂν τελευτῶσα πάντα ἰδίᾳ καὶ δημοσίᾳ ἀνατρέψῃ.
εἶεν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ· οὕτω τοῦτʼ ἔχει;
δοκεῖ μοι, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν, ὃ ἐξ ἀρχῆς ἐλέγομεν, τοῖς ἡμετέροις παισὶν ἐννομωτέρου εὐθὺς παιδιᾶς μεθεκτέον, ὡς παρανόμου γιγνομένης αὐτῆς καὶ παίδων τοιούτων ἐννόμους τε καὶ σπουδαίους

[425a]
ἐξ αὐτῶν ἄνδρας αὐξάνεσθαι ἀδύνατον ὄν;
πῶς δʼ οὐχί; ἔφη.
ὅταν δὴ ἄρα καλῶς ἀρξάμενοι παῖδες παίζειν εὐνομίαν διὰ τῆς μουσικῆς εἰσδέξωνται, πάλιν τοὐναντίον ἢ ʼκείνοις εἰς πάντα συνέπεταί τε καὶ αὔξει, ἐπανορθοῦσα εἴ τι καὶ πρότερον τῆς πόλεως ἔκειτο.
ἀληθῆ μέντοι, ἔφη.
καὶ τὰ σμικρὰ ἄρα, εἶπον, δοκοῦντα εἶναι νόμιμα ἐξευρίσκουσιν οὗτοι, ἃ οἱ πρότερον ἀπώλλυσαν πάντα.
τὰ ποῖα; [425b]
τὰ τοιάδε· σιγάς τε τῶν νεωτέρων παρὰ πρεσβυτέροις ἃς πρέπει, καὶ κατακλίσεις καὶ ὑπαναστάσεις καὶ γονέων θεραπείας, καὶ κουράς γε καὶ ἀμπεχόνας καὶ ὑποδέσεις καὶ ὅλον τὸν τοῦ σώματος σχηματισμὸν καὶ τἆλλα ὅσα τοιαῦτα. ἢ οὐκ οἴει;
ἔγωγε.
νομοθετεῖν δʼ αὐτὰ οἶμαι εὔηθες· οὔτε γάρ που γίγνεται οὔτʼ ἂν μείνειεν λόγῳ τε καὶ γράμμασιν νομοθετηθέντα.
πῶς γάρ;
κινδυνεύει γοῦν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὦ Ἀδείμαντε, ἐκ τῆς παιδείας [425c] ὅποι ἄν τις ὁρμήσῃ, τοιαῦτα καὶ τὰ ἑπόμενα εἶναι. ἢ οὐκ ἀεὶ τὸ ὅμοιον ὂν ὅμοιον παρακαλεῖ;
τί μήν;
καὶ τελευτῶν δὴ οἶμαι φαῖμεν ἂν εἰς ἕν τι τέλεον καὶ νεανικὸν ἀποβαίνειν αὐτὸ ἢ ἀγαθὸν ἢ καὶ τοὐναντίον.
τί γὰρ οὔκ; ἦ δʼ ὅς.
ἐγὼ μὲν τοίνυν, εἶπον, διὰ ταῦτα οὐκ ἂν ἔτι τὰ τοιαῦτα ἐπιχειρήσαιμι νομοθετεῖν.
εἰκότως γʼ, ἔφη.
τί δέ, ὦ πρὸς θεῶν, ἔφην, τάδε τὰ ἀγοραῖα, συμβολαίων τε πέρι κατʼ ἀγορὰν ἕκαστοι ἃ πρὸς ἀλλήλους συμβάλλουσιν, [425d] εἰ δὲ βούλει, καὶ χειροτεχνικῶν περὶ συμβολαίων καὶ λοιδοριῶν καὶ αἰκίας καὶ δικῶν λήξεως καὶ δικαστῶν καταστάσεως, καὶ εἴ που τελῶν τινες ἢ πράξεις ἢ θέσεις ἀναγκαῖοί εἰσιν ἢ κατʼ ἀγορὰς ἢ λιμένας, ἢ καὶ τὸ παράπαν ἀγορανομικὰ ἄττα ἢ ἀστυνομικὰ ἢ ἐλλιμενικὰ ἢ ὅσα ἄλλα τοιαῦτα, τούτων τολμήσομέν τι νομοθετεῖν;
ἀλλʼ οὐκ ἄξιον, ἔφη, ἀνδράσι καλοῖς κἀγαθοῖς ἐπιτάττειν· [425e] τὰ πολλὰ γὰρ αὐτῶν, ὅσα δεῖ νομοθετήσασθαι, ῥᾳδίως που εὑρήσουσιν.
ναί, ὦ φίλε, εἶπον, ἐάν γε θεὸς αὐτοῖς διδῷ σωτηρίαν τῶν νόμων ὧν ἔμπροσθεν διήλθομεν.
εἰ δὲ μή γε, ἦ δʼ ὅς, πολλὰ τοιαῦτα τιθέμενοι ἀεὶ καὶ ἐπανορθούμενοι τὸν βίον διατελοῦσιν, οἰόμενοι ἐπιλήψεσθαι τοῦ βελτίστου.
λέγεις, ἔφην ἐγώ, βιώσεσθαι τοὺς τοιούτους ὥσπερ τοὺς κάμνοντάς τε καὶ οὐκ ἐθέλοντας ὑπὸ ἀκολασίας ἐκβῆναι πονηρᾶς διαίτης.
πάνυ μὲν οὖν.

[426a]
καὶ μὴν οὗτοί γε χαριέντως διατελοῦσιν· ἰατρευόμενοι γὰρ οὐδὲν περαίνουσιν, πλήν γε ποικιλώτερα καὶ μείζω ποιοῦσι τὰ νοσήματα, καὶ ἀεὶ ἐλπίζοντες, ἐάν τις φάρμακον συμβουλεύσῃ, ὑπὸ τούτου ἔσεσθαι ὑγιεῖς.
πάνυ γάρ, ἔφη, τῶν οὕτω καμνόντων τὰ τοιαῦτα πάθη.
τί δέ; ἦν δʼ ἐγώ· τόδε αὐτῶν οὐ χαρίεν, τὸ πάντων ἔχθιστον ἡγεῖσθαι τὸν τἀληθῆ λέγοντα, ὅτι πρὶν ἂν μεθύων καὶ ἐμπιμπλάμενος καὶ ἀφροδισιάζων καὶ ἀργῶν παύσηται, [426b] οὔτε φάρμακα οὔτε καύσεις οὔτε τομαὶ οὐδʼ αὖ ἐπῳδαὶ αὐτὸν οὐδὲ περίαπτα οὐδὲ ἄλλο τῶν τοιούτων οὐδὲν ὀνήσει;
οὐ πάνυ χαρίεν, ἔφη· τὸ γὰρ τῷ εὖ λέγοντι χαλεπαίνειν οὐκ ἔχει χάριν.
οὐκ ἐπαινέτης εἶ, ἔφην ἐγώ, ὡς ἔοικας, τῶν τοιούτων ἀνδρῶν.
οὐ μέντοι μὰ Δία.
οὐδʼ ἂν ἡ πόλις ἄρα, ὅπερ ἄρτι ἐλέγομεν, ὅλη τοιοῦτον ποιῇ, οὐκ ἐπαινέσῃ. ἢ οὐ φαίνονταί σοι ταὐτὸν ἐργάζεσθαι τούτοις τῶν πόλεων ὅσαι κακῶς πολιτευόμεναι προαγορεύουσι [426c] τοῖς πολίταις τὴν μὲν κατάστασιν τῆς πόλεως ὅλην μὴ κινεῖν, ὡς ἀποθανουμένους, ὃς ἂν τοῦτο δρᾷ· ὃς δʼ ἂν σφᾶς οὕτω πολιτευομένους ἥδιστα θεραπεύῃ καὶ χαρίζηται ὑποτρέχων καὶ προγιγνώσκων τὰς σφετέρας βουλήσεις καὶ ταύτας δεινὸς ᾖ ἀποπληροῦν, οὗτος ἄρα ἀγαθός τε ἔσται ἀνὴρ καὶ σοφὸς τὰ μεγάλα καὶ τιμήσεται ὑπὸ σφῶν;
ταὐτὸν μὲν οὖν, ἔφη, ἔμοιγε δοκοῦσι δρᾶν, καὶ οὐδʼ ὁπωστιοῦν ἐπαινῶ. [426d]
τί δʼ αὖ τοὺς ἐθέλοντας θεραπεύειν τὰς τοιαύτας πόλεις καὶ προθυμουμένους; οὐκ ἄγασαι τῆς ἀνδρείας τε καὶ εὐχερείας;
ἔγωγʼ, ἔφη, πλήν γʼ ὅσοι ἐξηπάτηνται ὑπʼ αὐτῶν καὶ οἴονται τῇ ἀληθείᾳ πολιτικοὶ εἶναι, ὅτι ἐπαινοῦνται ὑπὸ τῶν πολλῶν.
πῶς λέγεις; οὐ συγγιγνώσκεις, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τοῖς ἀνδράσιν; ἢ οἴει οἷόν τʼ εἶναι ἀνδρὶ μὴ ἐπισταμένῳ μετρεῖν, ἑτέρων [426e] τοιούτων πολλῶν λεγόντων ὅτι τετράπηχύς ἐστιν, αὐτὸν ταῦτα μὴ ἡγεῖσθαι περὶ αὑτοῦ;
οὐκ αὖ, ἔφη, τοῦτό γε.
μὴ τοίνυν χαλέπαινε· καὶ γάρ πού εἰσι πάντων χαριέστατοι οἱ τοιοῦτοι, νομοθετοῦντές τε οἷα ἄρτι διήλθομεν καὶ ἐπανορθοῦντες, ἀεὶ οἰόμενοί τι πέρας εὑρήσειν περὶ τὰ ἐν τοῖς συμβολαίοις κακουργήματα καὶ περὶ ἃ νυνδὴ ἐγὼ ἔλεγον, ἀγνοοῦντες ὅτι τῷ ὄντι ὥσπερ Ὕδραν τέμνουσιν.

[427a]
καὶ μήν, ἔφη, οὐκ ἄλλο γέ τι ποιοῦσιν.
ἐγὼ μὲν τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τὸ τοιοῦτον εἶδος νόμων πέρι καὶ πολιτείας οὔτʼ ἐν κακῶς οὔτʼ ἐν εὖ πολιτευομένῃ πόλει ᾤμην ἂν δεῖν τὸν ἀληθινὸν νομοθέτην πραγματεύεσθαι, ἐν τῇ μὲν ὅτι ἀνωφελῆ καὶ πλέον οὐδέν, ἐν δὲ τῇ ὅτι τὰ μὲν αὐτῶν κἂν ὁστισοῦν εὕροι, τὰ δὲ ὅτι αὐτόματα ἔπεισιν ἐκ τῶν ἔμπροσθεν ἐπιτηδευμάτων. [427b]
τί οὖν, ἔφη, ἔτι ἂν ἡμῖν λοιπὸν τῆς νομοθεσίας εἴη;
καὶ ἐγὼ εἶπον ὅτι ἡμῖν μὲν οὐδέν, τῷ μέντοι Ἀπόλλωνι τῷ ἐν Δελφοῖς τά γε μέγιστα καὶ κάλλιστα καὶ πρῶτα τῶν νομοθετημάτων.
τὰ ποῖα; ἦ δʼ ὅς.
ἱερῶν τε ἱδρύσεις καὶ θυσίαι καὶ ἄλλαι θεῶν τε καὶ δαιμόνων καὶ ἡρώων θεραπεῖαι· τελευτησάντων τε αὖ θῆκαι καὶ ὅσα τοῖς ἐκεῖ δεῖ ὑπηρετοῦντας ἵλεως αὐτοὺς ἔχειν. τὰ γὰρ δὴ τοιαῦτα οὔτʼ ἐπιστάμεθα ἡμεῖς οἰκίζοντές τε πόλιν [427c] οὐδενὶ ἄλλῳ πεισόμεθα, ἐὰν νοῦν ἔχωμεν, οὐδὲ χρησόμεθα ἐξηγητῇ ἀλλʼ ἢ τῷ πατρίῳ· οὗτος γὰρ δήπου ὁ θεὸς περὶ τὰ τοιαῦτα πᾶσιν ἀνθρώποις πάτριος ἐξηγητὴς [ἐν μέσῳ] τῆς γῆς ἐπὶ τοῦ ὀμφαλοῦ καθήμενος ἐξηγεῖται.
καὶ καλῶς γʼ, ἔφη, λέγεις· καὶ ποιητέον οὕτω.
ὠικισμένη μὲν τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἤδη ἄν σοι εἴη, ὦ παῖ [427d] Ἀρίστωνος, ἡ πόλις· τὸ δὲ δὴ μετὰ τοῦτο σκόπει ἐν αὐτῇ, φῶς ποθὲν πορισάμενος ἱκανόν, αὐτός τε καὶ τὸν ἀδελφὸν παρακάλει καὶ Πολέμαρχον καὶ τοὺς ἄλλους, ἐάν πως ἴδωμεν ποῦ ποτʼ ἂν εἴη ἡ δικαιοσύνη καὶ ποῦ ἡ ἀδικία, καὶ τί ἀλλήλοιν διαφέρετον, καὶ πότερον δεῖ κεκτῆσθαι τὸν μέλλοντα εὐδαίμονα εἶναι, ἐάντε λανθάνῃ ἐάντε μὴ πάντας θεούς τε καὶ ἀνθρώπους.
οὐδὲν λέγεις, ἔφη ὁ Γλαύκων· σὺ γὰρ ὑπέσχου ζητήσειν, [427e] ὡς οὐχ ὅσιόν σοι ὂν μὴ οὐ βοηθεῖν δικαιοσύνῃ εἰς δύναμιν παντὶ τρόπῳ.
ἀληθῆ, ἔφην ἐγώ, ὑπομιμνῄσκεις, καὶ ποιητέον μέν γε οὕτως, χρὴ δὲ καὶ ὑμᾶς συλλαμβάνειν.
ἀλλʼ, ἔφη, ποιήσομεν οὕτω.
ἐλπίζω τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, εὑρήσειν αὐτὸ ὧδε. οἶμαι ἡμῖν τὴν πόλιν, εἴπερ ὀρθῶς γε ᾤκισται, τελέως ἀγαθὴν εἶναι.
ἀνάγκη γʼ, ἔφη.
δῆλον δὴ ὅτι σοφή τʼ ἐστὶ καὶ ἀνδρεία καὶ σώφρων καὶ δικαία.
δῆλον.
οὐκοῦν ὅτι ἂν αὐτῶν εὕρωμεν ἐν αὐτῇ, τὸ ὑπόλοιπον ἔσται τὸ οὐχ ηὑρημένον;

### Book IV, 428–435

[428a]
τί μήν;
ὥσπερ τοίνυν ἄλλων τινῶν τεττάρων, εἰ ἕν τι ἐζητοῦμεν αὐτῶν ἐν ὁτῳοῦν, ὁπότε πρῶτον ἐκεῖνο ἔγνωμεν, ἱκανῶς ἂν εἶχεν ἡμῖν, εἰ δὲ τὰ τρία πρότερον ἐγνωρίσαμεν, αὐτῷ ἂν τούτῳ ἐγνώριστο τὸ ζητούμενον· δῆλον γὰρ ὅτι οὐκ ἄλλο ἔτι ἦν ἢ τὸ ὑπολειφθέν.
ὀρθῶς, ἔφη, λέγεις.
οὐκοῦν καὶ περὶ τούτων, ἐπειδὴ τέτταρα ὄντα τυγχάνει, ὡσαύτως ζητητέον;
δῆλα δή.
καὶ μὲν δὴ πρῶτόν γέ μοι δοκεῖ ἐν αὐτῷ κατάδηλον εἶναι [428b] ἡ σοφία· καί τι ἄτοπον περὶ αὐτὴν φαίνεται.
τί; ἦ δʼ ὅς.
σοφὴ μὲν τῷ ὄντι δοκεῖ μοι ἡ πόλις εἶναι ἣν διήλθομεν· εὔβουλος γάρ, οὐχί;
ναί.
καὶ μὴν τοῦτό γε αὐτό, ἡ εὐβουλία, δῆλον ὅτι ἐπιστήμη τίς ἐστιν· οὐ γάρ που ἀμαθίᾳ γε ἀλλʼ ἐπιστήμῃ εὖ βουλεύονται.
δῆλον.
πολλαὶ δέ γε καὶ παντοδαπαὶ ἐπιστῆμαι ἐν τῇ πόλει εἰσίν.
πῶς γὰρ οὔ;
ἆρʼ οὖν διὰ τὴν τῶν τεκτόνων ἐπιστήμην σοφὴ καὶ εὔβουλος ἡ πόλις προσρητέα; [428c]
οὐδαμῶς, ἔφη, διά γε ταύτην, ἀλλὰ τεκτονική.
οὐκ ἄρα διὰ τὴν ὑπὲρ τῶν ξυλίνων σκευῶν ἐπιστήμην, βουλευομένη ὡς ἂν ἔχοι βέλτιστα, σοφὴ κλητέα πόλις.
οὐ μέντοι.
τί δέ; τὴν ὑπὲρ τῶν ἐκ τοῦ χαλκοῦ ἤ τινα ἄλλην τῶν τοιούτων;
οὐδʼ ἡντινοῦν, ἔφη.
οὐδὲ τὴν ὑπὲρ τοῦ καρποῦ τῆς γενέσεως ἐκ τῆς γῆς, ἀλλὰ γεωργική.
δοκεῖ μοι.
τί δʼ; ἦν δʼ ἐγώ· ἔστι τις ἐπιστήμη ἐν τῇ ἄρτι ὑφʼ ἡμῶν οἰκισθείσῃ παρά τισι τῶν πολιτῶν, ᾗ οὐχ ὑπὲρ τῶν [428d] ἐν τῇ πόλει τινὸς βουλεύεται, ἀλλʼ ὑπὲρ αὑτῆς ὅλης, ὅντινα τρόπον αὐτή τε πρὸς αὑτὴν καὶ πρὸς τὰς ἄλλας πόλεις ἄριστα ὁμιλοῖ;
ἔστι μέντοι.
τίς, ἔφην ἐγώ, καὶ ἐν τίσιν;
αὕτη, ἦ δʼ ὅς, ἡ φυλακική, καὶ ἐν τούτοις τοῖς ἄρχουσιν οὓς νυνδὴ τελέους φύλακας ὠνομάζομεν.
διὰ ταύτην οὖν τὴν ἐπιστήμην τί τὴν πόλιν προσαγορεύεις;
εὔβουλον, ἔφη, καὶ τῷ ὄντι σοφήν.
πότερον οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἐν τῇ πόλει οἴει ἡμῖν χαλκέας [428e] πλείους ἐνέσεσθαι ἢ τοὺς ἀληθινοὺς φύλακας τούτους;
πολύ, ἔφη, χαλκέας.
οὐκοῦν, ἔφην, καὶ τῶν ἄλλων ὅσοι ἐπιστήμας ἔχοντες ὀνομάζονταί τινες εἶναι, πάντων τούτων οὗτοι ἂν εἶεν ὀλίγιστοι;
πολύ γε.
τῷ σμικροτάτῳ ἄρα ἔθνει καὶ μέρει ἑαυτῆς καὶ τῇ ἐν τούτῳ ἐπιστήμῃ, τῷ προεστῶτι καὶ ἄρχοντι, ὅλη σοφὴ ἂν εἴη κατὰ φύσιν οἰκισθεῖσα πόλις· καὶ τοῦτο, ὡς ἔοικε, φύσει

[429a] ὀλίγιστον γίγνεται γένος, ᾧ προσήκει ταύτης τῆς ἐπιστήμης μεταλαγχάνειν ἣν μόνην δεῖ τῶν ἄλλων ἐπιστημῶν σοφίαν καλεῖσθαι.
ἀληθέστατα, ἔφη, λέγεις.
τοῦτο μὲν δὴ ἓν τῶν τεττάρων οὐκ οἶδα ὅντινα τρόπον ηὑρήκαμεν, αὐτό τε καὶ ὅπου τῆς πόλεως ἵδρυται.
ἐμοὶ γοῦν δοκεῖ, ἔφη, ἀποχρώντως ηὑρῆσθαι.
ἀλλὰ μὴν ἀνδρεία γε αὐτή τε καὶ ἐν ᾧ κεῖται τῆς πόλεως, διʼ ὃ τοιαύτη κλητέα ἡ πόλις, οὐ πάνυ χαλεπὸν ἰδεῖν.
πῶς δή; [429b]
τίς ἄν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, εἰς ἄλλο τι ἀποβλέψας ἢ δειλὴν ἢ ἀνδρείαν πόλιν εἴποι ἀλλʼ ἢ εἰς τοῦτο τὸ μέρος ὃ προπολεμεῖ τε καὶ στρατεύεται ὑπὲρ αὐτῆς;
οὐδʼ ἂν εἷς, ἔφη, εἰς ἄλλο τι.
οὐ γὰρ οἶμαι, εἶπον, οἵ γε ἄλλοι ἐν αὐτῇ ἢ δειλοὶ ἢ ἀνδρεῖοι ὄντες κύριοι ἂν εἶεν ἢ τοίαν αὐτὴν εἶναι ἢ τοίαν.
οὐ γάρ.
καὶ ἀνδρεία ἄρα πόλις μέρει τινὶ ἑαυτῆς ἐστι, διὰ τὸ ἐν ἐκείνῳ ἔχειν δύναμιν τοιαύτην ἣ διὰ παντὸς σώσει τὴν περὶ [429c] τῶν δεινῶν δόξαν, ταῦτά τε αὐτὰ εἶναι καὶ τοιαῦτα, ἅ τε καὶ οἷα ὁ νομοθέτης παρήγγελλεν ἐν τῇ παιδείᾳ. ἢ οὐ τοῦτο ἀνδρείαν καλεῖς;
οὐ πάνυ, ἔφη, ἔμαθον ὃ εἶπες, ἀλλʼ αὖθις εἰπέ.
σωτηρίαν ἔγωγʼ, εἶπον, λέγω τινὰ εἶναι τὴν ἀνδρείαν.
ποίαν δὴ σωτηρίαν;
τὴν τῆς δόξης τῆς ὑπὸ νόμου διὰ τῆς παιδείας γεγονυίας περὶ τῶν δεινῶν ἅ τέ ἐστι καὶ οἷα· διὰ παντὸς δὲ ἔλεγον αὐτῆς σωτηρίαν τὸ ἔν τε λύπαις ὄντα διασῴζεσθαι αὐτὴν καὶ ἐν [429d] ἡδοναῖς καὶ ἐν ἐπιθυμίαις καὶ ἐν φόβοις καὶ μὴ ἐκβάλλειν. ᾧ δέ μοι δοκεῖ ὅμοιον εἶναι ἐθέλω ἀπεικάσαι, εἰ βούλει.
ἀλλὰ βούλομαι.
οὐκοῦν οἶσθα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὅτι οἱ βαφῆς, ἐπειδὰν βουληθῶσι βάψαι ἔρια ὥστʼ εἶναι ἁλουργά, πρῶτον μὲν ἐκλέγονται ἐκ τοσούτων χρωμάτων μίαν φύσιν τὴν τῶν λευκῶν, ἔπειτα προπαρασκευάζουσιν, οὐκ ὀλίγῃ παρασκευῇ θεραπεύσαντες ὅπως δέξεται ὅτι μάλιστα τὸ ἄνθος, καὶ οὕτω δὴ βάπτουσι. [429e] καὶ ὃ μὲν ἂν τούτῳ τῷ τρόπῳ βαφῇ, δευσοποιὸν γίγνεται τὸ βαφέν, καὶ ἡ πλύσις οὔτʼ ἄνευ ῥυμμάτων οὔτε μετὰ ῥυμμάτων δύναται αὐτῶν τὸ ἄνθος ἀφαιρεῖσθαι· ἃ δʼ ἂν μή, οἶσθα οἷα δὴ γίγνεται, ἐάντέ τις ἄλλα χρώματα βάπτῃ ἐάντε καὶ ταῦτα μὴ προθεραπεύσας.
οἶδα, ἔφη, ὅτι καὶ ἔκπλυτα καὶ γελοῖα.
τοιοῦτον τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὑπόλαβε κατὰ δύναμιν ἐργάζεσθαι καὶ ἡμᾶς, ὅτε ἐξελεγόμεθα τοὺς στρατιώτας καὶ

[430a]
ἐπαιδεύομεν μουσικῇ καὶ γυμναστικῇ· μηδὲν οἴου ἄλλο μηχανᾶσθαι ἢ ὅπως ἡμῖν ὅτι κάλλιστα τοὺς νόμους πεισθέντες δέξοιντο ὥσπερ βαφήν, ἵνα δευσοποιὸς αὐτῶν ἡ δόξα γίγνοιτο καὶ περὶ δεινῶν καὶ περὶ τῶν ἄλλων διὰ τὸ τήν τε φύσιν καὶ τὴν τροφὴν ἐπιτηδείαν ἐσχηκέναι, καὶ μὴ αὐτῶν ἐκπλύναι τὴν βαφὴν τὰ ῥύμματα ταῦτα, δεινὰ ὄντα ἐκκλύζειν, ἥ τε ἡδονή, παντὸς χαλεστραίου δεινοτέρα οὖσα τοῦτο δρᾶν [430b] καὶ κονίας, λύπη τε καὶ φόβος καὶ ἐπιθυμία, παντὸς ἄλλου ῥύμματος. τὴν δὴ τοιαύτην δύναμιν καὶ σωτηρίαν διὰ παντὸς δόξης ὀρθῆς τε καὶ νομίμου δεινῶν τε πέρι καὶ μὴ ἀνδρείαν ἔγωγε καλῶ καὶ τίθεμαι, εἰ μή τι σὺ ἄλλο λέγεις.
ἀλλʼ οὐδέν, ἦ δʼ ὅς, λέγω· δοκεῖς γάρ μοι τὴν ὀρθὴν δόξαν περὶ τῶν αὐτῶν τούτων ἄνευ παιδείας γεγονυῖαν, τήν τε θηριώδη καὶ ἀνδραποδώδη, οὔτε πάνυ νόμιμον ἡγεῖσθαι, ἄλλο τέ τι ἢ ἀνδρείαν καλεῖν. [430c]
ἀληθέστατα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, λέγεις.
ἀποδέχομαι τοίνυν τοῦτο ἀνδρείαν εἶναι.
καὶ γὰρ ἀποδέχου, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, πολιτικήν γε, καὶ ὀρθῶς ἀποδέξῃ· αὖθις δὲ περὶ αὐτοῦ, ἐὰν βούλῃ, ἔτι κάλλιον δίιμεν. νῦν γὰρ οὐ τοῦτο ἐζητοῦμεν, ἀλλὰ δικαιοσύνην· πρὸς οὖν τὴν ἐκείνου ζήτησιν, ὡς ἐγᾦμαι, ἱκανῶς ἔχει.
ἀλλὰ καλῶς, ἔφη, λέγεις.
δύο μήν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἔτι λοιπὰ ἃ δεῖ κατιδεῖν ἐν τῇ [430d] πόλει, ἥ τε σωφροσύνη καὶ οὗ δὴ ἕνεκα πάντα ζητοῦμεν, δικαιοσύνη.
πάνυ μὲν οὖν.
πῶς οὖν ἂν τὴν δικαιοσύνην εὕροιμεν, ἵνα μηκέτι πραγματευώμεθα περὶ σωφροσύνης;
ἐγὼ μὲν τοίνυν, ἔφη, οὔτε οἶδα οὔτʼ ἂν βουλοίμην αὐτὸ πρότερον φανῆναι, εἴπερ μηκέτι ἐπισκεψόμεθα σωφροσύνην· ἀλλʼ εἰ ἔμοιγε βούλει χαρίζεσθαι, σκόπει πρότερον τοῦτο ἐκείνου. [430e]
ἀλλὰ μέντοι, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, βούλομαί γε, εἰ μὴ ἀδικῶ.
σκόπει δή, ἔφη.
σκεπτέον, εἶπον· καὶ ὥς γε ἐντεῦθεν ἰδεῖν, συμφωνίᾳ τινὶ καὶ ἁρμονίᾳ προσέοικεν μᾶλλον ἢ τὰ πρότερον.
πῶς;
κόσμος πού τις, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἡ σωφροσύνη ἐστὶν καὶ ἡδονῶν τινων καὶ ἐπιθυμιῶν ἐγκράτεια, ὥς φασι κρείττω δὴ αὑτοῦ ἀποφαίνοντες οὐκ οἶδʼ ὅντινα τρόπον, καὶ ἄλλα ἄττα τοιαῦτα ὥσπερ ἴχνη αὐτῆς λέγεται. ἦ γάρ;
πάντων μάλιστα, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν τὸ μὲν κρείττω αὑτοῦ γελοῖον; ὁ γὰρ ἑαυτοῦ κρείττων καὶ ἥττων δήπου ἂν αὑτοῦ εἴη καὶ ὁ ἥττων κρείττων·

[431a]
ὁ αὐτὸς γὰρ ἐν ἅπασιν τούτοις προσαγορεύεται.
τί δʼ οὔ;
ἀλλʼ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, φαίνεταί μοι βούλεσθαι λέγειν οὗτος ὁ λόγος ὥς τι ἐν αὐτῷ τῷ ἀνθρώπῳ περὶ τὴν ψυχὴν τὸ μὲν βέλτιον ἔνι, τὸ δὲ χεῖρον, καὶ ὅταν μὲν τὸ βέλτιον φύσει τοῦ χείρονος ἐγκρατὲς ᾖ, τοῦτο λέγειν τὸ κρείττω αὑτοῦ —ἐπαινεῖ γοῦν—ὅταν δὲ ὑπὸ τροφῆς κακῆς ἤ τινος ὁμιλίας κρατηθῇ ὑπὸ πλήθους τοῦ χείρονος σμικρότερον τὸ βέλτιον [431b] ὄν, τοῦτο δὲ ὡς ἐν ὀνείδει ψέγειν τε καὶ καλεῖν ἥττω ἑαυτοῦ καὶ ἀκόλαστον τὸν οὕτω διακείμενον.
καὶ γὰρ ἔοικεν, ἔφη.
ἀπόβλεπε τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, πρὸς τὴν νέαν ἡμῖν πόλιν, καὶ εὑρήσεις ἐν αὐτῇ τὸ ἕτερον τούτων ἐνόν· κρείττω γὰρ αὐτὴν αὑτῆς δικαίως φήσεις προσαγορεύεσθαι, εἴπερ οὗ τὸ ἄμεινον τοῦ χείρονος ἄρχει σῶφρον κλητέον καὶ κρεῖττον αὑτοῦ.
ἀλλʼ ἀποβλέπω, ἔφη, καὶ ἀληθῆ λέγεις.
καὶ μὴν καὶ τάς γε πολλὰς καὶ παντοδαπὰς ἐπιθυμίας καὶ [431c] ἡδονάς τε καὶ λύπας ἐν παισὶ μάλιστα ἄν τις εὕροι καὶ γυναιξὶ καὶ οἰκέταις καὶ τῶν ἐλευθέρων λεγομένων ἐν τοῖς πολλοῖς τε καὶ φαύλοις.
πάνυ μὲν οὖν.
τὰς δέ γε ἁπλᾶς τε καὶ μετρίας, αἳ δὴ μετὰ νοῦ τε καὶ δόξης ὀρθῆς λογισμῷ ἄγονται, ἐν ὀλίγοις τε ἐπιτεύξῃ καὶ τοῖς βέλτιστα μὲν φῦσιν, βέλτιστα δὲ παιδευθεῖσιν.
ἀληθῆ, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν καὶ ταῦτα ὁρᾷς ἐνόντα σοι ἐν τῇ πόλει καὶ κρατουμένας αὐτόθι τὰς ἐπιθυμίας τὰς ἐν τοῖς πολλοῖς τε [431d] καὶ φαύλοις ὑπό τε τῶν ἐπιθυμιῶν καὶ τῆς φρονήσεως τῆς ἐν τοῖς ἐλάττοσί τε καὶ ἐπιεικεστέροις;
ἔγωγʼ, ἔφη.
εἰ ἄρα δεῖ τινα πόλιν προσαγορεύειν κρείττω ἡδονῶν τε καὶ ἐπιθυμιῶν καὶ αὐτὴν αὑτῆς, καὶ ταύτην προσρητέον.
παντάπασιν μὲν οὖν, ἔφη.
ἆρʼ οὖν οὐ καὶ σώφρονα κατὰ πάντα ταῦτα;
καὶ μάλα, ἔφη.
καὶ μὴν εἴπερ αὖ ἐν ἄλλῃ πόλει ἡ αὐτὴ δόξα ἔνεστι τοῖς [431e] τε ἄρχουσι καὶ ἀρχομένοις περὶ τοῦ οὕστινας δεῖ ἄρχειν, καὶ ἐν ταύτῃ ἂν εἴη τοῦτο ἐνόν. ἢ οὐ δοκεῖ;
καὶ μάλα, ἔφη, σφόδρα.
ἐν ποτέροις οὖν φήσεις τῶν πολιτῶν τὸ σωφρονεῖν ἐνεῖναι ὅταν οὕτως ἔχωσιν; ἐν τοῖς ἄρχουσιν ἢ ἐν τοῖς ἀρχομένοις;
ἐν ἀμφοτέροις που, ἔφη.
ὁρᾷς οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὅτι ἐπιεικῶς ἐμαντευόμεθα ἄρτι ὡς ἁρμονίᾳ τινὶ ἡ σωφροσύνη ὡμοίωται;
τί δή;
ὅτι οὐχ ὥσπερ ἡ ἀνδρεία καὶ ἡ σοφία ἐν μέρει τινὶ

[432a]
ἑκατέρα ἐνοῦσα ἡ μὲν σοφήν, ἡ δὲ ἀνδρείαν τὴν πόλιν παρείχετο, οὐχ οὕτω ποιεῖ αὕτη, ἀλλὰ διʼ ὅλης ἀτεχνῶς τέταται διὰ πασῶν παρεχομένη συνᾴδοντας τούς τε ἀσθενεστάτους ταὐτὸν καὶ τοὺς ἰσχυροτάτους καὶ τοὺς μέσους, εἰ μὲν βούλει, φρονήσει, εἰ δὲ βούλει, ἰσχύι, εἰ δέ, καὶ πλήθει ἢ χρήμασιν ἢ ἄλλῳ ὁτῳοῦν τῶν τοιούτων· ὥστε ὀρθότατʼ ἂν φαῖμεν ταύτην τὴν ὁμόνοιαν σωφροσύνην εἶναι, χείρονός τε καὶ ἀμείνονος κατὰ φύσιν συμφωνίαν ὁπότερον δεῖ ἄρχειν καὶ ἐν πόλει καὶ ἐν ἑνὶ ἑκάστῳ. [432b]
πάνυ μοι, ἔφη, συνδοκεῖ.
εἶεν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ· τὰ μὲν τρία ἡμῖν ἐν τῇ πόλει κατῶπται, ὥς γε οὑτωσὶ δόξαι· τὸ δὲ δὴ λοιπὸν εἶδος, διʼ ὃ ἂν ἔτι ἀρετῆς μετέχοι πόλις, τί ποτʼ ἂν εἴη; δῆλον γὰρ ὅτι τοῦτʼ ἐστὶν ἡ δικαιοσύνη.
δῆλον.
οὐκοῦν, ὦ Γλαύκων, νῦν δὴ ἡμᾶς δεῖ ὥσπερ κυνηγέτας τινὰς θάμνον κύκλῳ περιίστασθαι προσέχοντας τὸν νοῦν, μή πῃ διαφύγῃ ἡ δικαιοσύνη καὶ ἀφανισθεῖσα ἄδηλος γένηται. [432c] φανερὸν γὰρ δὴ ὅτι ταύτῃ πῃ ἔστιν· ὅρα οὖν καὶ προθυμοῦ κατιδεῖν, ἐάν πως πρότερος ἐμοῦ ἴδῃς καὶ ἐμοὶ φράσῃς.
εἰ γὰρ ὤφελον, ἔφη. ἀλλὰ μᾶλλον, ἐάν μοι ἑπομένῳ χρῇ καὶ τὰ δεικνύμενα δυναμένῳ καθορᾶν, πάνυ μοι μετρίως χρήσῃ.
ἕπου, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, εὐξάμενος μετʼ ἐμοῦ.
ποιήσω ταῦτα, ἀλλὰ μόνον, ἦ δʼ ὅς, ἡγοῦ.
καὶ μήν, εἶπον ἐγώ, δύσβατός γέ τις ὁ τόπος φαίνεται καὶ ἐπίσκιος· ἔστι γοῦν σκοτεινὸς καὶ δυσδιερεύνητος. ἀλλὰ γὰρ ὅμως ἰτέον. [432d]
ἰτέον γάρ, ἔφη.
καὶ ἐγὼ κατιδών, ἰοὺ ἰού, εἶπον, ὦ Γλαύκων· κινδυνεύομέν τι ἔχειν ἴχνος, καί μοι δοκεῖ οὐ πάνυ τι ἐκφευξεῖσθαι ἡμᾶς.
εὖ ἀγγέλλεις, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
ἦ μήν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, βλακικόν γε ἡμῶν τὸ πάθος.
τὸ ποῖον;
πάλαι, ὦ μακάριε, φαίνεται πρὸ ποδῶν ἡμῖν ἐξ ἀρχῆς κυλινδεῖσθαι, καὶ οὐχ ἑωρῶμεν ἄρʼ αὐτό, ἀλλʼ ἦμεν καταγελαστότατοι· ὥσπερ οἱ ἐν ταῖς χερσὶν ἔχοντες ζητοῦσιν [432e] ἐνίοτε ὃ ἔχουσιν, καὶ ἡμεῖς εἰς αὐτὸ μὲν οὐκ ἀπεβλέπομεν, πόρρω δέ ποι ἀπεσκοποῦμεν, ᾗ δὴ καὶ ἐλάνθανεν ἴσως ἡμᾶς.
πῶς, ἔφη, λέγεις;
οὕτως, εἶπον, ὡς δοκοῦμέν μοι καὶ λέγοντες αὐτὸ καὶ ἀκούοντες πάλαι οὐ μανθάνειν ἡμῶν αὐτῶν, ὅτι ἐλέγομεν τρόπον τινὰ αὐτό.
μακρόν, ἔφη, τὸ προοίμιον τῷ ἐπιθυμοῦντι ἀκοῦσαι.

[433a]
ἀλλʼ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἄκουε εἴ τι ἄρα λέγω. ὃ γὰρ ἐξ ἀρχῆς ἐθέμεθα δεῖν ποιεῖν διὰ παντός, ὅτε τὴν πόλιν κατῳκίζομεν, τοῦτό ἐστιν, ὡς ἐμοὶ δοκεῖ, ἤτοι τούτου τι εἶδος ἡ δικαιοσύνη. ἐθέμεθα δὲ δήπου καὶ πολλάκις ἐλέγομεν, εἰ μέμνησαι, ὅτι ἕνα ἕκαστον ἓν δέοι ἐπιτηδεύειν τῶν περὶ τὴν πόλιν, εἰς ὃ αὐτοῦ ἡ φύσις ἐπιτηδειοτάτη πεφυκυῖα εἴη.
ἐλέγομεν γάρ.
καὶ μὴν ὅτι γε τὸ τὰ αὑτοῦ πράττειν καὶ μὴ πολυπραγμονεῖν δικαιοσύνη ἐστί, καὶ τοῦτο ἄλλων τε πολλῶν [433b] ἀκηκόαμεν καὶ αὐτοὶ πολλάκις εἰρήκαμεν.
εἰρήκαμεν γάρ.
τοῦτο τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὦ φίλε, κινδυνεύει τρόπον τινὰ γιγνόμενον ἡ δικαιοσύνη εἶναι, τὸ τὰ αὑτοῦ πράττειν. οἶσθα ὅθεν τεκμαίρομαι;
οὐκ, ἀλλὰ λέγʼ, ἔφη.
δοκεῖ μοι, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τὸ ὑπόλοιπον ἐν τῇ πόλει ὧν ἐσκέμμεθα, σωφροσύνης καὶ ἀνδρείας καὶ φρονήσεως, τοῦτο εἶναι, ὃ πᾶσιν ἐκείνοις τὴν δύναμιν παρέσχεν ὥστε ἐγγενέσθαι, καὶ ἐγγενομένοις γε σωτηρίαν παρέχειν, ἕωσπερ ἂν [433c] ἐνῇ. καίτοι ἔφαμεν δικαιοσύνην ἔσεσθαι τὸ ὑπολειφθὲν ἐκείνων, εἰ τὰ τρία εὕροιμεν.
καὶ γὰρ ἀνάγκη, ἔφη.
ἀλλὰ μέντοι, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, εἰ δέοι γε κρῖναι τί τὴν πόλιν ἡμῖν τούτων μάλιστα ἀγαθὴν ἀπεργάσεται ἐγγενόμενον, δύσκριτον ἂν εἴη πότερον ἡ ὁμοδοξία τῶν ἀρχόντων τε καὶ ἀρχομένων, ἢ ἡ περὶ δεινῶν τε καὶ μή, ἅττα ἐστί, δόξης ἐννόμου σωτηρία ἐν τοῖς στρατιώταις ἐγγενομένη, ἢ ἡ ἐν [433d] τοῖς ἄρχουσι φρόνησίς τε καὶ φυλακὴ ἐνοῦσα, ἢ τοῦτο μάλιστα ἀγαθὴν αὐτὴν ποιεῖ ἐνὸν καὶ ἐν παιδὶ καὶ ἐν γυναικὶ καὶ δούλῳ καὶ ἐλευθέρῳ καὶ δημιουργῷ καὶ ἄρχοντι καὶ ἀρχομένῳ, ὅτι τὸ αὑτοῦ ἕκαστος εἷς ὢν ἔπραττε καὶ οὐκ ἐπολυπραγμόνει.
δύσκριτον, ἔφη· πῶς δʼ οὔ;
ἐνάμιλλον ἄρα, ὡς ἔοικε, πρὸς ἀρετὴν πόλεως τῇ τε σοφίᾳ αὐτῆς καὶ τῇ σωφροσύνῃ καὶ τῇ ἀνδρείᾳ ἡ τοῦ ἕκαστον ἐν αὐτῇ τὰ αὑτοῦ πράττειν δύναμις.
καὶ μάλα, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν δικαιοσύνην τό γε τούτοις ἐνάμιλλον ἂν εἰς ἀρετὴν [433e] πόλεως θείης;
παντάπασι μὲν οὖν.
σκόπει δὴ καὶ τῇδε εἰ οὕτω δόξει· ἆρα τοῖς ἄρχουσιν ἐν τῇ πόλει τὰς δίκας προστάξεις δικάζειν;
τί μήν;
ἦ ἄλλου οὑτινοσοῦν μᾶλλον ἐφιέμενοι δικάσουσιν ἢ τούτου, ὅπως ἂν ἕκαστοι μήτʼ ἔχωσι τἀλλότρια μήτε τῶν αὑτῶν στέρωνται;
οὔκ, ἀλλὰ τούτου.
ὡς δικαίου ὄντος;
ναί.
καὶ ταύτῃ ἄρα πῃ ἡ τοῦ οἰκείου τε καὶ ἑαυτοῦ ἕξις τε καὶ

[434a]
πρᾶξις δικαιοσύνη ἂν ὁμολογοῖτο.
ἔστι ταῦτα.
ἰδὲ δὴ ἐὰν σοὶ ὅπερ ἐμοὶ συνδοκῇ. τέκτων σκυτοτόμου ἐπιχειρῶν ἔργα ἐργάζεσθαι ἢ σκυτοτόμος τέκτονος, ἢ τὰ ὄργανα μεταλαμβάνοντες τἀλλήλων ἢ τιμάς, ἢ καὶ ὁ αὐτὸς ἐπιχειρῶν ἀμφότερα πράττειν, πάντα τἆλλα μεταλλαττόμενα, ἆρά σοι ἄν τι δοκεῖ μέγα βλάψαι πόλιν;
οὐ πάνυ, ἔφη.
ἀλλʼ ὅταν γε οἶμαι δημιουργὸς ὢν ἤ τις ἄλλος χρηματιστὴς [434b] φύσει, ἔπειτα ἐπαιρόμενος ἢ πλούτῳ ἢ πλήθει ἢ ἰσχύι ἢ ἄλλῳ τῳ τοιούτῳ εἰς τὸ τοῦ πολεμικοῦ εἶδος ἐπιχειρῇ ἰέναι, ἢ τῶν πολεμικῶν τις εἰς τὸ τοῦ βουλευτικοῦ καὶ φύλακος ἀνάξιος ὤν, καὶ τὰ ἀλλήλων οὗτοι ὄργανα μεταλαμβάνωσι καὶ τὰς τιμάς, ἢ ὅταν ὁ αὐτὸς πάντα ταῦτα ἅμα ἐπιχειρῇ πράττειν, τότε οἶμαι καὶ σοὶ δοκεῖν ταύτην τὴν τούτων μεταβολὴν καὶ πολυπραγμοσύνην ὄλεθρον εἶναι τῇ πόλει.
παντάπασι μὲν οὖν.
ἡ τριῶν ἄρα ὄντων γενῶν πολυπραγμοσύνη καὶ μεταβολὴ [434c] εἰς ἄλληλα μεγίστη τε βλάβη τῇ πόλει καὶ ὀρθότατʼ ἂν προσαγορεύοιτο μάλιστα κακουργία.
κομιδῇ μὲν οὖν.
κακουργίαν δὲ τὴν μεγίστην τῆς ἑαυτοῦ πόλεως οὐκ ἀδικίαν φήσεις εἶναι;
πῶς δʼ οὔ;
τοῦτο μὲν ἄρα ἀδικία. πάλιν δὲ ὧδε λέγωμεν· χρηματιστικοῦ, ἐπικουρικοῦ, φυλακικοῦ γένους οἰκειοπραγία, ἑκάστου τούτων τὸ αὑτοῦ πράττοντος ἐν πόλει, τοὐναντίον ἐκείνου δικαιοσύνη τʼ ἂν εἴη καὶ τὴν πόλιν δικαίαν παρέχοι; [434d]
οὐκ ἄλλῃ ἔμοιγε δοκεῖ, ἦ δʼ ὅς, ἔχειν ἢ ταύτῃ.
μηδέν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, πω πάνυ παγίως αὐτὸ λέγωμεν, ἀλλʼ ἐὰν μὲν ἡμῖν καὶ εἰς ἕνα ἕκαστον τῶν ἀνθρώπων ἰὸν τὸ εἶδος τοῦτο ὁμολογῆται καὶ ἐκεῖ δικαιοσύνη εἶναι, συγχωρησόμεθα ἤδη—τί γὰρ καὶ ἐροῦμεν; —εἰ δὲ μή, τότε ἄλλο τι σκεψόμεθα. νῦν δʼ ἐκτελέσωμεν τὴν σκέψιν ἣν ᾠήθημεν, εἰ ἐν μείζονί τινι τῶν ἐχόντων δικαιοσύνην πρότερον ἢ ἐκεῖ ἐπιχειρήσαιμεν θεάσασθαι, ῥᾷον ἂν ἐν ἑνὶ ἀνθρώπῳ κατιδεῖν οἷόν ἐστιν. καὶ [434e] ἔδοξε δὴ ἡμῖν τοῦτο εἶναι πόλις, καὶ οὕτω ᾠκίζομεν ὡς ἐδυνάμεθα ἀρίστην, εὖ εἰδότες ὅτι ἔν γε τῇ ἀγαθῇ ἂν εἴη. ὃ οὖν ἡμῖν ἐκεῖ ἐφάνη, ἐπαναφέρωμεν εἰς τὸν ἕνα, κἂν μὲν ὁμολογῆται, καλῶς ἕξει·
ἐὰν δέ τι ἄλλο ἐν τῷ ἑνὶ ἐμφαίνηται, πάλιν ἐπανιόντες ἐπὶ τὴν πόλιν βασανιοῦμεν, καὶ

[435a]
τάχʼ ἂν παρʼ ἄλληλα σκοποῦντες καὶ τρίβοντες, ὥσπερ ἐκ πυρείων ἐκλάμψαι ποιήσαιμεν τὴν δικαιοσύνην· καὶ φανερὰν γενομένην βεβαιωσόμεθα αὐτὴν παρʼ ἡμῖν αὐτοῖς.
ἀλλʼ, ἔφη, καθʼ ὁδόν τε λέγεις καὶ ποιεῖν χρὴ οὕτως.
ἆρʼ οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὅ γε ταὐτὸν ἄν τις προσείποι μεῖζόν τε καὶ ἔλαττον, ἀνόμοιον τυγχάνει ὂν ταύτῃ ᾗ ταὐτὸν προσαγορεύεται, ἢ ὅμοιον;
ὅμοιον, ἔφη. [435b]
καὶ δίκαιος ἄρα ἀνὴρ δικαίας πόλεως κατʼ αὐτὸ τὸ τῆς δικαιοσύνης εἶδος οὐδὲν διοίσει, ἀλλʼ ὅμοιος ἔσται.
ὅμοιος, ἔφη.
ἀλλὰ μέντοι πόλις γε ἔδοξεν εἶναι δικαία ὅτε ἐν αὐτῇ τριττὰ γένη φύσεων ἐνόντα τὸ αὑτῶν ἕκαστον ἔπραττεν, σώφρων δὲ αὖ καὶ ἀνδρεία καὶ σοφὴ διὰ τῶν αὐτῶν τούτων γενῶν ἄλλʼ ἄττα πάθη τε καὶ ἕξεις.
ἀληθῆ, ἔφη.
καὶ τὸν ἕνα ἄρα, ὦ φίλε, οὕτως ἀξιώσομεν, τὰ αὐτὰ ταῦτα [435c] εἴδη ἐν τῇ αὑτοῦ ψυχῇ ἔχοντα, διὰ τὰ αὐτὰ πάθη ἐκείνοις τῶν αὐτῶν ὀνομάτων ὀρθῶς ἀξιοῦσθαι τῇ πόλει.
πᾶσα ἀνάγκη, ἔφη.
εἰς φαῦλόν γε αὖ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὦ θαυμάσιε, σκέμμα ἐμπεπτώκαμεν περὶ ψυχῆς, εἴτε ἔχει τὰ τρία εἴδη ταῦτα ἐν αὑτῇ εἴτε μή.
οὐ πάνυ μοι δοκοῦμεν, ἔφη, εἰς φαῦλον· ἴσως γάρ, ὦ Σώκρατες, τὸ λεγόμενον ἀληθές, ὅτι χαλεπὰ τὰ καλά.
φαίνεται, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ. καὶ εὖ γʼ ἴσθι, ὦ Γλαύκων, ὡς ἡ [435d] ἐμὴ δόξα, ἀκριβῶς μὲν τοῦτο ἐκ τοιούτων μεθόδων, οἵαις νῦν ἐν τοῖς λόγοις χρώμεθα, οὐ μή ποτε λάβωμεν— ἄλλη γὰρ μακροτέρα καὶ πλείων ὁδὸς ἡ ἐπὶ τοῦτο ἄγουσα —ἴσως μέντοι τῶν γε προειρημένων τε καὶ προεσκεμμένων ἀξίως.
οὐκοῦν ἀγαπητόν; ἔφη· ἐμοὶ μὲν γὰρ ἔν γε τῷ παρόντι ἱκανῶς ἂν ἔχοι.
ἀλλὰ μέντοι, εἶπον, ἔμοιγε καὶ πάνυ ἐξαρκέσει.
μὴ τοίνυν ἀποκάμῃς, ἔφη, ἀλλὰ σκόπει. [435e]
ἆρʼ οὖν ἡμῖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, πολλὴ ἀνάγκη ὁμολογεῖν ὅτι γε τὰ αὐτὰ ἐν ἑκάστῳ ἔνεστιν ἡμῶν εἴδη τε καὶ ἤθη ἅπερ ἐν τῇ πόλει; οὐ γάρ που ἄλλοθεν ἐκεῖσε ἀφῖκται.
γελοῖον γὰρ ἂν εἴη εἴ τις οἰηθείη τὸ θυμοειδὲς μὴ ἐκ τῶν ἰδιωτῶν ἐν ταῖς πόλεσιν ἐγγεγονέναι, οἳ δὴ καὶ ἔχουσι ταύτην τὴν αἰτίαν, οἷον οἱ κατὰ τὴν Θρᾴκην τε καὶ Σκυθικὴν καὶ σχεδόν τι κατὰ τὸν ἄνω τόπον, ἢ τὸ φιλομαθές, ὃ δὴ τὸν παρʼ ἡμῖν

### Book IV, 436–442

[436a]
μάλιστʼ ἄν τις αἰτιάσαιτο τόπον, ἢ τὸ φιλοχρήματον τὸ περὶ τούς τε Φοίνικας εἶναι καὶ τοὺς κατὰ Αἴγυπτον φαίη τις ἂν οὐχ ἥκιστα.
καὶ μάλα, ἔφη.
τοῦτο μὲν δὴ οὕτως ἔχει, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καὶ οὐδὲν χαλεπὸν γνῶναι.
οὐ δῆτα.
τόδε δὲ ἤδη χαλεπόν, εἰ τῷ αὐτῷ τούτῳ ἕκαστα πράττομεν ἢ τρισὶν οὖσιν ἄλλο ἄλλῳ· μανθάνομεν μὲν ἑτέρῳ, θυμούμεθα δὲ ἄλλῳ τῶν ἐν ἡμῖν, ἐπιθυμοῦμεν δʼ αὖ τρίτῳ τινὶ τῶν περὶ τὴν τροφήν τε καὶ γέννησιν ἡδονῶν καὶ ὅσα τούτων [436b] ἀδελφά, ἢ ὅλῃ τῇ ψυχῇ καθʼ ἕκαστον αὐτῶν πράττομεν, ὅταν ὁρμήσωμεν. ταῦτʼ ἔσται τὰ χαλεπὰ διορίσασθαι ἀξίως λόγου.
καὶ ἐμοὶ δοκεῖ, ἔφη.
ὧδε τοίνυν ἐπιχειρῶμεν αὐτὰ ὁρίζεσθαι, εἴτε τὰ αὐτὰ ἀλλήλοις εἴτε ἕτερά ἐστι.
πῶς;
δῆλον ὅτι ταὐτὸν τἀναντία ποιεῖν ἢ πάσχειν κατὰ ταὐτόν γε καὶ πρὸς ταὐτὸν οὐκ ἐθελήσει ἅμα, ὥστε ἄν που εὑρίσκωμεν ἐν αὐτοῖς ταῦτα γιγνόμενα, εἰσόμεθα ὅτι οὐ ταὐτὸν [436c] ἦν ἀλλὰ πλείω.
εἶεν.
σκόπει δὴ ὃ λέγω.
λέγε, ἔφη.
ἑστάναι, εἶπον, καὶ κινεῖσθαι τὸ αὐτὸ ἅμα κατὰ τὸ αὐτὸ ἆρα δυνατόν;
οὐδαμῶς.
ἔτι τοίνυν ἀκριβέστερον ὁμολογησώμεθα, μή πῃ προϊόντες ἀμφισβητήσωμεν. εἰ γάρ τις λέγοι ἄνθρωπον ἑστηκότα, κινοῦντα δὲ τὰς χεῖράς τε καὶ τὴν κεφαλήν, ὅτι ὁ αὐτὸς ἕστηκέ τε καὶ κινεῖται ἅμα, οὐκ ἂν οἶμαι ἀξιοῖμεν οὕτω [436d] λέγειν δεῖν, ἀλλʼ ὅτι τὸ μέν τι αὐτοῦ ἕστηκε, τὸ δὲ κινεῖται. οὐχ οὕτω;
οὕτω.
οὐκοῦν καὶ εἰ ἔτι μᾶλλον χαριεντίζοιτο ὁ ταῦτα λέγων, κομψευόμενος ὡς οἵ γε στρόβιλοι ὅλοι ἑστᾶσί τε ἅμα καὶ κινοῦνται, ὅταν ἐν τῷ αὐτῷ πήξαντες τὸ κέντρον περιφέρωνται, ἢ καὶ ἄλλο τι κύκλῳ περιιὸν ἐν τῇ αὐτῇ ἕδρᾳ τοῦτο δρᾷ, οὐκ ἂν ἀποδεχοίμεθα, ὡς οὐ κατὰ ταὐτὰ ἑαυτῶν [436e] τὰ τοιαῦτα τότε μενόντων τε καὶ φερομένων, ἀλλὰ φαῖμεν ἂν ἔχειν αὐτὰ εὐθύ τε καὶ περιφερὲς ἐν αὑτοῖς, καὶ κατὰ μὲν τὸ εὐθὺ ἑστάναι—οὐδαμῇ γὰρ ἀποκλίνειν—κατὰ δὲ τὸ περιφερὲς κύκλῳ κινεῖσθαι, καὶ ὅταν δὲ τὴν εὐθυωρίαν ἢ εἰς δεξιὰν ἢ εἰς ἀριστερὰν ἢ εἰς τὸ πρόσθεν ἢ εἰς τὸ ὄπισθεν ἐγκλίνῃ ἅμα περιφερόμενον, τότε οὐδαμῇ [ἔστιν] ἑστάναι.
καὶ ὀρθῶς γε, ἔφη.
οὐδὲν ἄρα ἡμᾶς τῶν τοιούτων λεγόμενον ἐκπλήξει, οὐδὲ μᾶλλόν τι πείσει ὥς ποτέ τι ἂν τὸ αὐτὸ ὂν ἅμα κατὰ

[437a]
τὸ αὐτὸ πρὸς τὸ αὐτὸ τἀναντία πάθοι ἢ καὶ εἴη ἢ καὶ ποιήσειεν.
οὔκουν ἐμέ γε, ἔφη.
ἀλλʼ ὅμως, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἵνα μὴ ἀναγκαζώμεθα πάσας τὰς τοιαύτας ἀμφισβητήσεις ἐπεξιόντες καὶ βεβαιούμενοι ὡς οὐκ ἀληθεῖς οὔσας μηκύνειν, ὑποθέμενοι ὡς τούτου οὕτως ἔχοντος εἰς τὸ πρόσθεν προΐωμεν, ὁμολογήσαντες, ἐάν ποτε ἄλλῃ φανῇ ταῦτα ἢ ταύτῃ, πάντα ἡμῖν τὰ ἀπὸ τούτου συμβαίνοντα λελυμένα ἔσεσθαι.
ἀλλὰ χρή, ἔφη, ταῦτα ποιεῖν. [437b]
ἆρʼ ἂν οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τὸ ἐπινεύειν τῷ ἀνανεύειν καὶ τὸ ἐφίεσθαί τινος λαβεῖν τῷ ἀπαρνεῖσθαι καὶ τὸ προσάγεσθαι τῷ ἀπωθεῖσθαι, πάντα τὰ τοιαῦτα τῶν ἐναντίων ἀλλήλοις θείης εἴτε ποιημάτων εἴτε παθημάτων; οὐδὲν γὰρ ταύτῃ διοίσει.
ἀλλʼ, ἦ δʼ ὅς, τῶν ἐναντίων.
τί οὖν; ἦν δʼ ἐγώ· διψῆν καὶ πεινῆν καὶ ὅλως τὰς ἐπιθυμίας, καὶ αὖ τὸ ἐθέλειν καὶ τὸ βούλεσθαι, οὐ πάντα ταῦτα [437c] εἰς ἐκεῖνά ποι ἂν θείης τὰ εἴδη τὰ νυνδὴ λεχθέντα; οἷον ἀεὶ τὴν τοῦ ἐπιθυμοῦντος ψυχὴν οὐχὶ ἤτοι ἐφίεσθαι φήσεις ἐκείνου οὗ ἂν ἐπιθυμῇ, ἢ προσάγεσθαι τοῦτο ὃ ἂν βούληταί οἱ γενέσθαι, ἢ αὖ, καθʼ ὅσον ἐθέλει τί οἱ πορισθῆναι, ἐπινεύειν τοῦτο πρὸς αὑτὴν ὥσπερ τινὸς ἐρωτῶντος, ἐπορεγομένην αὐτοῦ τῆς γενέσεως;
ἔγωγε.
τί δέ; τὸ ἀβουλεῖν καὶ μὴ ἐθέλειν μηδʼ ἐπιθυμεῖν οὐκ εἰς τὸ ἀπωθεῖν καὶ ἀπελαύνειν ἀπʼ αὐτῆς καὶ εἰς ἅπαντα τἀναντία ἐκείνοις θήσομεν; [437d]
πῶς γὰρ οὔ;
τούτων δὴ οὕτως ἐχόντων ἐπιθυμιῶν τι φήσομεν εἶναι εἶδος, καὶ ἐναργεστάτας αὐτῶν τούτων ἥν τε δίψαν καλοῦμεν καὶ ἣν πεῖναν;
φήσομεν, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
οὐκοῦν τὴν μὲν ποτοῦ, τὴν δʼ ἐδωδῆς;
ναί.
ἆρʼ οὖν, καθʼ ὅσον δίψα ἐστί, πλέονος ἄν τινος ἢ οὗ λέγομεν ἐπιθυμία ἐν τῇ ψυχῇ εἴη, οἷον δίψα ἐστὶ δίψα ἆρά γε θερμοῦ ποτοῦ ἢ ψυχροῦ, ἢ πολλοῦ ἢ ὀλίγου, ἢ καὶ ἑνὶ λόγῳ ποιοῦ τινος πώματος; ἢ ἐὰν μέν τις θερμότης τῷ [437e] δίψει προσῇ, τὴν τοῦ ψυχροῦ ἐπιθυμίαν προσπαρέχοιτʼ ἄν, ἐὰν δὲ ψυχρότης, τὴν τοῦ θερμοῦ; ἐὰν δὲ διὰ πλήθους παρουσίαν πολλὴ ἡ δίψα ᾖ, τὴν τοῦ πολλοῦ παρέξεται, ἐὰν δὲ ὀλίγη, τὴν τοῦ ὀλίγου; αὐτὸ δὲ τὸ διψῆν οὐ μή ποτε ἄλλου γένηται ἐπιθυμία ἢ οὗπερ πέφυκεν, αὐτοῦ πώματος, καὶ αὖ τὸ πεινῆν βρώματος;
οὕτως, ἔφη, αὐτή γε ἡ ἐπιθυμία ἑκάστη αὐτοῦ μόνον ἑκάστου οὗ πέφυκεν, τοῦ δὲ τοίου ἢ τοίου τὰ προσγιγνόμενα.

[438a]
μήτοι τις, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἀσκέπτους ἡμᾶς ὄντας θορυβήσῃ, ὡς οὐδεὶς ποτοῦ ἐπιθυμεῖ ἀλλὰ χρηστοῦ ποτοῦ, καὶ οὐ σίτου ἀλλὰ χρηστοῦ σίτου. πάντες γὰρ ἄρα τῶν ἀγαθῶν ἐπιθυμοῦσιν· εἰ οὖν ἡ δίψα ἐπιθυμία ἐστί, χρηστοῦ ἂν εἴη εἴτε πώματος εἴτε ἄλλου ὅτου ἐστὶν ἐπιθυμία, καὶ αἱ ἄλλαι οὕτω.
ἴσως γὰρ ἄν, ἔφη, δοκοῖ τι λέγειν ὁ ταῦτα λέγων.
ἀλλὰ μέντοι, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὅσα γʼ ἐστὶ τοιαῦτα οἷα εἶναί [438b] του, τὰ μὲν ποιὰ ἄττα ποιοῦ τινός ἐστιν, ὡς ἐμοὶ δοκεῖ, τὰ δʼ αὐτὰ ἕκαστα αὐτοῦ ἑκάστου μόνον.
οὐκ ἔμαθον, ἔφη.
οὐκ ἔμαθες, ἔφην, ὅτι τὸ μεῖζον τοιοῦτόν ἐστιν οἷον τινὸς εἶναι μεῖζον;
πάνυ γε.
οὐκοῦν τοῦ ἐλάττονος;
ναί.
τὸ δέ γε πολὺ μεῖζον πολὺ ἐλάττονος. ἦ γάρ;
ναί.
ἆρʼ οὖν καὶ τὸ ποτὲ μεῖζον ποτὲ ἐλάττονος, καὶ τὸ ἐσόμενον μεῖζον ἐσομένου ἐλάττονος;
ἀλλὰ τί μήν; ἦ δʼ ὅς. [438c]
καὶ τὰ πλείω δὴ πρὸς τὰ ἐλάττω καὶ τὰ διπλάσια πρὸς τὰ ἡμίσεα καὶ πάντα τὰ τοιαῦτα, καὶ αὖ βαρύτερα πρὸς κουφότερα καὶ θάττω πρὸς τὰ βραδύτερα, καὶ ἔτι γε τὰ θερμὰ πρὸς τὰ ψυχρὰ καὶ πάντα τὰ τούτοις ὅμοια ἆρʼ οὐχ οὕτως ἔχει;
πάνυ μὲν οὖν.
τί δὲ τὰ περὶ τὰς ἐπιστήμας; οὐχ ὁ αὐτὸς τρόπος; ἐπιστήμη μὲν αὐτὴ μαθήματος αὐτοῦ ἐπιστήμη ἐστὶν ἢ ὅτου δὴ δεῖ θεῖναι τὴν ἐπιστήμην, ἐπιστήμη δέ τις καὶ ποιά τις [438d] ποιοῦ τινος καὶ τινός. λέγω δὲ τὸ τοιόνδε· οὐκ ἐπειδὴ οἰκίας ἐργασίας ἐπιστήμη ἐγένετο, διήνεγκε τῶν ἄλλων ἐπιστημῶν, ὥστε οἰκοδομικὴ κληθῆναι;
τί μήν;
ἆρʼ οὐ τῷ ποιά τις εἶναι, οἵα ἑτέρα οὐδεμία τῶν ἄλλων;
ναί.
οὐκοῦν ἐπειδὴ ποιοῦ τινος, καὶ αὐτὴ ποιά τις ἐγένετο; καὶ αἱ ἄλλαι οὕτω τέχναι τε καὶ ἐπιστῆμαι;
ἔστιν οὕτω.
τοῦτο τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, φάθι με τότε βούλεσθαι λέγειν, εἰ ἄρα νῦν ἔμαθες, ὅτι ὅσα ἐστὶν οἷα εἶναί του, αὐτὰ μὲν μόνα αὐτῶν μόνων ἐστίν, τῶν δὲ ποιῶν τινων ποιὰ ἄττα. [438e] καὶ οὔ τι λέγω, ὡς, οἵων ἂν ᾖ, τοιαῦτα καὶ ἔστιν, ὡς ἄρα καὶ τῶν ὑγιεινῶν καὶ νοσωδῶν ἡ ἐπιστήμη ὑγιεινὴ καὶ νοσώδης καὶ τῶν κακῶν καὶ τῶν ἀγαθῶν κακὴ καὶ ἀγαθή· ἀλλʼ ἐπειδὴ οὐκ αὐτοῦ οὗπερ ἐπιστήμη ἐστὶν ἐγένετο ἐπιστήμη, ἀλλὰ ποιοῦ τινος, τοῦτο δʼ ἦν ὑγιεινὸν καὶ νοσῶδες, ποιὰ δή τις συνέβη καὶ αὐτὴ γενέσθαι, καὶ τοῦτο αὐτὴν ἐποίησεν μηκέτι ἐπιστήμην ἁπλῶς καλεῖσθαι, ἀλλὰ τοῦ ποιοῦ τινος προσγενομένου ἰατρικήν.
ἔμαθον, ἔφη, καί μοι δοκεῖ οὕτως ἔχειν.

[439a]
τὸ δὲ δὴ δίψος, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, οὐ τούτων θήσεις τῶν τινὸς εἶναι τοῦτο ὅπερ ἐστίν; ἔστι δὲ δήπου δίψος—
ἔγωγε, ἦ δʼ ὅς· πώματός γε.
οὐκοῦν ποιοῦ μέν τινος πώματος ποιόν τι καὶ δίψος, δίψος δʼ οὖν αὐτὸ οὔτε πολλοῦ οὔτε ὀλίγου, οὔτε ἀγαθοῦ οὔτε κακοῦ, οὐδʼ ἑνὶ λόγῳ ποιοῦ τινος, ἀλλʼ αὐτοῦ πώματος μόνον αὐτὸ δίψος πέφυκεν;
παντάπασι μὲν οὖν.
τοῦ διψῶντος ἄρα ἡ ψυχή, καθʼ ὅσον διψῇ, οὐκ ἄλλο [439b] τι βούλεται ἢ πιεῖν, καὶ τούτου ὀρέγεται καὶ ἐπὶ τοῦτο ὁρμᾷ.
δῆλον δή.
οὐκοῦν εἴ ποτέ τι αὐτὴν ἀνθέλκει διψῶσαν, ἕτερον ἄν τι ἐν αὐτῇ εἴη αὐτοῦ τοῦ διψῶντος καὶ ἄγοντος ὥσπερ θηρίον ἐπὶ τὸ πιεῖν; οὐ γὰρ δή, φαμέν, τό γε αὐτὸ τῷ αὐτῷ ἑαυτοῦ περὶ τὸ αὐτὸ ἅμʼ ἂν τἀναντία πράττοι.
οὐ γὰρ οὖν.
ὥσπερ γε οἶμαι τοῦ τοξότου οὐ καλῶς ἔχει λέγειν ὅτι αὐτοῦ ἅμα αἱ χεῖρες τὸ τόξον ἀπωθοῦνταί τε καὶ προσέλκονται, ἀλλʼ ὅτι ἄλλη μὲν ἡ ἀπωθοῦσα χείρ, ἑτέρα δὲ ἡ προσαγομένη. [439c]
παντάπασι μὲν οὖν, ἔφη.
πότερον δὴ φῶμέν τινας ἔστιν ὅτε διψῶντας οὐκ ἐθέλειν πιεῖν;
καὶ μάλα γʼ, ἔφη, πολλοὺς καὶ πολλάκις.
τί οὖν, ἔφην ἐγώ, φαίη τις ἂν τούτων πέρι; οὐκ ἐνεῖναι μὲν ἐν τῇ ψυχῇ αὐτῶν τὸ κελεῦον, ἐνεῖναι δὲ τὸ κωλῦον πιεῖν, ἄλλο ὂν καὶ κρατοῦν τοῦ κελεύοντος;
ἔμοιγε, ἔφη, δοκεῖ.
ἆρʼ οὖν οὐ τὸ μὲν κωλῦον τὰ τοιαῦτα ἐγγίγνεται, ὅταν [439d] ἐγγένηται, ἐκ λογισμοῦ, τὰ δὲ ἄγοντα καὶ ἕλκοντα διὰ παθημάτων τε καὶ νοσημάτων παραγίγνεται;
φαίνεται.
οὐ δὴ ἀλόγως, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἀξιώσομεν αὐτὰ διττά τε καὶ ἕτερα ἀλλήλων εἶναι, τὸ μὲν ᾧ λογίζεται λογιστικὸν προσαγορεύοντες τῆς ψυχῆς, τὸ δὲ ᾧ ἐρᾷ τε καὶ πεινῇ καὶ διψῇ καὶ περὶ τὰς ἄλλας ἐπιθυμίας ἐπτόηται ἀλόγιστόν τε καὶ ἐπιθυμητικόν, πληρώσεών τινων καὶ ἡδονῶν ἑταῖρον. [439e]
οὔκ, ἀλλʼ εἰκότως, ἔφη, ἡγοίμεθʼ ἂν οὕτως.
ταῦτα μὲν τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, δύο ἡμῖν ὡρίσθω εἴδη ἐν ψυχῇ ἐνόντα· τὸ δὲ δὴ τοῦ θυμοῦ καὶ ᾧ θυμούμεθα πότερον τρίτον, ἢ τούτων ποτέρῳ ἂν εἴη ὁμοφυές;
ἴσως, ἔφη, τῷ ἑτέρῳ, τῷ ἐπιθυμητικῷ.
ἀλλʼ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ποτὲ ἀκούσας τι πιστεύω τούτῳ· ὡς ἄρα Λεόντιος ὁ Ἀγλαΐωνος ἀνιὼν ἐκ Πειραιῶς ὑπὸ τὸ βόρειον τεῖχος ἐκτός, αἰσθόμενος νεκροὺς παρὰ τῷ δημίῳ κειμένους, ἅμα μὲν ἰδεῖν ἐπιθυμοῖ, ἅμα δὲ αὖ δυσχεραίνοι καὶ ἀποτρέποι ἑαυτόν, καὶ τέως μὲν μάχοιτό τε καὶ παρακαλύπτοιτο,

[440a]
κρατούμενος δʼ οὖν ὑπὸ τῆς ἐπιθυμίας, διελκύσας τοὺς ὀφθαλμούς, προσδραμὼν πρὸς τοὺς νεκρούς, ἰδοὺ ὑμῖν, ἔφη, ὦ κακοδαίμονες, ἐμπλήσθητε τοῦ καλοῦ θεάματος.
ἤκουσα, ἔφη, καὶ αὐτός.
οὗτος μέντοι, ἔφην, ὁ λόγος σημαίνει τὴν ὀργὴν πολεμεῖν ἐνίοτε ταῖς ἐπιθυμίαις ὡς ἄλλο ὂν ἄλλῳ.
σημαίνει γάρ, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν καὶ ἄλλοθι, ἔφην, πολλαχοῦ αἰσθανόμεθα, ὅταν [440b] βιάζωνταί τινα παρὰ τὸν λογισμὸν ἐπιθυμίαι, λοιδοροῦντά τε αὑτὸν καὶ θυμούμενον τῷ βιαζομένῳ ἐν αὑτῷ, καὶ ὥσπερ δυοῖν στασιαζόντοιν σύμμαχον τῷ λόγῳ γιγνόμενον τὸν θυμὸν τοῦ τοιούτου; ταῖς δʼ ἐπιθυμίαις αὐτὸν κοινωνήσαντα, αἱροῦντος λόγου μὴ δεῖν ἀντιπράττειν, οἶμαί σε οὐκ ἂν φάναι γενομένου ποτὲ ἐν σαυτῷ τοῦ τοιούτου αἰσθέσθαι, οἶμαι δʼ οὐδʼ ἐν ἄλλῳ.
οὐ μὰ τὸν Δία, ἔφη. [440c]
τί δέ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὅταν τις οἴηται ἀδικεῖν; οὐχ ὅσῳ ἂν γενναιότερος ᾖ, τοσούτῳ ἧττον δύναται ὀργίζεσθαι καὶ πεινῶν καὶ ῥιγῶν καὶ ἄλλο ὁτιοῦν τῶν τοιούτων πάσχων ὑπʼ ἐκείνου ὃν ἂν οἴηται δικαίως ταῦτα δρᾶν, καί, ὃ λέγω, οὐκ ἐθέλει πρὸς τοῦτον αὐτοῦ ἐγείρεσθαι ὁ θυμός;
ἀληθῆ, ἔφη.
τί δὲ ὅταν ἀδικεῖσθαί τις ἡγῆται; οὐκ ἐν τούτῳ ζεῖ τε καὶ χαλεπαίνει καὶ συμμαχεῖ τῷ δοκοῦντι δικαίῳ καί, διὰ τὸ πεινῆν καὶ διὰ τὸ ῥιγοῦν καὶ πάντα τὰ τοιαῦτα πάσχειν, [440d] ὑπομένων καὶ νικᾷ καὶ οὐ λήγει τῶν γενναίων, πρὶν ἂν ἢ διαπράξηται ἢ τελευτήσῃ ἢ ὥσπερ κύων ὑπὸ νομέως ὑπὸ τοῦ λόγου τοῦ παρʼ αὑτῷ ἀνακληθεὶς πραϋνθῇ;
πάνυ μὲν οὖν, ἔφη, ἔοικε τούτῳ ᾧ λέγεις· καίτοι γʼ ἐν τῇ ἡμετέρᾳ πόλει τοὺς ἐπικούρους ὥσπερ κύνας ἐθέμεθα ὑπηκόους τῶν ἀρχόντων ὥσπερ ποιμένων πόλεως.
καλῶς γάρ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, νοεῖς ὃ βούλομαι λέγειν. ἀλλʼ ἦ πρὸς τούτῳ καὶ τόδε ἐνθυμῇ; [440e]
τὸ ποῖον;
ὅτι τοὐναντίον ἢ ἀρτίως ἡμῖν φαίνεται περὶ τοῦ θυμοειδοῦς. τότε μὲν γὰρ ἐπιθυμητικόν τι αὐτὸ ᾠόμεθα εἶναι, νῦν δὲ πολλοῦ δεῖν φαμεν, ἀλλὰ πολὺ μᾶλλον αὐτὸ ἐν τῇ τῆς ψυχῆς στάσει τίθεσθαι τὰ ὅπλα πρὸς τὸ λογιστικόν.
παντάπασιν, ἔφη.
ἆρʼ οὖν ἕτερον ὂν καὶ τούτου, ἢ λογιστικοῦ τι εἶδος, ὥστε μὴ τρία ἀλλὰ δύο εἴδη εἶναι ἐν ψυχῇ, λογιστικὸν καὶ ἐπιθυμητικόν; ἢ καθάπερ ἐν τῇ πόλει συνεῖχεν αὐτὴν τρία

[441a]
ὄντα γένη, χρηματιστικόν, ἐπικουρητικόν, βουλευτικόν, οὕτως καὶ ἐν ψυχῇ τρίτον τοῦτό ἐστι τὸ θυμοειδές, ἐπίκουρον ὂν τῷ λογιστικῷ φύσει, ἐὰν μὴ ὑπὸ κακῆς τροφῆς διαφθαρῇ;
ἀνάγκη, ἔφη, τρίτον.
ναί, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἄν γε τοῦ λογιστικοῦ ἄλλο τι φανῇ, ὥσπερ τοῦ ἐπιθυμητικοῦ ἐφάνη ἕτερον ὄν.
ἀλλʼ οὐ χαλεπόν, ἔφη, φανῆναι· καὶ γὰρ ἐν τοῖς παιδίοις τοῦτό γʼ ἄν τις ἴδοι, ὅτι θυμοῦ μὲν εὐθὺς γενόμενα μεστά ἐστι, λογισμοῦ δʼ ἔνιοι μὲν ἔμοιγε δοκοῦσιν οὐδέποτε μεταλαμβάνειν, [441b] οἱ δὲ πολλοὶ ὀψέ ποτε.
ναὶ μὰ Δίʼ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καλῶς γε εἶπες. ἔτι δὲ ἐν τοῖς θηρίοις ἄν τις ἴδοι ὃ λέγεις, ὅτι οὕτως ἔχει. πρὸς δὲ τούτοις καὶ ὃ ἄνω που [ἐκεῖ] εἴπομεν, τὸ τοῦ Ὁμήρου μαρτυρήσει, τὸ—
στῆθος δὲ πλήξας κραδίην ἠνίπαπε μύθῳ·
ἐνταῦθα γὰρ δὴ σαφῶς ὡς ἕτερον ἑτέρῳ ἐπιπλῆττον πεποίηκεν [441c] Ὅμηρος τὸ ἀναλογισάμενον περὶ τοῦ βελτίονός τε καὶ χείρονος τῷ ἀλογίστως θυμουμένῳ.
κομιδῇ, ἔφη, ὀρθῶς λέγεις.
ταῦτα μὲν ἄρα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, μόγις διανενεύκαμεν, καὶ ἡμῖν ἐπιεικῶς ὡμολόγηται τὰ αὐτὰ μὲν ἐν πόλει, τὰ αὐτὰ δʼ ἐν ἑνὸς ἑκάστου τῇ ψυχῇ γένη ἐνεῖναι καὶ ἴσα τὸν ἀριθμόν.
ἔστι ταῦτα.
οὐκοῦν ἐκεῖνό γε ἤδη ἀναγκαῖον, ὡς πόλις ἦν σοφὴ καὶ ᾧ, οὕτω καὶ τὸν ἰδιώτην καὶ τούτῳ σοφὸν εἶναι;
τί μήν; [441d]
καὶ ᾧ δὴ ἀνδρεῖος ἰδιώτης καὶ ὥς, τούτῳ καὶ πόλιν ἀνδρείαν καὶ οὕτως, καὶ τἆλλα πάντα πρὸς ἀρετὴν ὡσαύτως ἀμφότερα ἔχειν;
ἀνάγκη.
καὶ δίκαιον δή, ὦ Γλαύκων, οἶμαι φήσομεν ἄνδρα εἶναι τῷ αὐτῷ τρόπῳ ᾧπερ καὶ πόλις ἦν δικαία.
καὶ τοῦτο πᾶσα ἀνάγκη.
ἀλλʼ οὔ πῃ μὴν τοῦτό γε ἐπιλελήσμεθα, ὅτι ἐκείνη γε τῷ τὸ ἑαυτοῦ ἕκαστον ἐν αὐτῇ πράττειν τριῶν ὄντων γενῶν δικαία ἦν.
οὔ μοι δοκοῦμεν, ἔφη, ἐπιλελῆσθαι.
μνημονευτέον ἄρα ἡμῖν ὅτι καὶ ἡμῶν ἕκαστος, ὅτου ἂν [441e] τὰ αὑτοῦ ἕκαστον τῶν ἐν αὐτῷ πράττῃ, οὗτος δίκαιός τε ἔσται καὶ τὰ αὑτοῦ πράττων.
καὶ μάλα, ἦ δʼ ὅς, μνημονευτέον.
οὐκοῦν τῷ μὲν λογιστικῷ ἄρχειν προσήκει, σοφῷ ὄντι καὶ ἔχοντι τὴν ὑπὲρ ἁπάσης τῆς ψυχῆς προμήθειαν, τῷ δὲ θυμοειδεῖ ὑπηκόῳ εἶναι καὶ συμμάχῳ τούτου;
πάνυ γε.
ἆρʼ οὖν οὐχ, ὥσπερ ἐλέγομεν, μουσικῆς καὶ γυμναστικῆς κρᾶσις σύμφωνα αὐτὰ ποιήσει, τὸ μὲν ἐπιτείνουσα καὶ

[442a]
τρέφουσα λόγοις τε καλοῖς καὶ μαθήμασιν, τὸ δὲ ἀνιεῖσα παραμυθουμένη, ἡμεροῦσα ἁρμονίᾳ τε καὶ ῥυθμῷ;
κομιδῇ γε, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
καὶ τούτω δὴ οὕτω τραφέντε καὶ ὡς ἀληθῶς τὰ αὑτῶν μαθόντε καὶ παιδευθέντε προστήσεσθον τοῦ ἐπιθυμητικοῦ—ὃ δὴ πλεῖστον τῆς ψυχῆς ἐν ἑκάστῳ ἐστὶ καὶ χρημάτων φύσει ἀπληστότατον—ὃ τηρήσετον μὴ τῷ πίμπλασθαι τῶν περὶ τὸ σῶμα καλουμένων ἡδονῶν πολὺ καὶ ἰσχυρὸν γενόμενον [442b] οὐκ αὖ τὰ αὑτοῦ πράττῃ, ἀλλὰ καταδουλώσασθαι καὶ ἄρχειν ἐπιχειρήσῃ ὧν οὐ προσῆκον αὐτῷ γένει, καὶ σύμπαντα τὸν βίον πάντων ἀνατρέψῃ.
πάνυ μὲν οὖν, ἔφη.
ἆρʼ οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καὶ τοὺς ἔξωθεν πολεμίους τούτω ἂν κάλλιστα φυλαττοίτην ὑπὲρ ἁπάσης τῆς ψυχῆς τε καὶ τοῦ σώματος, τὸ μὲν βουλευόμενον, τὸ δὲ προπολεμοῦν, ἑπόμενον [δὲ] τῷ ἄρχοντι καὶ τῇ ἀνδρείᾳ ἐπιτελοῦν τὰ βουλευθέντα;
ἔστι ταῦτα.
καὶ ἀνδρεῖον δὴ οἶμαι τούτῳ τῷ μέρει καλοῦμεν ἕνα [442c] ἕκαστον, ὅταν αὐτοῦ τὸ θυμοειδὲς διασῴζῃ διά τε λυπῶν καὶ ἡδονῶν τὸ ὑπὸ τῶν λόγων παραγγελθὲν δεινόν τε καὶ μή.
ὀρθῶς γʼ, ἔφη.
σοφὸν δέ γε ἐκείνῳ τῷ σμικρῷ μέρει, τῷ ὃ ἦρχέν τʼ ἐν αὐτῷ καὶ ταῦτα παρήγγελλεν, ἔχον αὖ κἀκεῖνο ἐπιστήμην ἐν αὑτῷ τὴν τοῦ συμφέροντος ἑκάστῳ τε καὶ ὅλῳ τῷ κοινῷ σφῶν αὐτῶν τριῶν ὄντων.
πάνυ μὲν οὖν.
τί δέ; σώφρονα οὐ τῇ φιλίᾳ καὶ συμφωνίᾳ τῇ αὐτῶν τούτων, ὅταν τό τε ἄρχον καὶ τὼ ἀρχομένω τὸ λογιστικὸν [442d] ὁμοδοξῶσι δεῖν ἄρχειν καὶ μὴ στασιάζωσιν αὐτῷ;
σωφροσύνη γοῦν, ἦ δʼ ὅς, οὐκ ἄλλο τί ἐστιν ἢ τοῦτο, πόλεώς τε καὶ ἰδιώτου.
ἀλλὰ μὲν δὴ δίκαιός γε, ᾧ πολλάκις λέγομεν, τούτῳ καὶ οὕτως ἔσται.
πολλὴ ἀνάγκη.
τί οὖν; εἶπον ἐγώ· μή πῃ ἡμῖν ἀπαμβλύνεται ἄλλο τι δικαιοσύνη δοκεῖν εἶναι ἢ ὅπερ ἐν τῇ πόλει ἐφάνη;
οὐκ ἔμοιγε, ἔφη, δοκεῖ.
ὧδε γάρ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, παντάπασιν ἂν βεβαιωσαίμεθα [442e] εἴ τι ἡμῶν ἔτι ἐν τῇ ψυχῇ ἀμφισβητεῖ, τὰ φορτικὰ αὐτῷ προσφέροντες.
ποῖα δή;
οἷον εἰ δέοι ἡμᾶς ἀνομολογεῖσθαι περί τε ἐκείνης τῆς πόλεως καὶ τοῦ ἐκείνῃ ὁμοίως πεφυκότος τε καὶ τεθραμμένου ἀνδρός, εἰ δοκεῖ ἂν παρακαταθήκην χρυσίου ἢ ἀργυρίου δεξάμενος ὁ τοιοῦτος ἀποστερῆσαι, τίνʼ ἂν οἴει οἰηθῆναι

### Book IV, 443–445

[443a]
τοῦτον αὐτὸ δρᾶσαι μᾶλλον ἢ ὅσοι μὴ τοιοῦτοι;
οὐδένʼ ἄν, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν καὶ ἱεροσυλιῶν καὶ κλοπῶν καὶ προδοσιῶν, ἢ ἰδίᾳ ἑταίρων ἢ δημοσίᾳ πόλεων, ἐκτὸς ἂν οὗτος εἴη;
ἐκτός.
καὶ μὴν οὐδʼ ὁπωστιοῦν γʼ ἂν ἄπιστος ἢ κατὰ ὅρκους ἢ κατὰ τὰς ἄλλας ὁμολογίας.
πῶς γὰρ ἄν;
μοιχεῖαί γε μὴν καὶ γονέων ἀμέλειαι καὶ θεῶν ἀθεραπευσίαι παντὶ ἄλλῳ μᾶλλον ἢ τῷ τοιούτῳ προσήκουσι.
παντὶ μέντοι, ἔφη. [443b]
οὐκοῦν τούτων πάντων αἴτιον ὅτι αὐτοῦ τῶν ἐν αὐτῷ ἕκαστον τὰ αὑτοῦ πράττει ἀρχῆς τε πέρι καὶ τοῦ ἄρχεσθαι;
τοῦτο μὲν οὖν, καὶ οὐδὲν ἄλλο.
ἔτι τι οὖν ἕτερον ζητεῖς δικαιοσύνην εἶναι ἢ ταύτην τὴν δύναμιν ἣ τοὺς τοιούτους ἄνδρας τε παρέχεται καὶ πόλεις;
μὰ Δία, ἦ δʼ ὅς, οὐκ ἔγωγε.
τέλεον ἄρα ἡμῖν τὸ ἐνύπνιον ἀποτετέλεσται, ὃ ἔφαμεν ὑποπτεῦσαι ὡς εὐθὺς ἀρχόμενοι τῆς πόλεως οἰκίζειν κατὰ [443c] θεόν τινα εἰς ἀρχήν τε καὶ τύπον τινὰ τῆς δικαιοσύνης κινδυνεύομεν ἐμβεβηκέναι.
παντάπασιν μὲν οὖν.
τὸ δέ γε ἦν ἄρα, ὦ Γλαύκων—διʼ ὃ καὶ ὠφελεῖ—εἴδωλόν τι τῆς δικαιοσύνης, τὸ τὸν μὲν σκυτοτομικὸν φύσει ὀρθῶς ἔχειν σκυτοτομεῖν καὶ ἄλλο μηδὲν πράττειν, τὸν δὲ τεκτονικὸν τεκταίνεσθαι, καὶ τἆλλα δὴ οὕτως.
φαίνεται.
τὸ δέ γε ἀληθές, τοιοῦτόν τι ἦν, ὡς ἔοικεν, ἡ δικαιοσύνη ἀλλʼ οὐ περὶ τὴν ἔξω πρᾶξιν τῶν αὑτοῦ, ἀλλὰ περὶ τὴν [443d] ἐντός, ὡς ἀληθῶς περὶ ἑαυτὸν καὶ τὰ ἑαυτοῦ, μὴ ἐάσαντα τἀλλότρια πράττειν ἕκαστον ἐν αὑτῷ μηδὲ πολυπραγμονεῖν πρὸς ἄλληλα τὰ ἐν τῇ ψυχῇ γένη, ἀλλὰ τῷ ὄντι τὰ οἰκεῖα εὖ θέμενον καὶ ἄρξαντα αὐτὸν αὑτοῦ καὶ κοσμήσαντα καὶ φίλον γενόμενον ἑαυτῷ καὶ συναρμόσαντα τρία ὄντα, ὥσπερ ὅρους τρεῖς ἁρμονίας ἀτεχνῶς, νεάτης τε καὶ ὑπάτης καὶ μέσης, καὶ εἰ ἄλλα ἄττα μεταξὺ τυγχάνει ὄντα, πάντα ταῦτα [443e] συνδήσαντα καὶ παντάπασιν ἕνα γενόμενον ἐκ πολλῶν, σώφρονα καὶ ἡρμοσμένον, οὕτω δὴ πράττειν ἤδη, ἐάν τι πράττῃ ἢ περὶ χρημάτων κτῆσιν ἢ περὶ σώματος θεραπείαν ἢ καὶ πολιτικόν τι ἢ περὶ τὰ ἴδια συμβόλαια, ἐν πᾶσι τούτοις ἡγούμενον καὶ ὀνομάζοντα δικαίαν μὲν καὶ καλὴν πρᾶξιν ἣ ἂν ταύτην τὴν ἕξιν σῴζῃ τε καὶ συναπεργάζηται, σοφίαν δὲ τὴν ἐπιστατοῦσαν ταύτῃ τῇ πράξει ἐπιστήμην, ἄδικον δὲ

[444a]
πρᾶξιν ἣ ἂν ἀεὶ ταύτην λύῃ, ἀμαθίαν δὲ τὴν ταύτῃ αὖ ἐπιστατοῦσαν δόξαν.
παντάπασιν, ἦ δʼ ὅς, ὦ Σώκρατες, ἀληθῆ λέγεις.
εἶεν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ· τὸν μὲν δίκαιον καὶ ἄνδρα καὶ πόλιν καὶ δικαιοσύνην, ὃ τυγχάνει ἐν αὐτοῖς ὄν, εἰ φαῖμεν ηὑρηκέναι, οὐκ ἂν πάνυ τι οἶμαι δόξαιμεν ψεύδεσθαι.
μὰ Δία οὐ μέντοι, ἔφη.
φῶμεν ἄρα;
φῶμεν.
ἔστω δή, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ· μετὰ γὰρ τοῦτο σκεπτέον οἶμαι ἀδικίαν.
δῆλον. [444b]
οὐκοῦν στάσιν τινὰ αὖ τριῶν ὄντων τούτων δεῖ αὐτὴν εἶναι καὶ πολυπραγμοσύνην καὶ ἀλλοτριοπραγμοσύνην καὶ ἐπανάστασιν μέρους τινὸς τῷ ὅλῳ τῆς ψυχῆς, ἵνʼ ἄρχῃ ἐν αὐτῇ οὐ προσῆκον, ἀλλὰ τοιούτου ὄντος φύσει οἵου πρέπειν αὐτῷ δουλεύειν, τῷ δʼ οὐ δουλεύειν ἀρχικοῦ γένους ὄντι; τοιαῦτʼ ἄττα οἶμαι φήσομεν καὶ τὴν τούτων ταραχὴν καὶ πλάνην εἶναι τήν τε ἀδικίαν καὶ ἀκολασίαν καὶ δειλίαν καὶ ἀμαθίαν καὶ συλλήβδην πᾶσαν κακίαν.
αὐτὰ μὲν οὖν ταῦτα, ἔφη. [444c]
οὐκοῦν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καὶ τὸ ἄδικα πράττειν καὶ τὸ ἀδικεῖν καὶ αὖ τὸ δίκαια ποιεῖν, ταῦτα πάντα τυγχάνει ὄντα κατάδηλα ἤδη σαφῶς, εἴπερ καὶ ἡ ἀδικία τε καὶ δικαιοσύνη;
πῶς δή;
ὅτι, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τυγχάνει οὐδὲν διαφέροντα τῶν ὑγιεινῶν τε καὶ νοσωδῶν, ὡς ἐκεῖνα ἐν σώματι, ταῦτα ἐν ψυχῇ.
πῇ; ἔφη.
τὰ μέν που ὑγιεινὰ ὑγίειαν ἐμποιεῖ, τὰ δὲ νοσώδη νόσον.
ναί.
οὐκοῦν καὶ τὸ μὲν δίκαια πράττειν δικαιοσύνην ἐμποιεῖ, [444d] τὸ δʼ ἄδικα ἀδικίαν;
ἀνάγκη.
ἔστι δὲ τὸ μὲν ὑγίειαν ποιεῖν τὰ ἐν τῷ σώματι κατὰ φύσιν καθιστάναι κρατεῖν τε καὶ κρατεῖσθαι ὑπʼ ἀλλήλων, τὸ δὲ νόσον παρὰ φύσιν ἄρχειν τε καὶ ἄρχεσθαι ἄλλο ὑπʼ ἄλλου.
ἔστι γάρ.
οὐκοῦν αὖ, ἔφην, τὸ δικαιοσύνην ἐμποιεῖν τὰ ἐν τῇ ψυχῇ κατὰ φύσιν καθιστάναι κρατεῖν τε καὶ κρατεῖσθαι ὑπʼ ἀλλήλων, τὸ δὲ ἀδικίαν παρὰ φύσιν ἄρχειν τε καὶ ἄρχεσθαι ἄλλο ὑπʼ ἄλλου;
κομιδῇ, ἔφη.
ἀρετὴ μὲν ἄρα, ὡς ἔοικεν, ὑγίειά τέ τις ἂν εἴη καὶ [444e] κάλλος καὶ εὐεξία ψυχῆς, κακία δὲ νόσος τε καὶ αἶσχος καὶ ἀσθένεια.
ἔστιν οὕτω.
ἆρʼ οὖν οὐ καὶ τὰ μὲν καλὰ ἐπιτηδεύματα εἰς ἀρετῆς κτῆσιν φέρει, τὰ δʼ αἰσχρὰ εἰς κακίας;
ἀνάγκη.
τὸ δὴ λοιπὸν ἤδη, ὡς ἔοικεν, ἡμῖν ἐστι σκέψασθαι

[445a]
πότερον αὖ λυσιτελεῖ δίκαιά τε πράττειν καὶ καλὰ ἐπιτηδεύειν καὶ εἶναι δίκαιον, ἐάντε λανθάνῃ ἐάντε μὴ τοιοῦτος ὤν, ἢ ἀδικεῖν τε καὶ ἄδικον εἶναι, ἐάνπερ μὴ διδῷ δίκην μηδὲ βελτίων γίγνηται κολαζόμενος.
ἀλλʼ, ἔφη, ὦ Σώκρατες, γελοῖον ἔμοιγε φαίνεται τὸ σκέμμα γίγνεσθαι ἤδη, εἰ τοῦ μὲν σώματος τῆς φύσεως διαφθειρομένης δοκεῖ οὐ βιωτὸν εἶναι οὐδὲ μετὰ πάντων σιτίων τε καὶ ποτῶν καὶ παντὸς πλούτου καὶ πάσης ἀρχῆς, τῆς δὲ αὐτοῦ τούτου ᾧ ζῶμεν φύσεως ταραττομένης καὶ [445b] διαφθειρομένης βιωτὸν ἄρα ἔσται, ἐάνπερ τις ποιῇ ὃ ἂν βουληθῇ ἄλλο πλὴν τοῦτο ὁπόθεν κακίας μὲν καὶ ἀδικίας ἀπαλλαγήσεται, δικαιοσύνην δὲ καὶ ἀρετὴν κτήσεται, ἐπειδήπερ ἐφάνη γε ὄντα ἑκάτερα οἷα ἡμεῖς διεληλύθαμεν.
γελοῖον γάρ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ· ἀλλʼ ὅμως ἐπείπερ ἐνταῦθα ἐληλύθαμεν, ὅσον οἷόν τε σαφέστατα κατιδεῖν ὅτι ταῦτα οὕτως ἔχει οὐ χρὴ ἀποκάμνειν.
ἥκιστα, νὴ τὸν Δία, ἔφη, πάντων ἀποκμητέον. [445c]
δεῦρό νυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἵνα καὶ ἴδῃς ὅσα καὶ εἴδη ἔχει ἡ κακία, ὡς ἐμοὶ δοκεῖ, ἅ γε δὴ καὶ ἄξια θέας.
ἕπομαι, ἔφη· μόνον λέγε.
καὶ μήν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὥσπερ ἀπὸ σκοπιᾶς μοι φαίνεται, ἐπειδὴ ἐνταῦθα ἀναβεβήκαμεν τοῦ λόγου, ἓν μὲν εἶναι εἶδος τῆς ἀρετῆς, ἄπειρα δὲ τῆς κακίας, τέτταρα δʼ ἐν αὐτοῖς ἄττα ὧν καὶ ἄξιον ἐπιμνησθῆναι.
πῶς λέγεις; ἔφη.
ὅσοι, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, πολιτειῶν τρόποι εἰσὶν εἴδη ἔχοντες, τοσοῦτοι κινδυνεύουσι καὶ ψυχῆς τρόποι εἶναι.
πόσοι δή; [445d]
πέντε μέν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, πολιτειῶν, πέντε δὲ ψυχῆς.
λέγε, ἔφη, τίνες.
λέγω, εἶπον, ὅτι εἷς μὲν οὗτος ὃν ἡμεῖς διεληλύθαμεν πολιτείας εἴη ἂν τρόπος, ἐπονομασθείη δʼ ἂν καὶ διχῇ· ἐγγενομένου μὲν γὰρ ἀνδρὸς ἑνὸς ἐν τοῖς ἄρχουσι διαφέροντος βασιλεία ἂν κληθείη, πλειόνων δὲ ἀριστοκρατία.
ἀληθῆ, ἔφη.
τοῦτο μὲν τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἓν εἶδος λέγω· οὔτε γὰρ ἂν [445e] πλείους οὔτε εἷς ἐγγενόμενοι κινήσειεν ἂν τῶν ἀξίων λόγου νόμων τῆς πόλεως, τροφῇ τε καὶ παιδείᾳ χρησάμενος ᾗ διήλθομεν.
οὐ γὰρ εἰκός, ἔφη.

### Book V, 449–456

[449a]
ἀγαθὴν μὲν τοίνυν τὴν τοιαύτην πόλιν τε καὶ πολιτείαν καὶ ὀρθὴν καλῶ, καὶ ἄνδρα τὸν τοιοῦτον· κακὰς δὲ τὰς ἄλλας καὶ ἡμαρτημένας, εἴπερ αὕτη ὀρθή, περί τε πόλεων διοικήσεις καὶ περὶ ἰδιωτῶν ψυχῆς τρόπου κατασκευήν, ἐν τέτταρσι πονηρίας εἴδεσιν οὔσας.
ποίας δὴ ταύτας; ἔφη.
καὶ ἐγὼ μὲν ᾖα τὰς ἐφεξῆς ἐρῶν, ὥς μοι ἐφαίνοντο [449b] ἕκασται ἐξ ἀλλήλων μεταβαίνειν· ὁ δὲ Πολέμαρχος— σμικρὸν γὰρ ἀπωτέρω τοῦ Ἀδειμάντου καθῆστο—ἐκτείνας τὴν χεῖρα καὶ λαβόμενος τοῦ ἱματίου ἄνωθεν αὐτοῦ παρὰ τὸν ὦμον, ἐκεῖνόν τε προσηγάγετο καὶ προτείνας ἑαυτὸν ἔλεγεν ἄττα προσκεκυφώς, ὧν ἄλλο μὲν οὐδὲν κατηκούσαμεν, τόδε δέ· Ἀφήσομεν οὖν, ἔφη, ἢ τί δράσομεν;
ἥκιστά γε, ἔφη ὁ Ἀδείμαντος μέγα ἤδη λέγων.
καὶ ἐγώ, τί μάλιστα, ἔφην, ὑμεῖς οὐκ ἀφίετε;
σέ, ἦ δʼ ὅς. [449c]
ὅτι, ἐγὼ εἶπον, τί μάλιστα;
ἀπορρᾳθυμεῖν ἡμῖν δοκεῖς, ἔφη, καὶ εἶδος ὅλον οὐ τὸ ἐλάχιστον ἐκκλέπτειν τοῦ λόγου ἵνα μὴ διέλθῃς, καὶ λήσειν οἰηθῆναι εἰπὼν αὐτὸ φαύλως, ὡς ἄρα περὶ γυναικῶν τε καὶ παίδων παντὶ δῆλον ὅτι κοινὰ τὰ φίλων ἔσται.
οὐκοῦν ὀρθῶς, ἔφην, ὦ Ἀδείμαντε;
ναί, ἦ δʼ ὅς. ἀλλὰ τὸ ὀρθῶς τοῦτο, ὥσπερ τἆλλα, λόγου δεῖται τίς ὁ τρόπος τῆς κοινωνίας· πολλοὶ γὰρ ἂν γένοιντο. [449d] μὴ οὖν παρῇς ὅντινα σὺ λέγεις· ὡς ἡμεῖς πάλαι περιμένομεν οἰόμενοί σέ που μνησθήσεσθαι παιδοποιίας τε πέρι, πῶς παιδοποιήσονται, καὶ γενομένους πῶς θρέψουσιν, καὶ ὅλην ταύτην ἣν λέγεις κοινωνίαν γυναικῶν τε καὶ παίδων· μέγα γάρ τι οἰόμεθα φέρειν καὶ ὅλον εἰς πολιτείαν ὀρθῶς ἢ μὴ ὀρθῶς γιγνόμενον.
νῦν οὖν, ἐπειδὴ ἄλλης ἐπιλαμβάνῃ πολιτείας πρὶν ταῦτα ἱκανῶς διελέσθαι, δέδοκται ἡμῖν τοῦτο

[450a]
ὃ σὺ ἤκουσας, τὸ σὲ μὴ μεθιέναι πρὶν ἂν ταῦτα πάντα ὥσπερ τἆλλα διέλθῃς.
καὶ ἐμὲ τοίνυν, ὁ Γλαύκων ἔφη, κοινωνὸν τῆς ψήφου ταύτης τίθετε.
ἀμέλει, ἔφη ὁ Θρασύμαχος, πᾶσι ταῦτα δεδογμένα ἡμῖν νόμιζε, ὦ Σώκρατες.
οἷον, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, εἰργάσασθε ἐπιλαβόμενοί μου. ὅσον λόγον πάλιν, ὥσπερ ἐξ ἀρχῆς, κινεῖτε περὶ τῆς πολιτείας· ἣν ὡς ἤδη διεληλυθὼς ἔγωγε ἔχαιρον, ἀγαπῶν εἴ τις ἐάσοι ταῦτα ἀποδεξάμενος ὡς τότε ἐρρήθη. ἃ νῦν ὑμεῖς παρακαλοῦντες [450b] οὐκ ἴστε ὅσον ἑσμὸν λόγων ἐπεγείρετε· ὃν ὁρῶν ἐγὼ παρῆκα τότε, μὴ παράσχοι πολὺν ὄχλον.
τί δέ; ἦ δʼ ὃς ὁ Θρασύμαχος· χρυσοχοήσοντας οἴει τούσδε νῦν ἐνθάδε ἀφῖχθαι, ἀλλʼ οὐ λόγων ἀκουσομένους;
ναί, εἶπον, μετρίων γε.
μέτρον δέ γʼ, ἔφη, ὦ Σώκρατες, ὁ Γλαύκων, τοιούτων λόγων ἀκούειν ὅλος ὁ βίος νοῦν ἔχουσιν. ἀλλὰ τὸ μὲν ἡμέτερον ἔα· σὺ δὲ περὶ ὧν ἐρωτῶμεν μηδαμῶς ἀποκάμῃς ᾗ [450c] σοι δοκεῖ διεξιών, τίς ἡ κοινωνία τοῖς φύλαξιν ἡμῖν παίδων τε πέρι καὶ γυναικῶν ἔσται καὶ τροφῆς νέων ἔτι ὄντων, τῆς ἐν τῷ μεταξὺ χρόνῳ γιγνομένης γενέσεώς τε καὶ παιδείας, ἣ δὴ ἐπιπονωτάτη δοκεῖ εἶναι. πειρῶ οὖν εἰπεῖν τίνα τρόπον δεῖ γίγνεσθαι αὐτήν.
οὐ ῥᾴδιον, ὦ εὔδαιμον, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, διελθεῖν· πολλὰς γὰρ ἀπιστίας ἔχει ἔτι μᾶλλον τῶν ἔμπροσθεν ὧν διήλθομεν. καὶ γὰρ ὡς δυνατὰ λέγεται, ἀπιστοῖτʼ ἄν, καὶ εἰ ὅτι μάλιστα γένοιτο, ὡς ἄριστʼ ἂν εἴη ταῦτα, καὶ ταύτῃ ἀπιστήσεται. [450d] διὸ δὴ καὶ ὄκνος τις αὐτῶν ἅπτεσθαι, μὴ εὐχὴ δοκῇ εἶναι ὁ λόγος, ὦ φίλε ἑταῖρε.
μηδέν, ἦ δʼ ὅς, ὄκνει· οὔτε γὰρ ἀγνώμονες οὔτε ἄπιστοι οὔτε δύσνοι οἱ ἀκουσόμενοι.
καὶ ἐγὼ εἶπον· ὦ ἄριστε, ἦ που βουλόμενός με παραθαρρύνειν λέγεις;
ἔγωγʼ, ἔφη.
πᾶν τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τοὐναντίον ποιεῖς. πιστεύοντος μὲν γὰρ ἐμοῦ ἐμοὶ εἰδέναι ἃ λέγω, καλῶς εἶχεν ἡ παραμυθία· ἐν γὰρ φρονίμοις τε καὶ φίλοις περὶ τῶν μεγίστων τε καὶ [450e] φίλων τἀληθῆ εἰδότα λέγειν ἀσφαλὲς καὶ θαρραλέον,
ἀπιστοῦντα δὲ καὶ ζητοῦντα ἅμα τοὺς λόγους ποιεῖσθαι, ὃ δὴ

[451a]
ἐγὼ δρῶ, φοβερόν τε καὶ σφαλερόν, οὔ τι γέλωτα ὀφλεῖν— παιδικὸν γὰρ τοῦτό γε—ἀλλὰ μὴ σφαλεὶς τῆς ἀληθείας οὐ μόνον αὐτὸς ἀλλὰ καὶ τοὺς φίλους συνεπισπασάμενος κείσομαι περὶ ἃ ἥκιστα δεῖ σφάλλεσθαι. προσκυνῶ δὲ Ἀδράστειαν, ὦ Γλαύκων, χάριν οὗ μέλλω λέγειν· ἐλπίζω γὰρ οὖν ἔλαττον ἁμάρτημα ἀκουσίως τινὸς φονέα γενέσθαι ἢ ἀπατεῶνα καλῶν τε καὶ ἀγαθῶν καὶ δικαίων νομίμων πέρι. τοῦτο οὖν τὸ κινδύνευμα κινδυνεύειν ἐν ἐχθροῖς κρεῖττον ἢ [451b] φίλοις, ὥστε εὖ με παραμυθῇ.
καὶ ὁ Γλαύκων γελάσας, ἀλλʼ, ὦ Σώκρατες, ἔφη, ἐάν τι πάθωμεν πλημμελὲς ὑπὸ τοῦ λόγου, ἀφίεμέν σε ὥσπερ φόνου καὶ καθαρὸν εἶναι καὶ μὴ ἀπατεῶνα ἡμῶν. ἀλλὰ θαρρήσας λέγε.
ἀλλὰ μέντοι, εἶπον, καθαρός γε καὶ ἐκεῖ ὁ ἀφεθείς, ὡς ὁ νόμος λέγει· εἰκὸς δέ γε, εἴπερ ἐκεῖ, κἀνθάδε.
λέγε τοίνυν, ἔφη, τούτου γʼ ἕνεκα.
λέγειν δή, ἔφην ἐγώ, χρὴ ἀνάπαλιν αὖ νῦν, ἃ τότε ἴσως [451c] ἔδει ἐφεξῆς λέγειν· τάχα δὲ οὕτως ἂν ὀρθῶς ἔχοι, μετὰ ἀνδρεῖον δρᾶμα παντελῶς διαπερανθὲν τὸ γυναικεῖον αὖ περαίνειν, ἄλλως τε καὶ ἐπειδὴ σὺ οὕτω προκαλῇ.
ἀνθρώποις γὰρ φῦσι καὶ παιδευθεῖσιν ὡς ἡμεῖς διήλθομεν, κατʼ ἐμὴν δόξαν οὐκ ἔστʼ ἄλλη ὀρθὴ παίδων τε καὶ γυναικῶν κτῆσίς τε καὶ χρεία ἢ κατʼ ἐκείνην τὴν ὁρμὴν ἰοῦσιν, ἥνπερ τὸ πρῶτον ὡρμήσαμεν· ἐπεχειρήσαμεν δέ που ὡς ἀγέλης φύλακας τοὺς ἄνδρας καθιστάναι τῷ λόγῳ.
ναί. [451d]
ἀκολουθῶμεν τοίνυν καὶ τὴν γένεσιν καὶ τροφὴν παραπλησίαν ἀποδιδόντες, καὶ σκοπῶμεν εἰ ἡμῖν πρέπει ἢ οὔ.
πῶς; ἔφη.
ὧδε. τὰς θηλείας τῶν φυλάκων κυνῶν πότερα συμφυλάττειν οἰόμεθα δεῖν ἅπερ ἂν οἱ ἄρρενες φυλάττωσι καὶ συνθηρεύειν καὶ τἆλλα κοινῇ πράττειν, ἢ τὰς μὲν οἰκουρεῖν ἔνδον ὡς ἀδυνάτους διὰ τὸν τῶν σκυλάκων τόκον τε καὶ τροφήν, τοὺς δὲ πονεῖν τε καὶ πᾶσαν ἐπιμέλειαν ἔχειν περὶ τὰ ποίμνια; [451e]
κοινῇ, ἔφη, πάντα· πλὴν ὡς ἀσθενεστέραις χρώμεθα, τοῖς δὲ ὡς ἰσχυροτέροις.
οἷόν τʼ οὖν, ἔφην ἐγώ, ἐπὶ τὰ αὐτὰ χρῆσθαί τινι ζῴῳ, ἂν μὴ τὴν αὐτὴν τροφήν τε καὶ παιδείαν ἀποδιδῷς;
οὐχ οἷόν τε.
εἰ ἄρα ταῖς γυναιξὶν ἐπὶ ταὐτὰ χρησόμεθα καὶ τοῖς ἀνδράσι, ταὐτὰ καὶ διδακτέον αὐτάς.

[452a]
ναί.
μουσικὴ μὴν ἐκείνοις γε καὶ γυμναστικὴ ἐδόθη.
ναί.
καὶ ταῖς γυναιξὶν ἄρα τούτω τὼ τέχνα καὶ τὰ περὶ τὸν πόλεμον ἀποδοτέον καὶ χρηστέον κατὰ ταὐτά.
εἰκὸς ἐξ ὧν λέγεις, ἔφη.
ἴσως δή, εἶπον, παρὰ τὸ ἔθος γελοῖα ἂν φαίνοιτο πολλὰ περὶ τὰ νῦν λεγόμενα, εἰ πράξεται ᾗ λέγεται.
καὶ μάλα, ἔφη.
τί, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, γελοιότατον αὐτῶν ὁρᾷς; ἢ δῆλα δὴ ὅτι γυμνὰς τὰς γυναῖκας ἐν ταῖς παλαίστραις γυμναζομένας μετὰ [452b] τῶν ἀνδρῶν, οὐ μόνον τὰς νέας, ἀλλὰ καὶ ἤδη τὰς πρεσβυτέρας, ὥσπερ τοὺς γέροντας ἐν τοῖς γυμνασίοις, ὅταν ῥυσοὶ καὶ μὴ ἡδεῖς τὴν ὄψιν ὅμως φιλογυμναστῶσιν;
νὴ τὸν Δία, ἔφη· γελοῖον γὰρ ἄν, ὥς γε ἐν τῷ παρεστῶτι, φανείη.
οὐκοῦν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἐπείπερ ὡρμήσαμεν λέγειν, οὐ φοβητέον τὰ τῶν χαριέντων σκώμματα, ὅσα καὶ οἷα ἂν εἴποιεν εἰς τὴν τοιαύτην μεταβολὴν γενομένην καὶ περὶ τὰ γυμνάσια [452c] καὶ περὶ μουσικὴν καὶ οὐκ ἐλάχιστα περὶ τὴν τῶν ὅπλων σχέσιν καὶ ἵππων ὀχήσεις.
ὀρθῶς, ἔφη, λέγεις.
ἀλλʼ ἐπείπερ λέγειν ἠρξάμεθα, πορευτέον πρὸς τὸ τραχὺ τοῦ νόμου, δεηθεῖσίν τε τούτων μὴ τὰ αὑτῶν πράττειν ἀλλὰ σπουδάζειν, καὶ ὑπομνήσασιν ὅτι οὐ πολὺς χρόνος ἐξ οὗ τοῖς Ἕλλησιν ἐδόκει αἰσχρὰ εἶναι καὶ γελοῖα ἅπερ νῦν τοῖς πολλοῖς τῶν βαρβάρων, γυμνοὺς ἄνδρας ὁρᾶσθαι, καὶ ὅτε ἤρχοντο τῶν γυμνασίων πρῶτοι μὲν Κρῆτες, ἔπειτα Λακεδαιμόνιοι, [452d] ἐξῆν τοῖς τότε ἀστείοις πάντα ταῦτα κωμῳδεῖν. ἢ οὐκ οἴει;
ἔγωγε.
ἀλλʼ ἐπειδὴ οἶμαι χρωμένοις ἄμεινον τὸ ἀποδύεσθαι τοῦ συγκαλύπτειν πάντα τὰ τοιαῦτα ἐφάνη, καὶ τὸ ἐν τοῖς ὀφθαλμοῖς δὴ γελοῖον ἐξερρύη ὑπὸ τοῦ ἐν τοῖς λόγοις μηνυθέντος ἀρίστου· καὶ τοῦτο ἐνεδείξατο, ὅτι μάταιος ὃς γελοῖον ἄλλο τι ἡγεῖται ἢ τὸ κακόν, καὶ ὁ γελωτοποιεῖν ἐπιχειρῶν πρὸς ἄλλην τινὰ ὄψιν ἀποβλέπων ὡς γελοίου ἢ τὴν τοῦ ἄφρονός [452e] τε καὶ κακοῦ, καὶ καλοῦ αὖ σπουδάζει πρὸς ἄλλον τινὰ σκοπὸν στησάμενος ἢ τὸν τοῦ ἀγαθοῦ.
παντάπασι μὲν οὖν, ἔφη.
ἆρʼ οὖν οὐ πρῶτον μὲν τοῦτο περὶ αὐτῶν ἀνομολογητέον, εἰ δυνατὰ ἢ οὔ, καὶ δοτέον ἀμφισβήτησιν εἴτε τις φιλοπαίσμων εἴτε σπουδαστικὸς ἐθέλει ἀμφισβητῆσαι, πότερον

[453a]
δυνατὴ φύσις ἡ ἀνθρωπίνη ἡ θήλεια τῇ τοῦ ἄρρενος γένους κοινωνῆσαι εἰς ἅπαντα τὰ ἔργα ἢ οὐδʼ εἰς ἕν, ἢ εἰς τὰ μὲν οἵα τε, εἰς δὲ τὰ οὔ, καὶ τοῦτο δὴ τὸ περὶ τὸν πόλεμον ποτέρων ἐστίν; ἆρʼ οὐχ οὕτως ἂν κάλλιστά τις ἀρχόμενος ὡς τὸ εἰκὸς καὶ κάλλιστα τελευτήσειεν;
πολύ γε, ἔφη.
βούλει οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἡμεῖς πρὸς ἡμᾶς αὐτοὺς ὑπὲρ τῶν ἄλλων ἀμφισβητήσωμεν, ἵνα μὴ ἔρημα τὰ τοῦ ἑτέρου λόγου πολιορκῆται; [453b]
οὐδέν, ἔφη, κωλύει.
λέγωμεν δὴ ὑπὲρ αὐτῶν ὅτι ὦ Σώκρατές τε καὶ Γλαύκων, οὐδὲν δεῖ ὑμῖν ἄλλους ἀμφισβητεῖν· αὐτοὶ γὰρ ἐν ἀρχῇ τῆς κατοικίσεως, ἣν ᾠκίζετε πόλιν, ὡμολογεῖτε δεῖν κατὰ φύσιν ἕκαστον ἕνα ἓν τὸ αὑτοῦ πράττειν.
ὡμολογήσαμεν οἶμαι· πῶς γὰρ οὔ;
ἔστιν οὖν ὅπως οὐ πάμπολυ διαφέρει γυνὴ ἀνδρὸς τὴν φύσιν;
πῶς δʼ οὐ διαφέρει;
οὐκοῦν ἄλλο καὶ ἔργον ἑκατέρῳ προσήκει προστάττειν [453c] τὸ κατὰ τὴν αὑτοῦ φύσιν;
τί μήν;
πῶς οὖν οὐχ ἁμαρτάνετε νυνὶ καὶ τἀναντία ὑμῖν αὐτοῖς λέγετε φάσκοντες αὖ τοὺς ἄνδρας καὶ τὰς γυναῖκας δεῖν τὰ αὐτὰ πράττειν, πλεῖστον κεχωρισμένην φύσιν ἔχοντας; ἕξεις τι, ὦ θαυμάσιε, πρὸς ταῦτʼ ἀπολογεῖσθαι;
ὡς μὲν ἐξαίφνης, ἔφη, οὐ πάνυ ῥᾴδιον· ἀλλὰ σοῦ δεήσομαί τε καὶ δέομαι καὶ τὸν ὑπὲρ ἡμῶν λόγον, ὅστις ποτʼ ἐστίν, ἑρμηνεῦσαι.
ταῦτʼ ἐστίν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὦ Γλαύκων, καὶ ἄλλα πολλὰ [453d] τοιαῦτα, ἃ ἐγὼ πάλαι προορῶν ἐφοβούμην τε καὶ ὤκνουν ἅπτεσθαι τοῦ νόμου τοῦ περὶ τὴν τῶν γυναικῶν καὶ παίδων κτῆσιν καὶ τροφήν.
οὐ μὰ τὸν Δία, ἔφη· οὐ γὰρ εὐκόλῳ ἔοικεν.
οὐ γάρ, εἶπον. ἀλλὰ δὴ ὧδʼ ἔχει· ἄντε τις εἰς κολυμβήθραν μικρὰν ἐμπέσῃ ἄντε εἰς τὸ μέγιστον πέλαγος μέσον, ὅμως γε νεῖ οὐδὲν ἧττον.
πάνυ μὲν οὖν.
οὐκοῦν καὶ ἡμῖν νευστέον καὶ πειρατέον σῴζεσθαι ἐκ τοῦ λόγου, ἤτοι δελφῖνά τινα ἐλπίζοντας ἡμᾶς ὑπολαβεῖν ἂν ἤ τινα ἄλλην ἄπορον σωτηρίαν. [453e]
ἔοικεν, ἔφη.
φέρε δή, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἐάν πῃ εὕρωμεν τὴν ἔξοδον. ὁμολογοῦμεν γὰρ δὴ ἄλλην φύσιν ἄλλο δεῖν ἐπιτηδεύειν, γυναικὸς δὲ καὶ ἀνδρὸς ἄλλην εἶναι· τὰς δὲ ἄλλας φύσεις τὰ αὐτά φαμεν νῦν δεῖν ἐπιτηδεῦσαι. ταῦτα ἡμῶν κατηγορεῖται;
κομιδῇ γε.

[454a]
ἦ γενναία, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὦ Γλαύκων, ἡ δύναμις τῆς ἀντιλογικῆς τέχνης.
τί δή;
ὅτι, εἶπον, δοκοῦσί μοι εἰς αὐτὴν καὶ ἄκοντες πολλοὶ ἐμπίπτειν καὶ οἴεσθαι οὐκ ἐρίζειν ἀλλὰ διαλέγεσθαι, διὰ τὸ μὴ δύνασθαι κατʼ εἴδη διαιρούμενοι τὸ λεγόμενον ἐπισκοπεῖν, ἀλλὰ κατʼ αὐτὸ τὸ ὄνομα διώκειν τοῦ λεχθέντος τὴν ἐναντίωσιν, ἔριδι, οὐ διαλέκτῳ πρὸς ἀλλήλους χρώμενοι.
ἔστι γὰρ δή, ἔφη, περὶ πολλοὺς τοῦτο τὸ πάθος· ἀλλὰ μῶν καὶ πρὸς ἡμᾶς τοῦτο τείνει ἐν τῷ παρόντι; [454b]
παντάπασι μὲν οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ· κινδυνεύομεν γοῦν ἄκοντες ἀντιλογίας ἅπτεσθαι.
πῶς;
τὸ μὴ τὴν αὐτὴν φύσιν ὅτι οὐ τῶν αὐτῶν δεῖ ἐπιτηδευμάτων τυγχάνειν πάνυ ἀνδρείως τε καὶ ἐριστικῶς κατὰ τὸ ὄνομα διώκομεν, ἐπεσκεψάμεθα δὲ οὐδʼ ὁπῃοῦν τί εἶδος τὸ τῆς ἑτέρας τε καὶ τῆς αὐτῆς φύσεως καὶ πρὸς τί τεῖνον ὡριζόμεθα τότε, ὅτε τὰ ἐπιτηδεύματα ἄλλῃ φύσει ἄλλα, τῇ δὲ αὐτῇ τὰ αὐτὰ ἀπεδίδομεν.
οὐ γὰρ οὖν, ἔφη, ἐπεσκεψάμεθα. [454c]
τοιγάρτοι, εἶπον, ἔξεστιν ἡμῖν, ὡς ἔοικεν, ἀνερωτᾶν ἡμᾶς αὐτοὺς εἰ ἡ αὐτὴ φύσις φαλακρῶν καὶ κομητῶν καὶ οὐχ ἡ ἐναντία, καὶ ἐπειδὰν ὁμολογῶμεν ἐναντίαν εἶναι, ἐὰν φαλακροὶ σκυτοτομῶσιν, μὴ ἐᾶν κομήτας, ἐὰν δʼ αὖ κομῆται, μὴ τοὺς ἑτέρους.
γελοῖον μεντἂν εἴη, ἔφη.
ἆρα κατʼ ἄλλο τι, εἶπον ἐγώ, γελοῖον, ἢ ὅτι τότε οὐ πάντως τὴν αὐτὴν καὶ τὴν ἑτέραν φύσιν ἐτιθέμεθα, ἀλλʼ ἐκεῖνο τὸ εἶδος τῆς ἀλλοιώσεώς τε καὶ ὁμοιώσεως μόνον [454d] ἐφυλάττομεν τὸ πρὸς αὐτὰ τεῖνον τὰ ἐπιτηδεύματα; οἷον ἰατρικὸν μὲν καὶ ἰατρικὴν τὴν ψυχὴν [ὄντα] τὴν αὐτὴν φύσιν ἔχειν ἐλέγομεν· ἢ οὐκ οἴει;
ἔγωγε.
ἰατρικὸν δέ γε καὶ τεκτονικὸν ἄλλην;
πάντως που.
οὐκοῦν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καὶ τὸ τῶν ἀνδρῶν καὶ τὸ τῶν γυναικῶν γένος, ἐὰν μὲν πρὸς τέχνην τινὰ ἢ ἄλλο ἐπιτήδευμα διαφέρον φαίνηται, τοῦτο δὴ φήσομεν ἑκατέρῳ δεῖν ἀποδιδόναι· ἐὰν δʼ αὐτῷ τούτῳ φαίνηται διαφέρειν, τῷ τὸ μὲν θῆλυ τίκτειν, [454e] τὸ δὲ ἄρρεν ὀχεύειν, οὐδέν τί πω φήσομεν μᾶλλον ἀποδεδεῖχθαι ὡς πρὸς ὃ ἡμεῖς λέγομεν διαφέρει γυνὴ ἀνδρός, ἀλλʼ ἔτι οἰησόμεθα δεῖν τὰ αὐτὰ ἐπιτηδεύειν τούς τε φύλακας ἡμῖν καὶ τὰς γυναῖκας αὐτῶν.
καὶ ὀρθῶς γʼ, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν μετὰ τοῦτο κελεύομεν τὸν τὰ ἐναντία λέγοντα

[455a]
τοῦτο αὐτὸ διδάσκειν ἡμᾶς, πρὸς τίνα τέχνην ἢ τί ἐπιτήδευμα τῶν περὶ πόλεως κατασκευὴν οὐχ ἡ αὐτὴ ἀλλὰ ἑτέρα φύσις γυναικός τε καὶ ἀνδρός;
δίκαιον γοῦν.
τάχα τοίνυν ἄν, ὅπερ σὺ ὀλίγον πρότερον ἔλεγες, εἴποι ἂν καὶ ἄλλος, ὅτι ἐν μὲν τῷ παραχρῆμα ἱκανῶς εἰπεῖν οὐ ῥᾴδιον, ἐπισκεψαμένῳ δὲ οὐδὲν χαλεπόν.
εἴποι γὰρ ἄν.
βούλει οὖν δεώμεθα τοῦ τὰ τοιαῦτα ἀντιλέγοντος ἀκολουθῆσαι [455b] ἡμῖν, ἐάν πως ἡμεῖς ἐκείνῳ ἐνδειξώμεθα ὅτι οὐδέν ἐστιν ἐπιτήδευμα ἴδιον γυναικὶ πρὸς διοίκησιν πόλεως;
πάνυ γε.
ἴθι δή, φήσομεν πρὸς αὐτόν, ἀποκρίνου· ἆρα οὕτως ἔλεγες τὸν μὲν εὐφυῆ πρός τι εἶναι, τὸν δὲ ἀφυῆ, ἐν ᾧ ὁ μὲν ῥᾳδίως τι μανθάνοι, ὁ δὲ χαλεπῶς; καὶ ὁ μὲν ἀπὸ βραχείας μαθήσεως ἐπὶ πολὺ εὑρετικὸς εἴη οὗ ἔμαθεν, ὁ δὲ πολλῆς μαθήσεως τυχὼν καὶ μελέτης μηδʼ ἃ ἔμαθε σῴζοιτο; καὶ τῷ μὲν τὰ τοῦ σώματος ἱκανῶς ὑπηρετοῖ τῇ διανοίᾳ, τῷ [455c] δὲ ἐναντιοῖτο; ἆρʼ ἄλλα ἄττα ἐστὶν ἢ ταῦτα, οἷς τὸν εὐφυῆ πρὸς ἕκαστα καὶ τὸν μὴ ὡρίζου;
οὐδείς, ἦ δʼ ὅς, ἄλλα φήσει.
οἶσθά τι οὖν ὑπὸ ἀνθρώπων μελετώμενον, ἐν ᾧ οὐ πάντα ταῦτα τὸ τῶν ἀνδρῶν γένος διαφερόντως ἔχει ἢ τὸ τῶν γυναικῶν; ἢ μακρολογῶμεν τήν τε ὑφαντικὴν λέγοντες καὶ τὴν τῶν ποπάνων τε καὶ ἑψημάτων θεραπείαν, ἐν οἷς δή τι δοκεῖ τὸ γυναικεῖον γένος εἶναι, οὗ καὶ καταγελαστότατόν [455d] ἐστι πάντων ἡττώμενον;
ἀληθῆ, ἔφη, λέγεις, ὅτι πολὺ κρατεῖται ἐν ἅπασιν ὡς ἔπος εἰπεῖν τὸ γένος τοῦ γένους. γυναῖκες μέντοι πολλαὶ πολλῶν ἀνδρῶν βελτίους εἰς πολλά· τὸ δὲ ὅλον ἔχει ὡς σὺ λέγεις.
οὐδὲν ἄρα ἐστίν, ὦ φίλε, ἐπιτήδευμα τῶν πόλιν διοικούντων γυναικὸς διότι γυνή, οὐδʼ ἀνδρὸς διότι ἀνήρ, ἀλλʼ ὁμοίως διεσπαρμέναι αἱ φύσεις ἐν ἀμφοῖν τοῖν ζῴοιν, καὶ πάντων μὲν μετέχει γυνὴ ἐπιτηδευμάτων κατὰ [455e] φύσιν, πάντων δὲ ἀνήρ, ἐπὶ πᾶσι δὲ ἀσθενέστερον γυνὴ ἀνδρός.
πάνυ γε.
ἦ οὖν ἀνδράσι πάντα προστάξομεν, γυναικὶ δʼ οὐδέν;
καὶ πῶς;
ἀλλʼ ἔστι γὰρ οἶμαι, ὡς φήσομεν, καὶ γυνὴ ἰατρική, ἡ δʼ οὔ, καὶ μουσική, ἡ δʼ ἄμουσος φύσει.
τί μήν;

[456a]
[καὶ] γυμναστικὴ δʼ ἄρα οὔ, οὐδὲ πολεμική, ἡ δὲ ἀπόλεμος καὶ οὐ φιλογυμναστική;
οἶμαι ἔγωγε.
τί δέ; φιλόσοφός τε καὶ μισόσοφος; καὶ θυμοειδής, ἡ δʼ ἄθυμός ἐστι;
καὶ ταῦτα.
ἔστιν ἄρα καὶ φυλακικὴ γυνή, ἡ δʼ οὔ. ἢ οὐ τοιαύτην καὶ τῶν ἀνδρῶν τῶν φυλακικῶν φύσιν ἐξελεξάμεθα;
τοιαύτην μὲν οὖν.
καὶ γυναικὸς ἄρα καὶ ἀνδρὸς ἡ αὐτὴ φύσις εἰς φυλακὴν πόλεως, πλὴν ὅσα ἀσθενεστέρα, ἡ δὲ ἰσχυροτέρα ἐστίν.
φαίνεται. [456b]
καὶ γυναῖκες ἄρα αἱ τοιαῦται τοῖς τοιούτοις ἀνδράσιν ἐκλεκτέαι συνοικεῖν τε καὶ συμφυλάττειν, ἐπείπερ εἰσὶν ἱκαναὶ καὶ συγγενεῖς αὐτοῖς τὴν φύσιν.
πάνυ γε.
τὰ δʼ ἐπιτηδεύματα οὐ τὰ αὐτὰ ἀποδοτέα ταῖς αὐταῖς φύσεσιν;
τὰ αὐτά.
ἥκομεν ἄρα εἰς τὰ πρότερα περιφερόμενοι, καὶ ὁμολογοῦμεν μὴ παρὰ φύσιν εἶναι ταῖς τῶν φυλάκων γυναιξὶ μουσικήν τε καὶ γυμναστικὴν ἀποδιδόναι.
παντάπασιν μὲν οὖν.
οὐκ ἄρα ἀδύνατά γε οὐδὲ εὐχαῖς ὅμοια ἐνομοθετοῦμεν, [456c] ἐπείπερ κατὰ φύσιν ἐτίθεμεν τὸν νόμον· ἀλλὰ τὰ νῦν παρὰ ταῦτα γιγνόμενα παρὰ φύσιν μᾶλλον, ὡς ἔοικε, γίγνεται.
ἔοικεν.
οὐκοῦν ἡ ἐπίσκεψις ἡμῖν ἦν εἰ δυνατά γε καὶ βέλτιστα λέγοιμεν;
ἦν γάρ.
καὶ ὅτι μὲν δὴ δυνατά, διωμολόγηται;
ναί.
ὅτι δὲ δὴ βέλτιστα, τὸ μετὰ τοῦτο δεῖ διομολογηθῆναι;
δῆλον.
οὐκοῦν πρός γε τὸ φυλακικὴν γυναῖκα γενέσθαι, οὐκ ἄλλη μὲν ἡμῖν ἄνδρας ποιήσει παιδεία, ἄλλη δὲ γυναῖκας, ἄλλως [456d] τε καὶ τὴν αὐτὴν φύσιν παραλαβοῦσα;
οὐκ ἄλλη.
πῶς οὖν ἔχεις δόξης τοῦ τοιοῦδε πέρι;
τίνος δή;
τοῦ ὑπολαμβάνειν παρὰ σεαυτῷ τὸν μὲν ἀμείνω ἄνδρα, τὸν δὲ χείρω· ἢ πάντας ὁμοίους ἡγῇ;
οὐδαμῶς.
ἐν οὖν τῇ πόλει ἣν ᾠκίζομεν, πότερον οἴει ἡμῖν ἀμείνους ἄνδρας ἐξειργάσθαι τοὺς φύλακας, τυχόντας ἧς διήλθομεν παιδείας, ἢ τοὺς σκυτοτόμους, τῇ σκυτικῇ παιδευθέντας;
γελοῖον, ἔφη, ἐρωτᾷς.
μανθάνω, ἔφην. τί δέ; τῶν ἄλλων πολιτῶν οὐχ οὗτοι [456e] ἄριστοι;
πολύ γε.
τί δέ; αἱ γυναῖκες τῶν γυναικῶν οὐχ αὗται ἔσονται βέλτισται;
καὶ τοῦτο, ἔφη, πολύ.
ἔστι δέ τι πόλει ἄμεινον ἢ γυναῖκάς τε καὶ ἄνδρας ὡς ἀρίστους ἐγγίγνεσθαι;
οὐκ ἔστιν.
τοῦτο δὲ μουσική τε καὶ γυμναστικὴ παραγιγνόμεναι, ὡς

### Book V, 457–464

[457a]
ἡμεῖς διήλθομεν, ἀπεργάσονται;
πῶς δʼ οὔ;
οὐ μόνον ἄρα δυνατὸν ἀλλὰ καὶ ἄριστον πόλει νόμιμον ἐτίθεμεν.
οὕτως.
ἀποδυτέον δὴ ταῖς τῶν φυλάκων γυναιξίν, ἐπείπερ ἀρετὴν ἀντὶ ἱματίων ἀμφιέσονται, καὶ κοινωνητέον πολέμου τε καὶ τῆς ἄλλης φυλακῆς τῆς περὶ τὴν πόλιν, καὶ οὐκ ἄλλα πρακτέον· τούτων δʼ αὐτῶν τὰ ἐλαφρότερα ταῖς γυναιξὶν ἢ τοῖς ἀνδράσι δοτέον διὰ τὴν τοῦ γένους ἀσθένειαν. ὁ [457b] δὲ γελῶν ἀνὴρ ἐπὶ γυμναῖς γυναιξί, τοῦ βελτίστου ἕνεκα γυμναζομέναις, ἀτελῆ τοῦ γελοίου σοφίας δρέπων καρπόν, οὐδὲν οἶδεν, ὡς ἔοικεν, ἐφʼ ᾧ γελᾷ οὐδʼ ὅτι πράττει· κάλλιστα γὰρ δὴ τοῦτο καὶ λέγεται καὶ λελέξεται, ὅτι τὸ μὲν ὠφέλιμον καλόν, τὸ δὲ βλαβερὸν αἰσχρόν.
παντάπασι μὲν οὖν.
τοῦτο μὲν τοίνυν ἓν ὥσπερ κῦμα φῶμεν διαφεύγειν τοῦ γυναικείου πέρι νόμου λέγοντες, ὥστε μὴ παντάπασι κατακλυσθῆναι τιθέντας ὡς δεῖ κοινῇ πάντα ἐπιτηδεύειν τούς τε [457c] φύλακας ἡμῖν καὶ τὰς φυλακίδας, ἀλλά πῃ τὸν λόγον αὐτὸν αὑτῷ ὁμολογεῖσθαι ὡς δυνατά τε καὶ ὠφέλιμα λέγει;
καὶ μάλα, ἔφη, οὐ σμικρὸν κῦμα διαφεύγεις.
φήσεις γε, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, οὐ μέγα αὐτὸ εἶναι, ὅταν τὸ μετὰ τοῦτο ἴδῃς.
λέγε δή, ἴδω, ἔφη.
τούτῳ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἕπεται νόμος καὶ τοῖς ἔμπροσθεν τοῖς ἄλλοις, ὡς ἐγᾦμαι, ὅδε.
τίς;
τὰς γυναῖκας ταύτας τῶν ἀνδρῶν τούτων πάντων πάσας [457d] εἶναι κοινάς, ἰδίᾳ δὲ μηδενὶ μηδεμίαν συνοικεῖν· καὶ τοὺς παῖδας αὖ κοινούς, καὶ μήτε γονέα ἔκγονον εἰδέναι τὸν αὑτοῦ μήτε παῖδα γονέα.
πολύ, ἔφη, τοῦτο ἐκείνου μεῖζον πρὸς ἀπιστίαν καὶ τοῦ δυνατοῦ πέρι καὶ τοῦ ὠφελίμου.
οὐκ οἶμαι, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, περί γε τοῦ ὠφελίμου ἀμφισβητεῖσθαι ἄν, ὡς οὐ μέγιστον ἀγαθὸν κοινὰς μὲν τὰς γυναῖκας εἶναι, κοινοὺς δὲ τοὺς παῖδας, εἴπερ οἷόν τε· ἀλλʼ οἶμαι περὶ τοῦ εἰ δυνατὸν ἢ μὴ πλείστην ἂν ἀμφισβήτησιν γενέσθαι. [457e]
περὶ ἀμφοτέρων, ἦ δʼ ὅς, εὖ μάλʼ ἂν ἀμφισβητηθείη.
λέγεις, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, λόγων σύστασιν· ἐγὼ δʼ ᾤμην ἔκ γε τοῦ ἑτέρου ἀποδράσεσθαι, εἴ σοι δόξειεν ὠφέλιμον εἶναι, λοιπὸν δὲ δή μοι ἔσεσθαι περὶ τοῦ δυνατοῦ καὶ μή.
ἀλλʼ οὐκ ἔλαθες, ἦ δʼ ὅς, ἀποδιδράσκων, ἀλλʼ ἀμφοτέρων πέρι δίδου λόγον.
ὑφεκτέον, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, δίκην. τοσόνδε μέντοι χάρισαί

[458a]
μοι· ἔασόν με ἑορτάσαι, ὥσπερ οἱ ἀργοὶ τὴν διάνοιαν εἰώθασιν ἑστιᾶσθαι ὑφʼ ἑαυτῶν, ὅταν μόνοι πορεύωνται. καὶ γὰρ οἱ τοιοῦτοί που, πρὶν ἐξευρεῖν τίνα τρόπον ἔσται τι ὧν ἐπιθυμοῦσι, τοῦτο παρέντες, ἵνα μὴ κάμνωσι βουλευόμενοι περὶ τοῦ δυνατοῦ καὶ μή, θέντες ὡς ὑπάρχον εἶναι ὃ βούλονται, ἤδη τὰ λοιπὰ διατάττουσιν καὶ χαίρουσιν διεξιόντες οἷα δράσουσι γενομένου, ἀργὸν καὶ ἄλλως ψυχὴν ἔτι [458b] ἀργοτέραν ποιοῦντες. ἤδη οὖν καὶ αὐτὸς μαλθακίζομαι, καὶ ἐκεῖνα μὲν ἐπιθυμῶ ἀναβαλέσθαι καὶ ὕστερον ἐπισκέψασθαι, ᾗ δυνατά, νῦν δὲ ὡς δυνατῶν ὄντων θεὶς σκέψομαι, ἄν μοι παριῇς, πῶς διατάξουσιν αὐτὰ οἱ ἄρχοντες γιγνόμενα, καὶ ὅτι πάντων συμφορώτατʼ ἂν εἴη πραχθέντα τῇ τε πόλει καὶ τοῖς φύλαξιν. ταῦτα πειράσομαί σοι πρότερα συνδιασκοπεῖσθαι, ὕστερα δʼ ἐκεῖνα, εἴπερ παριεῖς.
ἀλλὰ παρίημι, ἔφη, καὶ σκόπει.
οἶμαι τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, εἴπερ ἔσονται οἱ ἄρχοντες ἄξιοι [458c] τούτου τοῦ ὀνόματος, οἵ τε τούτοις ἐπίκουροι κατὰ ταὐτά, τοὺς μὲν ἐθελήσειν ποιεῖν τὰ ἐπιταττόμενα, τοὺς δὲ ἐπιτάξειν, τὰ μὲν αὐτοὺς πειθομένους τοῖς νόμοις, τὰ δὲ καὶ μιμουμένους, ὅσα ἂν ἐκείνοις ἐπιτρέψωμεν.
εἰκός, ἔφη.
σὺ μὲν τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὁ νομοθέτης αὐτοῖς, ὥσπερ τοὺς ἄνδρας ἐξέλεξας, οὕτω καὶ τὰς γυναῖκας ἐκλέξας παραδώσεις καθʼ ὅσον οἷόν τε ὁμοφυεῖς· οἱ δέ, ἅτε οἰκίας τε καὶ συσσίτια κοινὰ ἔχοντες, ἰδίᾳ δὲ οὐδενὸς οὐδὲν τοιοῦτον κεκτημένου, [458d] ὁμοῦ δὴ ἔσονται, ὁμοῦ δὲ ἀναμεμειγμένων καὶ ἐν γυμνασίοις καὶ ἐν τῇ ἄλλῃ τροφῇ ὑπʼ ἀνάγκης οἶμαι τῆς ἐμφύτου ἄξονται πρὸς τὴν ἀλλήλων μεῖξιν. ἢ οὐκ ἀναγκαῖά σοι δοκῶ λέγειν;
οὐ γεωμετρικαῖς γε, ἦ δʼ ὅς, ἀλλʼ ἐρωτικαῖς ἀνάγκαις, αἳ κινδυνεύουσιν ἐκείνων δριμύτεραι εἶναι πρὸς τὸ πείθειν τε καὶ ἕλκειν τὸν πολὺν λεών.
καὶ μάλα, εἶπον. ἀλλὰ μετὰ δὴ ταῦτα, ὦ Γλαύκων, ἀτάκτως μὲν μείγνυσθαι ἀλλήλοις ἢ ἄλλο ὁτιοῦν ποιεῖν οὔτε [458e] ὅσιον ἐν εὐδαιμόνων πόλει οὔτʼ ἐάσουσιν οἱ ἄρχοντες.
οὐ γὰρ δίκαιον, ἔφη.
δῆλον δὴ ὅτι γάμους τὸ μετὰ τοῦτο ποιήσομεν ἱεροὺς εἰς δύναμιν ὅτι μάλιστα· εἶεν δʼ ἂν ἱεροὶ οἱ ὠφελιμώτατοι.
παντάπασι μὲν οὖν.

[459a]
πῶς οὖν δὴ ὠφελιμώτατοι ἔσονται; τόδε μοι λέγε, ὦ Γλαύκων· ὁρῶ γάρ σου ἐν τῇ οἰκίᾳ καὶ κύνας θηρευτικοὺς καὶ τῶν γενναίων ὀρνίθων μάλα συχνούς· ἆρʼ οὖν, ὦ πρὸς Διός, προσέσχηκάς τι τοῖς τούτων γάμοις τε καὶ παιδοποιίᾳ;
τὸ ποῖον; ἔφη.
πρῶτον μὲν αὐτῶν τούτων, καίπερ ὄντων γενναίων, ἆρʼ οὐκ εἰσί τινες καὶ γίγνονται ἄριστοι;
εἰσίν.
πότερον οὖν ἐξ ἁπάντων ὁμοίως γεννᾷς, ἢ προθυμῇ ὅτι μάλιστα ἐκ τῶν ἀρίστων;
ἐκ τῶν ἀρίστων. [459b]
τί δʼ; ἐκ τῶν νεωτάτων ἢ ἐκ τῶν γεραιτάτων ἢ ἐξ ἀκμαζόντων ὅτι μάλιστα;
ἐξ ἀκμαζόντων.
καὶ ἂν μὴ οὕτω γεννᾶται, πολύ σοι ἡγῇ χεῖρον ἔσεσθαι τό τε τῶν ὀρνίθων καὶ τὸ τῶν κυνῶν γένος;
ἔγωγʼ, ἔφη.
τί δὲ ἵππων οἴει, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καὶ τῶν ἄλλων ζῴων; ἦ ἄλλῃ πῃ ἔχειν;
ἄτοπον μεντἄν, ἦ δʼ ὅς, εἴη.
βαβαῖ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὦ φίλε ἑταῖρε, ὡς ἄρα σφόδρα ἡμῖν δεῖ ἄκρων εἶναι τῶν ἀρχόντων, εἴπερ καὶ περὶ τὸ τῶν ἀνθρώπων γένος ὡσαύτως ἔχει. [459c]
ἀλλὰ μὲν δὴ ἔχει, ἔφη· ἀλλὰ τί δή;
ὅτι ἀνάγκη αὐτοῖς, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, φαρμάκοις πολλοῖς χρῆσθαι. ἰατρὸν δέ που μὴ δεομένοις μὲν σώμασι φαρμάκων, ἀλλὰ διαίτῃ ἐθελόντων ὑπακούειν, καὶ φαυλότερον ἐξαρκεῖν ἡγούμεθα εἶναι· ὅταν δὲ δὴ καὶ φαρμακεύειν δέῃ, ἴσμεν ὅτι ἀνδρειοτέρου δεῖ τοῦ ἰατροῦ.
ἀληθῆ· ἀλλὰ πρὸς τί λέγεις;
πρὸς τόδε, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ· συχνῷ τῷ ψεύδει καὶ τῇ ἀπάτῃ κινδυνεύει ἡμῖν δεήσειν χρῆσθαι τοὺς ἄρχοντας ἐπʼ ὠφελίᾳ [459d] τῶν ἀρχομένων. ἔφαμεν δέ που ἐν φαρμάκου εἴδει πάντα τὰ τοιαῦτα χρήσιμα εἶναι.
καὶ ὀρθῶς γε, ἔφη.
ἐν τοῖς γάμοις τοίνυν καὶ παιδοποιίαις ἔοικε τὸ ὀρθὸν τοῦτο γίγνεσθαι οὐκ ἐλάχιστον.
πῶς δή;
δεῖ μέν, εἶπον, ἐκ τῶν ὡμολογημένων τοὺς ἀρίστους ταῖς ἀρίσταις συγγίγνεσθαι ὡς πλειστάκις, τοὺς δὲ φαυλοτάτους ταῖς φαυλοτάταις τοὐναντίον, καὶ τῶν μὲν τὰ ἔκγονα τρέφειν, [459e] τῶν δὲ μή, εἰ μέλλει τὸ ποίμνιον ὅτι ἀκρότατον εἶναι, καὶ ταῦτα πάντα γιγνόμενα λανθάνειν πλὴν αὐτοὺς τοὺς ἄρχοντας, εἰ αὖ ἡ ἀγέλη τῶν φυλάκων ὅτι μάλιστα ἀστασίαστος ἔσται.
ὀρθότατα, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν δὴ ἑορταί τινες νομοθετητέαι ἐν αἷς συνάξομεν τάς τε νύμφας καὶ τοὺς νυμφίους καὶ θυσίαι, καὶ ὕμνοι

[460a]
ποιητέοι τοῖς ἡμετέροις ποιηταῖς πρέποντες τοῖς γιγνομένοις γάμοις· τὸ δὲ πλῆθος τῶν γάμων ἐπὶ τοῖς ἄρχουσι ποιήσομεν, ἵνʼ ὡς μάλιστα διασῴζωσι τὸν αὐτὸν ἀριθμὸν τῶν ἀνδρῶν, πρὸς πολέμους τε καὶ νόσους καὶ πάντα τὰ τοιαῦτα ἀποσκοποῦντες, καὶ μήτε μεγάλη ἡμῖν ἡ πόλις κατὰ τὸ δυνατὸν μήτε σμικρὰ γίγνηται.
ὀρθῶς, ἔφη.
κλῆροι δή τινες οἶμαι ποιητέοι κομψοί, ὥστε τὸν φαῦλον ἐκεῖνον αἰτιᾶσθαι ἐφʼ ἑκάστης συνέρξεως τύχην ἀλλὰ μὴ τοὺς ἄρχοντας.
καὶ μάλα, ἔφη. [460b]
καὶ τοῖς ἀγαθοῖς γέ που τῶν νέων ἐν πολέμῳ ἢ ἄλλοθί που γέρα δοτέον καὶ ἆθλα ἄλλα τε καὶ ἀφθονεστέρα ἡ ἐξουσία τῆς τῶν γυναικῶν συγκοιμήσεως, ἵνα καὶ ἅμα μετὰ προφάσεως ὡς πλεῖστοι τῶν παίδων ἐκ τῶν τοιούτων σπείρωνται.
ὀρθῶς.
οὐκοῦν καὶ τὰ ἀεὶ γιγνόμενα ἔκγονα παραλαμβάνουσαι αἱ ἐπὶ τούτων ἐφεστηκυῖαι ἀρχαὶ εἴτε ἀνδρῶν εἴτε γυναικῶν εἴτε ἀμφότερα—κοιναὶ μὲν γάρ που καὶ ἀρχαὶ γυναιξί τε καὶ ἀνδράσιν—
ναί. [460c]
τὰ μὲν δὴ τῶν ἀγαθῶν, δοκῶ, λαβοῦσαι εἰς τὸν σηκὸν οἴσουσιν παρά τινας τροφοὺς χωρὶς οἰκούσας ἔν τινι μέρει τῆς πόλεως· τὰ δὲ τῶν χειρόνων, καὶ ἐάν τι τῶν ἑτέρων ἀνάπηρον γίγνηται, ἐν ἀπορρήτῳ τε καὶ ἀδήλῳ κατακρύψουσιν ὡς πρέπει.
εἴπερ μέλλει, ἔφη, καθαρὸν τὸ γένος τῶν φυλάκων ἔσεσθαι.
οὐκοῦν καὶ τροφῆς οὗτοι ἐπιμελήσονται τάς τε μητέρας ἐπὶ τὸν σηκὸν ἄγοντες ὅταν σπαργῶσι, πᾶσαν μηχανὴν [460d] μηχανώμενοι ὅπως μηδεμία τὸ αὑτῆς αἰσθήσεται, καὶ ἄλλας γάλα ἐχούσας ἐκπορίζοντες, ἐὰν μὴ αὐταὶ ἱκαναὶ ὦσι, καὶ αὐτῶν τούτων ἐπιμελήσονται ὅπως μέτριον χρόνον θηλάσονται, ἀγρυπνίας δὲ καὶ τὸν ἄλλον πόνον τίτθαις τε καὶ τροφοῖς παραδώσουσιν;
πολλὴν ῥᾳστώνην, ἔφη, λέγεις τῆς παιδοποιίας ταῖς τῶν φυλάκων γυναιξίν.
πρέπει γάρ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ. τὸ δʼ ἐφεξῆς διέλθωμεν ὃ προυθέμεθα. ἔφαμεν γὰρ δὴ ἐξ ἀκμαζόντων δεῖν τὰ ἔκγονα γίγνεσθαι.
ἀληθῆ. [460e]
ἆρʼ οὖν σοι συνδοκεῖ μέτριος χρόνος ἀκμῆς τὰ εἴκοσι ἔτη γυναικί, ἀνδρὶ δὲ τὰ τριάκοντα;
τὰ ποῖα αὐτῶν; ἔφη.
γυναικὶ μέν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἀρξαμένῃ ἀπὸ εἰκοσιέτιδος μέχρι τετταρακονταέτιδος τίκτειν τῇ πόλει· ἀνδρὶ δέ, ἐπειδὰν τὴν ὀξυτάτην δρόμου ἀκμὴν παρῇ, τὸ ἀπὸ τούτου γεννᾶν τῇ πόλει μέχρι πεντεκαιπεντηκονταέτους.

[461a]
ἀμφοτέρων γοῦν, ἔφη, αὕτη ἀκμὴ σώματός τε καὶ φρονήσεως.
οὐκοῦν ἐάντε πρεσβύτερος τούτων ἐάντε νεώτερος τῶν εἰς τὸ κοινὸν γεννήσεων ἅψηται, οὔτε ὅσιον οὔτε δίκαιον φήσομεν τὸ ἁμάρτημα, ὡς παῖδα φιτύοντος τῇ πόλει, ὅς, ἂν λάθῃ, γεννήσεται οὐχ ὑπὸ θυσιῶν οὐδʼ ὑπὸ εὐχῶν φύς, ἃς ἐφʼ ἑκάστοις τοῖς γάμοις εὔξονται καὶ ἱέρειαι καὶ ἱερεῖς καὶ σύμπασα ἡ πόλις ἐξ ἀγαθῶν ἀμείνους καὶ ἐξ ὠφελίμων [461b] ὠφελιμωτέρους ἀεὶ τοὺς ἐκγόνους γίγνεσθαι, ἀλλʼ ὑπὸ σκότου μετὰ δεινῆς ἀκρατείας γεγονώς.
ὀρθῶς, ἔφη.
ὁ αὐτὸς δέ γʼ, εἶπον, νόμος, ἐάν τις τῶν ἔτι γεννώντων μὴ συνέρξαντος ἄρχοντος ἅπτηται τῶν ἐν ἡλικίᾳ γυναικῶν· νόθον γὰρ καὶ ἀνέγγυον καὶ ἀνίερον φήσομεν αὐτὸν παῖδα τῇ πόλει καθιστάναι.
ὀρθότατα, ἔφη.
ὅταν δὲ δὴ οἶμαι αἵ τε γυναῖκες καὶ οἱ ἄνδρες τοῦ γεννᾶν ἐκβῶσι τὴν ἡλικίαν, ἀφήσομέν που ἐλευθέρους αὐτοὺς συγγίγνεσθαι [461c] ᾧ ἂν ἐθέλωσι, πλὴν θυγατρὶ καὶ μητρὶ καὶ ταῖς τῶν θυγατέρων παισὶ καὶ ταῖς ἄνω μητρός, καὶ γυναῖκας αὖ πλὴν ὑεῖ καὶ πατρὶ καὶ τοῖς τούτων εἰς τὸ κάτω καὶ ἐπὶ τὸ ἄνω, καὶ ταῦτά γʼ ἤδη πάντα διακελευσάμενοι προθυμεῖσθαι μάλιστα μὲν μηδʼ εἰς φῶς ἐκφέρειν κύημα μηδέ γʼ ἕν, ἐὰν γένηται, ἐὰν δέ τι βιάσηται, οὕτω τιθέναι, ὡς οὐκ οὔσης τροφῆς τῷ τοιούτῳ.
καὶ ταῦτα μέν γʼ, ἔφη, μετρίως λέγεται· πατέρας δὲ καὶ [461d] θυγατέρας καὶ ἃ νυνδὴ ἔλεγες πῶς διαγνώσονται ἀλλήλων;
οὐδαμῶς, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ· ἀλλʼ ἀφʼ ἧς ἂν ἡμέρας τις αὐτῶν νυμφίος γένηται, μετʼ ἐκείνην δεκάτῳ μηνὶ καὶ ἑβδόμῳ δὴ ἃ ἂν γένηται ἔκγονα, ταῦτα πάντα προσερεῖ τὰ μὲν ἄρρενα ὑεῖς, τὰ δὲ θήλεα θυγατέρας, καὶ ἐκεῖνα ἐκεῖνον πατέρα, καὶ οὕτω δὴ τὰ τούτων ἔκγονα παίδων παῖδας, καὶ ἐκεῖνʼ αὖ ἐκείνους πάππους τε καὶ τηθάς, τὰ δʼ ἐν ἐκείνῳ τῷ χρόνῳ γεγονότα, ἐν ᾧ αἱ μητέρες καὶ οἱ πατέρες αὐτῶν ἐγέννων, [461e] ἀδελφάς τε καὶ ἀδελφούς, ὥστε, ὃ νυνδὴ ἐλέγομεν, ἀλλήλων μὴ ἅπτεσθαι. ἀδελφοὺς δὲ καὶ ἀδελφὰς δώσει ὁ νόμος συνοικεῖν, ἐὰν ὁ κλῆρος ταύτῃ συμπίπτῃ καὶ ἡ Πυθία προσαναιρῇ.
ὀρθότατα, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
ἡ μὲν δὴ κοινωνία, ὦ Γλαύκων, αὕτη τε καὶ τοιαύτη γυναικῶν τε καὶ παίδων τοῖς φύλαξί σοι τῆς πόλεως· ὡς δὲ ἑπομένη τε τῇ ἄλλῃ πολιτείᾳ καὶ μακρῷ βελτίστη, δεῖ δὴ τὸ μετὰ τοῦτο βεβαιώσασθαι παρὰ τοῦ λόγου. ἢ πῶς ποιῶμεν;

[462a]
οὕτω νὴ Δία, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
ἆρʼ οὖν οὐχ ἥδε ἀρχὴ τῆς ὁμολογίας, ἐρέσθαι ἡμᾶς αὐτοὺς τί ποτε τὸ μέγιστον ἀγαθὸν ἔχομεν εἰπεῖν εἰς πόλεως κατασκευήν, οὗ δεῖ στοχαζόμενον τὸν νομοθέτην τιθέναι τοὺς νόμους, καὶ τί μέγιστον κακόν, εἶτα ἐπισκέψασθαι ἆρα ἃ νυνδὴ διήλθομεν εἰς μὲν τὸ τοῦ ἀγαθοῦ ἴχνος ἡμῖν ἁρμόττει, τῷ δὲ τοῦ κακοῦ ἀναρμοστεῖ;
πάντων μάλιστα, ἔφη.
ἔχομεν οὖν τι μεῖζον κακὸν πόλει ἢ ἐκεῖνο ὃ ἂν αὐτὴν [462b] διασπᾷ καὶ ποιῇ πολλὰς ἀντὶ μιᾶς; ἢ μεῖζον ἀγαθὸν τοῦ ὃ ἂν συνδῇ τε καὶ ποιῇ μίαν;
οὐκ ἔχομεν.
οὐκοῦν ἡ μὲν ἡδονῆς τε καὶ λύπης κοινωνία συνδεῖ, ὅταν ὅτι μάλιστα πάντες οἱ πολῖται τῶν αὐτῶν γιγνομένων τε καὶ ἀπολλυμένων παραπλησίως χαίρωσι καὶ λυπῶνται;
παντάπασι μὲν οὖν, ἔφη.
ἡ δέ γε τῶν τοιούτων ἰδίωσις διαλύει, ὅταν οἱ μὲν περιαλγεῖς, οἱ δὲ περιχαρεῖς γίγνωνται ἐπὶ τοῖς αὐτοῖς [462c] παθήμασι τῆς πόλεώς τε καὶ τῶν ἐν τῇ πόλει;
τί δʼ οὔ;
ἆρʼ οὖν ἐκ τοῦδε τὸ τοιόνδε γίγνεται, ὅταν μὴ ἅμα φθέγγωνται ἐν τῇ πόλει τὰ τοιάδε ῥήματα, τό τε ἐμὸν καὶ τὸ οὐκ ἐμόν; καὶ περὶ τοῦ ἀλλοτρίου κατὰ ταὐτά;
κομιδῇ μὲν οὖν.
ἐν ᾗτινι δὴ πόλει πλεῖστοι ἐπὶ τὸ αὐτὸ κατὰ ταὐτὰ τοῦτο λέγουσι τὸ ἐμὸν καὶ τὸ οὐκ ἐμόν, αὕτη ἄριστα διοικεῖται;
πολύ γε.
καὶ ἥτις δὴ ἐγγύτατα ἑνὸς ἀνθρώπου ἔχει; οἷον ὅταν που ἡμῶν δάκτυλός του πληγῇ, πᾶσα ἡ κοινωνία ἡ κατὰ τὸ σῶμα πρὸς τὴν ψυχὴν τεταμένη εἰς μίαν σύνταξιν τὴν τοῦ ἄρχοντος [462d] ἐν αὐτῇ ᾔσθετό τε καὶ πᾶσα ἅμα συνήλγησεν μέρους πονήσαντος ὅλη, καὶ οὕτω δὴ λέγομεν ὅτι ὁ ἄνθρωπος τὸν δάκτυλον ἀλγεῖ· καὶ περὶ ἄλλου ὁτουοῦν τῶν τοῦ ἀνθρώπου ὁ αὐτὸς λόγος, περί τε λύπης πονοῦντος μέρους καὶ περὶ ἡδονῆς ῥαΐζοντος;
ὁ αὐτὸς γάρ, ἔφη· καὶ τοῦτο ὃ ἐρωτᾷς, τοῦ τοιούτου ἐγγύτατα ἡ ἄριστα πολιτευομένη πόλις οἰκεῖ.
ἑνὸς δὴ οἶμαι πάσχοντος τῶν πολιτῶν ὁτιοῦν ἢ ἀγαθὸν [462e] ἢ κακὸν ἡ τοιαύτη πόλις μάλιστά τε φήσει ἑαυτῆς εἶναι τὸ πάσχον, καὶ ἢ συνησθήσεται ἅπασα ἢ συλλυπήσεται.
ἀνάγκη, ἔφη, τήν γε εὔνομον.
ὥρα ἂν εἴη, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἐπανιέναι ἡμῖν ἐπὶ τὴν ἡμετέραν πόλιν, καὶ τὰ τοῦ λόγου ὁμολογήματα σκοπεῖν ἐν αὐτῇ, εἰ αὐτὴ μάλιστʼ ἔχει εἴτε καὶ ἄλλη τις μᾶλλον.
οὐκοῦν χρή, ἔφη.

[463a]
τί οὖν; ἔστι μέν που καὶ ἐν ταῖς ἄλλαις πόλεσιν ἄρχοντές τε καὶ δῆμος, ἔστι δὲ καὶ ἐν ταύτῃ;
ἔστι.
πολίτας μὲν δὴ πάντες οὗτοι ἀλλήλους προσεροῦσι;
πῶς δʼ οὔ;
ἀλλὰ πρὸς τῷ πολίτας τί ὁ ἐν ταῖς ἄλλαις δῆμος τοὺς ἄρχοντας προσαγορεύει;
ἐν μὲν ταῖς πολλαῖς δεσπότας, ἐν δὲ ταῖς δημοκρατουμέναις αὐτὸ τοὔνομα τοῦτο, ἄρχοντας.
τί δʼ ὁ ἐν τῇ ἡμετέρᾳ δῆμος; πρὸς τῷ πολίτας τί τοὺς ἄρχοντάς φησιν εἶναι; [463b]
σωτῆράς τε καὶ ἐπικούρους, ἔφη.
τί δʼ οὗτοι τὸν δῆμον;
μισθοδότας τε καὶ τροφέας.
οἱ δʼ ἐν ταῖς ἄλλαις ἄρχοντες τοὺς δήμους;
δούλους, ἔφη.
τί δʼ οἱ ἄρχοντες ἀλλήλους;
συνάρχοντας, ἔφη.
τί δʼ οἱ ἡμέτεροι;
συμφύλακας.
ἔχεις οὖν εἰπεῖν τῶν ἀρχόντων τῶν ἐν ταῖς ἄλλαις πόλεσιν, εἴ τίς τινα ἔχει προσειπεῖν τῶν συναρχόντων τὸν μὲν ὡς οἰκεῖον, τὸν δʼ ὡς ἀλλότριον;
καὶ πολλούς γε.
οὐκοῦν τὸν μὲν οἰκεῖον ὡς ἑαυτοῦ νομίζει τε καὶ λέγει, [463c] τὸν δʼ ἀλλότριον ὡς οὐχ ἑαυτοῦ;
οὕτω.
τί δὲ οἱ παρὰ σοὶ φύλακες; ἔσθʼ ὅστις αὐτῶν ἔχοι ἂν τῶν συμφυλάκων νομίσαι τινὰ ἢ προσειπεῖν ὡς ἀλλότριον;
οὐδαμῶς, ἔφη· παντὶ γὰρ ᾧ ἂν ἐντυγχάνῃ, ἢ ὡς ἀδελφῷ ἢ ὡς ἀδελφῇ ἢ ὡς πατρὶ ἢ ὡς μητρὶ ἢ ὑεῖ ἢ θυγατρὶ ἢ τούτων ἐκγόνοις ἢ προγόνοις νομιεῖ ἐντυγχάνειν.
κάλλιστα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, λέγεις, ἀλλʼ ἔτι καὶ τόδε εἰπέ· πότερον αὐτοῖς τὰ ὀνόματα μόνον οἰκεῖα νομοθετήσεις, ἢ [463d] καὶ τὰς πράξεις πάσας κατὰ τὰ ὀνόματα πράττειν, περί τε τοὺς πατέρας, ὅσα νόμος περὶ πατέρας αἰδοῦς τε πέρι καὶ κηδεμονίας καὶ τοῦ ὑπήκοον δεῖν εἶναι τῶν γονέων, ἢ μήτε πρὸς θεῶν μήτε πρὸς ἀνθρώπων αὐτῷ ἄμεινον ἔσεσθαι, ὡς οὔτε ὅσια οὔτε δίκαια πράττοντος ἄν, εἰ ἄλλα πράττοι ἢ ταῦτα; αὗταί σοι ἢ ἄλλαι φῆμαι ἐξ ἁπάντων τῶν πολιτῶν ὑμνήσουσιν εὐθὺς περὶ τὰ τῶν παίδων ὦτα καὶ περὶ πατέρων, οὓς ἂν αὐτοῖς τις ἀποφήνῃ, καὶ περὶ τῶν ἄλλων συγγενῶν; [463e]
αὗται, ἔφη· γελοῖον γὰρ ἂν εἴη εἰ ἄνευ ἔργων οἰκεῖα ὀνόματα διὰ τῶν στομάτων μόνον φθέγγοιντο.
πασῶν ἄρα πόλεων μάλιστα ἐν αὐτῇ συμφωνήσουσιν ἑνός τινος ἢ εὖ ἢ κακῶς πράττοντος ὃ νυνδὴ ἐλέγομεν τὸ ῥῆμα, τὸ ὅτι τὸ ἐμὸν εὖ πράττει ἢ ὅτι τὸ ἐμὸν κακῶς.
ἀληθέστατα αὖ, ἦ δʼ ὅς.

[464a]
οὐκοῦν μετὰ τούτου τοῦ δόγματός τε καὶ ῥήματος ἔφαμεν συνακολουθεῖν τάς τε ἡδονὰς καὶ τὰς λύπας κοινῇ;
καὶ ὀρθῶς γε ἔφαμεν.
οὐκοῦν μάλιστα τοῦ αὐτοῦ κοινωνήσουσιν ἡμῖν οἱ πολῖται, ὃ δὴ ἐμὸν ὀνομάσουσιν; τούτου δὲ κοινωνοῦντες οὕτω δὴ λύπης τε καὶ ἡδονῆς μάλιστα κοινωνίαν ἕξουσιν;
πολύ γε.
ἆρʼ οὖν τούτων αἰτία πρὸς τῇ ἄλλῃ καταστάσει ἡ τῶν γυναικῶν τε καὶ παίδων κοινωνία τοῖς φύλαξιν;
πολὺ μὲν οὖν μάλιστα, ἔφη. [464b]
ἀλλὰ μὴν μέγιστόν γε πόλει αὐτὸ ὡμολογήσαμεν ἀγαθόν, ἀπεικάζοντες εὖ οἰκουμένην πόλιν σώματι πρὸς μέρος αὑτοῦ λύπης τε πέρι καὶ ἡδονῆς ὡς ἔχει.
καὶ ὀρθῶς γʼ, ἔφη, ὡμολογήσαμεν.
τοῦ μεγίστου ἄρα ἀγαθοῦ τῇ πόλει αἰτία ἡμῖν πέφανται ἡ κοινωνία τοῖς ἐπικούροις τῶν τε παίδων καὶ τῶν γυναικῶν.
καὶ μάλʼ, ἔφη.
καὶ μὲν δὴ καὶ τοῖς πρόσθεν γε ὁμολογοῦμεν· ἔφαμεν γάρ που οὔτε οἰκίας τούτοις ἰδίας δεῖν εἶναι οὔτε γῆν οὔτε [464c] τι κτῆμα, ἀλλὰ παρὰ τῶν ἄλλων τροφὴν λαμβάνοντας, μισθὸν τῆς φυλακῆς, κοινῇ πάντας ἀναλίσκειν, εἰ μέλλοιεν ὄντως φύλακες εἶναι.
ὀρθῶς, ἔφη.
ἆρʼ οὖν οὐχ, ὅπερ λέγω, τά τε πρόσθεν εἰρημένα καὶ τὰ νῦν λεγόμενα ἔτι μᾶλλον ἀπεργάζεται αὐτοὺς ἀληθινοὺς φύλακας, καὶ ποιεῖ μὴ διασπᾶν τὴν πόλιν τὸ ἐμὸν ὀνομάζοντας μὴ τὸ αὐτὸ ἀλλʼ ἄλλον ἄλλο, τὸν μὲν εἰς τὴν ἑαυτοῦ οἰκίαν ἕλκοντα ὅτι ἂν δύνηται χωρὶς τῶν ἄλλων κτήσασθαι, [464d] τὸν δὲ εἰς τὴν ἑαυτοῦ ἑτέραν οὖσαν, καὶ γυναῖκά τε καὶ παῖδας ἑτέρους, ἡδονάς τε καὶ ἀλγηδόνας ἐμποιοῦντας ἰδίων ὄντων ἰδίας, ἀλλʼ ἑνὶ δόγματι τοῦ οἰκείου πέρι ἐπὶ τὸ αὐτὸ τείνοντας πάντας εἰς τὸ δυνατὸν ὁμοπαθεῖς λύπης τε καὶ ἡδονῆς εἶναι;
κομιδῇ μὲν οὖν, ἔφη.
τί δέ; δίκαι τε καὶ ἐγκλήματα πρὸς ἀλλήλους οὐκ οἰχήσεται ἐξ αὐτῶν ὡς ἔπος εἰπεῖν διὰ τὸ μηδὲν ἴδιον ἐκτῆσθαι πλὴν τὸ σῶμα, τὰ δʼ ἄλλα κοινά; ὅθεν δὴ ὑπάρχει [464e] τούτοις ἀστασιάστοις εἶναι, ὅσα γε διὰ χρημάτων ἢ παίδων καὶ συγγενῶν κτῆσιν ἄνθρωποι στασιάζουσιν;
πολλὴ ἀνάγκη, ἔφη, ἀπηλλάχθαι.
καὶ μὴν οὐδὲ βιαίων γε οὐδʼ αἰκίας δίκαι δικαίως ἂν εἶεν ἐν αὐτοῖς· ἥλιξι μὲν γὰρ ἥλικας ἀμύνεσθαι καλὸν καὶ δίκαιόν που φήσομεν, ἀνάγκην σωμάτων ἐπιμελείᾳ τιθέντες.
ὀρθῶς, ἔφη.

### Book V, 465–472

[465a]
καὶ γὰρ τόδε ὀρθὸν ἔχει, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, οὗτος ὁ νόμος· εἴ πού τίς τῳ θυμοῖτο, ἐν τῷ τοιούτῳ πληρῶν τὸν θυμὸν ἧττον ἐπὶ μείζους ἂν ἴοι στάσεις.
πάνυ μὲν οὖν.
πρεσβυτέρῳ μὴν νεωτέρων πάντων ἄρχειν τε καὶ κολάζειν προστετάξεται.
δῆλον.
καὶ μὴν ὅτι γε νεώτερος πρεσβύτερον, ἂν μὴ ἄρχοντες προστάττωσιν, οὔτε ἄλλο βιάζεσθαι ἐπιχειρήσει ποτὲ οὔτε τύπτειν, ὡς τὸ εἰκός. οἶμαι δʼ οὐδὲ ἄλλως ἀτιμάσει· ἱκανὼ γὰρ τὼ φύλακε κωλύοντε, δέος τε καὶ αἰδώς, αἰδὼς μὲν ὡς [465b] γονέων μὴ ἅπτεσθαι εἴργουσα, δέος δὲ τὸ τῷ πάσχοντι τοὺς ἄλλους βοηθεῖν, τοὺς μὲν ὡς ὑεῖς, τοὺς δὲ ὡς ἀδελφούς, τοὺς δὲ ὡς πατέρας.
συμβαίνει γὰρ οὕτως, ἔφη.
πανταχῇ δὴ ἐκ τῶν νόμων εἰρήνην πρὸς ἀλλήλους οἱ ἄνδρες ἄξουσι;
πολλήν γε.
τούτων μὴν ἐν ἑαυτοῖς μὴ στασιαζόντων οὐδὲν δεινὸν μή ποτε ἡ ἄλλη πόλις πρὸς τούτους ἢ πρὸς ἀλλήλους διχοστατήσῃ.
οὐ γὰρ οὖν.
τά γε μὴν σμικρότατα τῶν κακῶν διʼ ἀπρέπειαν ὀκνῶ [465c] καὶ λέγειν, ὧν ἀπηλλαγμένοι ἂν εἶεν, κολακείας τε πλουσίων πένητες ἀπορίας τε καὶ ἀλγηδόνας ὅσας ἐν παιδοτροφίᾳ καὶ χρηματισμοῖς διὰ τροφὴν οἰκετῶν ἀναγκαίαν ἴσχουσι, τὰ μὲν δανειζόμενοι, τὰ δʼ ἐξαρνούμενοι, τὰ δὲ πάντως πορισάμενοι θέμενοι παρὰ γυναῖκάς τε καὶ οἰκέτας, ταμιεύειν παραδόντες, ὅσα τε, ὦ φίλε, περὶ αὐτὰ καὶ οἷα πάσχουσι, δῆλά τε δὴ καὶ ἀγεννῆ καὶ οὐκ ἄξια λέγειν. [465d]
δῆλα γάρ, ἔφη, καὶ τυφλῷ.
πάντων τε δὴ τούτων ἀπαλλάξονται, ζήσουσί τε τοῦ μακαριστοῦ βίου ὃν οἱ Ὀλυμπιονῖκαι ζῶσι μακαριώτερον.
πῇ;
διὰ σμικρόν που μέρος εὐδαιμονίζονται ἐκεῖνοι ὧν τούτοις ὑπάρχει. ἥ τε γὰρ τῶνδε νίκη καλλίων, ἥ τʼ ἐκ τοῦ δημοσίου τροφὴ τελεωτέρα. νίκην τε γὰρ νικῶσι συμπάσης τῆς πόλεως σωτηρίαν, τροφῇ τε καὶ τοῖς ἄλλοις πᾶσιν ὅσων βίος δεῖται αὐτοί τε καὶ παῖδες ἀναδοῦνται, καὶ γέρα δέχονται [465e] παρὰ τῆς αὑτῶν πόλεως ζῶντές τε καὶ τελευτήσαντες ταφῆς ἀξίας μετέχουσιν.
καὶ μάλα, ἔφη, καλά.
μέμνησαι οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὅτι ἐν τοῖς πρόσθεν οὐκ οἶδα ὅτου λόγος ἡμῖν ἐπέπληξεν ὅτι τοὺς φύλακας οὐκ εὐδαίμονας

[466a]
ποιοῖμεν, οἷς ἐξὸν πάντα ἔχειν τὰ τῶν πολιτῶν οὐδὲν ἔχοιεν; ἡμεῖς δέ που εἴπομεν ὅτι τοῦτο μέν, εἴ που παραπίπτοι, εἰς αὖθις σκεψοίμεθα, νῦν δὲ τοὺς μὲν φύλακας φύλακας ποιοῖμεν, τὴν δὲ πόλιν ὡς οἷοί τʼ εἶμεν εὐδαιμονεστάτην, ἀλλʼ οὐκ εἰς ἓν ἔθνος ἀποβλέποντες ἐν αὐτῇ τοῦτο εὔδαιμον πλάττοιμεν;
μέμνημαι, ἔφη.
τί οὖν; νῦν ἡμῖν ὁ τῶν ἐπικούρων βίος, εἴπερ τοῦ γε τῶν Ὀλυμπιονικῶν πολύ τε καλλίων καὶ ἀμείνων φαίνεται, [466b] μή πῃ κατὰ τὸν τῶν σκυτοτόμων φαίνεται βίον ἤ τινων ἄλλων δημιουργῶν ἢ τὸν τῶν γεωργῶν;
οὔ μοι δοκεῖ, ἔφη.
ἀλλὰ μέντοι, ὅ γε καὶ ἐκεῖ ἔλεγον, δίκαιον καὶ ἐνταῦθα εἰπεῖν, ὅτι εἰ οὕτως ὁ φύλαξ ἐπιχειρήσει εὐδαίμων γίγνεσθαι, ὥστε μηδὲ φύλαξ εἶναι, μηδʼ ἀρκέσει αὐτῷ βίος οὕτω μέτριος καὶ βέβαιος καὶ ὡς ἡμεῖς φαμεν ἄριστος, ἀλλʼ ἀνόητός τε καὶ μειρακιώδης δόξα ἐμπεσοῦσα εὐδαιμονίας πέρι ὁρμήσει [466c] αὐτὸν διὰ δύναμιν ἐπὶ τὸ ἅπαντα τὰ ἐν τῇ πόλει οἰκειοῦσθαι, γνώσεται τὸν Ἡσίοδον ὅτι τῷ ὄντι ἦν σοφὸς λέγων πλέον εἶναί πως ἥμισυ παντός.
ἐμοὶ μέν, ἔφη, συμβούλῳ χρώμενος μενεῖ ἐπὶ τούτῳ τῷ βίῳ.
συγχωρεῖς ἄρα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τὴν τῶν γυναικῶν κοινωνίαν τοῖς ἀνδράσιν, ἣν διεληλύθαμεν, παιδείας τε πέρι καὶ παίδων καὶ φυλακῆς τῶν ἄλλων πολιτῶν, κατά τε πόλιν μενούσας εἰς πόλεμόν τε ἰούσας καὶ συμφυλάττειν δεῖν καὶ [466d] συνθηρεύειν ὥσπερ κύνας, καὶ πάντα πάντῃ κατὰ τὸ δυνατὸν κοινωνεῖν, καὶ ταῦτα πραττούσας τά τε βέλτιστα πράξειν καὶ οὐ παρὰ φύσιν τὴν τοῦ θήλεος πρὸς τὸ ἄρρεν, ᾗ πεφύκατον πρὸς ἀλλήλω κοινωνεῖν;
συγχωρῶ, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἐκεῖνο λοιπὸν διελέσθαι, εἰ ἄρα καὶ ἐν ἀνθρώποις δυνατόν, ὥσπερ ἐν ἄλλοις ζῴοις, ταύτην τὴν κοινωνίαν ἐγγενέσθαι, καὶ ὅπῃ δυνατόν;
ἔφθης, ἔφη, εἰπὼν ᾗ ἔμελλον ὑπολήψεσθαι. [466e]
περὶ μὲν γὰρ τῶν ἐν τῷ πολέμῳ οἶμαι, ἔφην, δῆλον ὃν τρόπον πολεμήσουσιν.
πῶς; ἦ δʼ ὅς.
ὅτι κοινῇ στρατεύσονται, καὶ πρός γε ἄξουσι τῶν παίδων εἰς τὸν πόλεμον ὅσοι ἁδροί, ἵνʼ ὥσπερ οἱ τῶν ἄλλων δημιουργῶν θεῶνται ταῦτα ἃ τελεωθέντας δεήσει δημιουργεῖν·

[467a]
πρὸς δὲ τῇ θέᾳ διακονεῖν καὶ ὑπηρετεῖν πάντα τὰ περὶ τὸν πόλεμον, καὶ θεραπεύειν πατέρας τε καὶ μητέρας. ἢ οὐκ ᾔσθησαι τὰ περὶ τὰς τέχνας, οἷον τοὺς τῶν κεραμέων παῖδας, ὡς πολὺν χρόνον διακονοῦντες θεωροῦσι πρὶν ἅπτεσθαι τοῦ κεραμεύειν;
καὶ μάλα.
ἦ οὖν ἐκείνοις ἐπιμελέστερον παιδευτέον ἢ τοῖς φύλαξι τοὺς αὑτῶν ἐμπειρίᾳ τε καὶ θέᾳ τῶν προσηκόντων;
καταγέλαστον μεντἄν, ἔφη, εἴη.
ἀλλὰ μὴν καὶ μαχεῖταί γε πᾶν ζῷον διαφερόντως [467b] παρόντων ὧν ἂν τέκῃ.
ἔστιν οὕτω. κίνδυνος δέ, ὦ Σώκρατες, οὐ σμικρὸς σφαλεῖσιν, οἷα δὴ ἐν πολέμῳ φιλεῖ, πρὸς ἑαυτοῖς παῖδας ἀπολέσαντας ποιῆσαι καὶ τὴν ἄλλην πόλιν ἀδύνατον ἀναλαβεῖν.
ἀληθῆ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, λέγεις. ἀλλὰ σὺ πρῶτον μὲν ἡγῇ παρασκευαστέον τὸ μή ποτε κινδυνεῦσαι;
οὐδαμῶς.
τί δʼ; εἴ που κινδυνευτέον, οὐκ ἐν ᾧ βελτίους ἔσονται κατορθοῦντες;
δῆλον δή. [467c]
ἀλλὰ σμικρὸν οἴει διαφέρειν καὶ οὐκ ἄξιον κινδύνου θεωρεῖν ἢ μὴ τὰ περὶ τὸν πόλεμον παῖδας τοὺς ἄνδρας πολεμικοὺς ἐσομένους;
οὔκ, ἀλλὰ διαφέρει πρὸς ὃ λέγεις.
τοῦτο μὲν ἄρα ὑπαρκτέον, θεωροὺς πολέμου τοὺς παῖδας ποιεῖν, προσμηχανᾶσθαι δʼ αὐτοῖς ἀσφάλειαν, καὶ καλῶς ἕξει· ἦ γάρ;
ναί.
οὐκοῦν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, πρῶτον μὲν αὐτῶν οἱ πατέρες, ὅσα ἄνθρωποι, οὐκ ἀμαθεῖς ἔσονται ἀλλὰ γνωμονικοὶ τῶν [467d] στρατειῶν ὅσαι τε καὶ μὴ ἐπικίνδυνοι;
εἰκός, ἔφη.
εἰς μὲν ἄρα τὰς ἄξουσιν, εἰς δὲ τὰς εὐλαβήσονται.
ὀρθῶς.
καὶ ἄρχοντάς γέ που, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, οὐ τοὺς φαυλοτάτους αὐτοῖς ἐπιστήσουσιν ἀλλὰ τοὺς ἐμπειρίᾳ τε καὶ ἡλικίᾳ ἱκανοὺς ἡγεμόνας τε καὶ παιδαγωγοὺς εἶναι.
πρέπει γάρ.
ἀλλὰ γάρ, φήσομεν, καὶ παρὰ δόξαν πολλὰ πολλοῖς δὴ ἐγένετο.
καὶ μάλα.
πρὸς τοίνυν τὰ τοιαῦτα, ὦ φίλε, πτεροῦν χρὴ παιδία ὄντα εὐθύς, ἵνʼ, ἄν τι δέῃ, πετόμενοι ἀποφεύγωσιν. [467e]
πῶς λέγεις; ἔφη.
ἐπὶ τοὺς ἵππους, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἀναβιβαστέον ὡς νεωτάτους, καὶ διδαξαμένους ἱππεύειν ἐφʼ ἵππων ἀκτέον ἐπὶ τὴν θέαν, μὴ θυμοειδῶν μηδὲ μαχητικῶν, ἀλλʼ ὅτι ποδωκεστάτων καὶ εὐηνιωτάτων. οὕτω γὰρ κάλλιστά τε θεάσονται τὸ αὑτῶν ἔργον, καὶ ἀσφαλέστατα, ἄν τι δέῃ, σωθήσονται μετὰ πρεσβυτέρων ἡγεμόνων ἑπόμενοι.
ὀρθῶς, ἔφη, μοι δοκεῖς λέγειν.

[468a]
τί δὲ δή, εἶπον, τὰ περὶ τὸν πόλεμον; πῶς ἑκτέον σοι τοὺς στρατιώτας πρὸς αὑτούς τε καὶ τοὺς πολεμίους; ἆρʼ ὀρθῶς μοι καταφαίνεται ἢ οὔ;
λέγʼ, ἔφη, ποῖʼ αὖ.
αὐτῶν μέν, εἶπον, τὸν λιπόντα τάξιν ἢ ὅπλα ἀποβαλόντα ἤ τι τῶν τοιούτων ποιήσαντα διὰ κάκην ἆρα οὐ δημιουργόν τινα δεῖ καθιστάναι ἢ γεωργόν;
πάνυ μὲν οὖν.
τὸν δὲ ζῶντα εἰς τοὺς πολεμίους ἁλόντα ἆρʼ οὐ δωρεὰν διδόναι τοῖς ἑλοῦσι χρῆσθαι τῇ ἄγρᾳ ὅτι ἂν βούλωνται; [468b]
κομιδῇ γε.
τὸν δὲ ἀριστεύσαντά τε καὶ εὐδοκιμήσαντα οὐ πρῶτον μὲν ἐπὶ στρατιᾶς ὑπὸ τῶν συστρατευομένων μειρακίων τε καὶ παίδων ἐν μέρει ὑπὸ ἑκάστου δοκεῖ σοι χρῆναι στεφανωθῆναι; ἢ οὔ;
ἔμοιγε.
τί δέ; δεξιωθῆναι;
καὶ τοῦτο.
ἀλλὰ τόδʼ οἶμαι, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, οὐκέτι σοι δοκεῖ.
τὸ ποῖον;
τὸ φιλῆσαί τε καὶ φιληθῆναι ὑπὸ ἑκάστου.
πάντων, ἔφη, μάλιστα· καὶ προστίθημί γε τῷ νόμῳ, [468c] ἕως ἂν ἐπὶ ταύτης ὦσι τῆς στρατιᾶς, καὶ μηδενὶ ἐξεῖναι ἀπαρνηθῆναι ὃν ἂν βούληται φιλεῖν, ἵνα καί, ἐάν τίς του τύχῃ ἐρῶν ἢ ἄρρενος ἢ θηλείας, προθυμότερος ᾖ πρὸς τὸ τἀριστεῖα φέρειν.
καλῶς, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ. ὅτι μὲν γὰρ ἀγαθῷ ὄντι γάμοι τε ἕτοιμοι πλείους ἢ τοῖς ἄλλοις καὶ αἱρέσεις τῶν τοιούτων πολλάκις παρὰ τοὺς ἄλλους ἔσονται, ἵνʼ ὅτι πλεῖστοι ἐκ τοῦ τοιούτου γίγνωνται, εἴρηται ἤδη.
εἴπομεν γάρ, ἔφη.
ἀλλὰ μὴν καὶ καθʼ Ὅμηρον τοῖς τοιοῖσδε δίκαιον τιμᾶν [468d] τῶν νέων ὅσοι ἀγαθοί. καὶ γὰρ Ὅμηρος τὸν εὐδοκιμήσαντα ἐν τῷ πολέμῳ νώτοισιν Αἴαντα ἔφη διηνεκέεσσι γεραίρεσθαι, ὡς ταύτην οἰκείαν οὖσαν τιμὴν τῷ ἡβῶντί τε καὶ ἀνδρείῳ, ἐξ ἧς ἅμα τῷ τιμᾶσθαι καὶ τὴν ἰσχὺν αὐξήσει.
ὀρθότατα, ἔφη.
πεισόμεθα ἄρα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ταῦτά γε Ὁμήρῳ. καὶ γὰρ ἡμεῖς ἔν τε θυσίαις καὶ τοῖς τοιούτοις πᾶσι τοὺς ἀγαθούς, καθʼ ὅσον ἂν ἀγαθοὶ φαίνωνται, καὶ ὕμνοις καὶ οἷς νυνδὴ ἐλέγομεν τιμήσομεν, πρὸς δὲ τούτοις ἕδραις τε καὶ κρέασιν [468e] ἰδὲ πλείοις δεπάεσσιν, ἵνα ἅμα τῷ τιμᾶν ἀσκῶμεν τοὺς ἀγαθοὺς ἄνδρας τε καὶ γυναῖκας.
κάλλιστα, ἔφη, λέγεις.
εἶεν· τῶν δὲ δὴ ἀποθανόντων ἐπὶ στρατιᾶς ὃς ἂν εὐδοκιμήσας τελευτήσῃ ἆρʼ οὐ πρῶτον μὲν φήσομεν τοῦ χρυσοῦ γένους εἶναι;
πάντων γε μάλιστα.
ἀλλʼ οὐ πεισόμεθα Ἡσιόδῳ, ἐπειδάν τινες τοῦ τοιούτου γένους τελευτήσωσιν, ὡς ἄρα—

[469a]
οἱ μὲν δαίμονες ἁγνοὶ ἐπιχθόνιοι τελέθουσιν,
ἐσθλοί, ἀλεξίκακοι, φύλακες μερόπων ἀνθρώπων;
πεισόμεθα μὲν οὖν.
διαπυθόμενοι ἄρα τοῦ θεοῦ πῶς χρὴ τοὺς δαιμονίους τε καὶ θείους τιθέναι καὶ τίνι διαφόρῳ, οὕτω καὶ ταύτῃ θήσομεν ᾗ ἂν ἐξηγῆται;
τί δʼ οὐ μέλλομεν;
καὶ τὸν λοιπὸν δὴ χρόνον ὡς δαιμόνων, οὕτω θεραπεύσομέν [469b] τε καὶ προσκυνήσομεν αὐτῶν τὰς θήκας; ταὐτὰ δὲ ταῦτα νομιοῦμεν ὅταν τις γήρᾳ ἤ τινι ἄλλῳ τρόπῳ τελευτήσῃ τῶν ὅσοι ἂν διαφερόντως ἐν τῷ βίῳ ἀγαθοὶ κριθῶσιν;
δίκαιον γοῦν, ἔφη.
τί δέ; πρὸς τοὺς πολεμίους πῶς ποιήσουσιν ἡμῖν οἱ στρατιῶται;
τὸ ποῖον δή;
πρῶτον μὲν ἀνδραποδισμοῦ πέρι, δοκεῖ δίκαιον Ἕλληνας Ἑλληνίδας πόλεις ἀνδραποδίζεσθαι, ἢ μηδʼ ἄλλῃ ἐπιτρέπειν κατὰ τὸ δυνατὸν καὶ τοῦτο ἐθίζειν, τοῦ Ἑλληνικοῦ [469c] γένους φείδεσθαι, εὐλαβουμένους τὴν ὑπὸ τῶν βαρβάρων δουλείαν;
ὅλῳ καὶ παντί, ἔφη, διαφέρει τὸ φείδεσθαι.
μηδὲ Ἕλληνα ἄρα δοῦλον ἐκτῆσθαι μήτε αὐτούς, τοῖς τε ἄλλοις Ἕλλησιν οὕτω συμβουλεύειν;
πάνυ μὲν οὖν, ἔφη· μᾶλλόν γʼ ἂν οὖν οὕτω πρὸς τοὺς βαρβάρους τρέποιντο, ἑαυτῶν δʼ ἀπέχοιντο.
τί δέ; σκυλεύειν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τοὺς τελευτήσαντας πλὴν ὅπλων, ἐπειδὰν νικήσωσιν, ἦ καλῶς ἔχει; ἢ οὐ πρόφασιν [469d] μὲν τοῖς δειλοῖς ἔχει μὴ πρὸς τὸν μαχόμενον ἰέναι, ὥς τι τῶν δεόντων δρῶντας ὅταν περὶ τὸν τεθνεῶτα κυπτάζωσι, πολλὰ δὲ ἤδη στρατόπεδα διὰ τὴν τοιαύτην ἁρπαγὴν ἀπώλετο;
καὶ μάλα.
ἀνελεύθερον δὲ οὐ δοκεῖ καὶ φιλοχρήματον νεκρὸν συλᾶν, καὶ γυναικείας τε καὶ σμικρᾶς διανοίας τὸ πολέμιον νομίζειν τὸ σῶμα τοῦ τεθνεῶτος ἀποπταμένου τοῦ ἐχθροῦ, λελοιπότος δὲ ᾧ ἐπολέμει; ἢ οἴει τι διάφορον δρᾶν τοὺς τοῦτο [469e] ποιοῦντας τῶν κυνῶν, αἳ τοῖς λίθοις οἷς ἂν βληθῶσι χαλεπαίνουσι, τοῦ βάλλοντος οὐχ ἁπτόμεναι;
οὐδὲ σμικρόν, ἔφη.
ἐατέον ἄρα τὰς νεκροσυλίας καὶ τὰς τῶν ἀναιρέσεων διακωλύσεις;
ἐατέον μέντοι, ἔφη, νὴ Δία.
οὐδὲ μήν που πρὸς τὰ ἱερὰ τὰ ὅπλα οἴσομεν ὡς ἀναθήσοντες, ἄλλως τε καὶ τὰ τῶν Ἑλλήνων, ἐάν τι ἡμῖν μέλῃ

[470a]
τῆς πρὸς τοὺς ἄλλους Ἕλληνας εὐνοίας· μᾶλλον δὲ καὶ φοβησόμεθα μή τι μίασμα ᾖ πρὸς ἱερὸν τὰ τοιαῦτα ἀπὸ τῶν οἰκείων φέρειν, ἐὰν μή τι δὴ ὁ θεὸς ἄλλο λέγῃ.
ὀρθότατα, ἔφη.
τί δὲ γῆς τε τμήσεως τῆς Ἑλληνικῆς καὶ οἰκιῶν ἐμπρήσεως; ποῖόν τί σοι δράσουσιν οἱ στρατιῶται πρὸς τοὺς πολεμίους;
σοῦ, ἔφη, δόξαν ἀποφαινομένου ἡδέως ἂν ἀκούσαιμι.
ἐμοὶ μὲν τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, δοκεῖ τούτων μηδέτερα ποιεῖν, [470b] ἀλλὰ τὸν ἐπέτειον καρπὸν ἀφαιρεῖσθαι. καὶ ὧν ἕνεκα, βούλει σοι λέγω;
πάνυ γε.
φαίνεταί μοι, ὥσπερ καὶ ὀνομάζεται δύο ταῦτα ὀνόματα, πόλεμός τε καὶ στάσις, οὕτω καὶ εἶναι δύο, ὄντα ἐπὶ δυοῖν τινοιν διαφοραῖν. λέγω δὲ τὰ δύο τὸ μὲν οἰκεῖον καὶ συγγενές, τὸ δὲ ἀλλότριον καὶ ὀθνεῖον. ἐπὶ μὲν οὖν τῇ τοῦ οἰκείου ἔχθρᾳ στάσις κέκληται, ἐπὶ δὲ τῇ τοῦ ἀλλοτρίου πόλεμος.
καὶ οὐδέν γε, ἔφη, ἀπὸ τρόπου λέγεις. [470c]
ὅρα δὴ καὶ εἰ τόδε πρὸς τρόπου λέγω. φημὶ γὰρ τὸ μὲν Ἑλληνικὸν γένος αὐτὸ αὑτῷ οἰκεῖον εἶναι καὶ συγγενές, τῷ δὲ βαρβαρικῷ ὀθνεῖόν τε καὶ ἀλλότριον.
καλῶς γε, ἔφη.
Ἕλληνας μὲν ἄρα βαρβάροις καὶ βαρβάρους Ἕλλησι πολεμεῖν μαχομένους τε φήσομεν καὶ πολεμίους φύσει εἶναι, καὶ πόλεμον τὴν ἔχθραν ταύτην κλητέον· Ἕλληνας δὲ Ἕλλησιν, ὅταν τι τοιοῦτον δρῶσιν, φύσει μὲν φίλους εἶναι, νοσεῖν δʼ ἐν τῷ τοιούτῳ τὴν Ἑλλάδα καὶ στασιάζειν, [470d] καὶ στάσιν τὴν τοιαύτην ἔχθραν κλητέον.
ἐγὼ μέν, ἔφη, συγχωρῶ οὕτω νομίζειν.
σκόπει δή, εἶπον, ὅτι ἐν τῇ νῦν ὁμολογουμένῃ στάσει, ὅπου ἄν τι τοιοῦτον γένηται καὶ διαστῇ πόλις, ἐὰν ἑκάτεροι ἑκατέρων τέμνωσιν ἀγροὺς καὶ οἰκίας ἐμπιμπρῶσιν, ὡς ἀλιτηριώδης τε δοκεῖ ἡ στάσις εἶναι καὶ οὐδέτεροι αὐτῶν φιλοπόλιδες—οὐ γὰρ ἄν ποτε ἐτόλμων τὴν τροφόν τε καὶ μητέρα κείρειν—ἀλλὰ μέτριον εἶναι τοὺς καρποὺς ἀφαιρεῖσθαι [470e] τοῖς κρατοῦσι τῶν κρατουμένων, καὶ διανοεῖσθαι ὡς διαλλαγησομένων καὶ οὐκ ἀεὶ πολεμησόντων.
πολὺ γάρ, ἔφη, ἡμερωτέρων αὕτη ἡ διάνοια ἐκείνης.
τί δὲ δή; ἔφην· ἣν σὺ πόλιν οἰκίζεις, οὐχ Ἑλληνὶς ἔσται;
δεῖ γʼ αὐτήν, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν καὶ ἀγαθοί τε καὶ ἥμεροι ἔσονται;
σφόδρα γε.
ἀλλʼ οὐ φιλέλληνες; οὐδὲ οἰκείαν τὴν Ἑλλάδα ἡγήσονται, οὐδὲ κοινωνήσουσιν ὧνπερ οἱ ἄλλοι ἱερῶν;
καὶ σφόδρα γε.

[471a]
οὐκοῦν τὴν πρὸς τοὺς Ἕλληνας διαφοράν, ὡς οἰκείους, στάσιν ἡγήσονται καὶ οὐδὲ ὀνομάσουσιν πόλεμον;
οὐ γάρ.
καὶ ὡς διαλλαγησόμενοι ἄρα διοίσονται;
πάνυ μὲν οὖν.
εὐμενῶς δὴ σωφρονιοῦσιν, οὐκ ἐπὶ δουλείᾳ κολάζοντες οὐδʼ ἐπʼ ὀλέθρῳ, σωφρονισταὶ ὄντες, οὐ πολέμιοι.
οὕτως, ἔφη.
οὐδʼ ἄρα τὴν Ἑλλάδα Ἕλληνες ὄντες κεροῦσιν, οὐδὲ οἰκήσεις ἐμπρήσουσιν, οὐδὲ ὁμολογήσουσιν ἐν ἑκάστῃ πόλει πάντας ἐχθροὺς αὑτοῖς εἶναι, καὶ ἄνδρας καὶ γυναῖκας καὶ παῖδας, ἀλλʼ ὀλίγους ἀεὶ ἐχθροὺς τοὺς αἰτίους τῆς διαφορᾶς. [471b] καὶ διὰ ταῦτα πάντα οὔτε τὴν γῆν ἐθελήσουσιν κείρειν αὐτῶν, ὡς φίλων τῶν πολλῶν, οὔτε οἰκίας ἀνατρέπειν, ἀλλὰ μέχρι τούτου ποιήσονται τὴν διαφοράν, μέχρι οὗ ἂν οἱ αἴτιοι ἀναγκασθῶσιν ὑπὸ τῶν ἀναιτίων ἀλγούντων δοῦναι δίκην.
ἐγὼ μέν, ἔφη, ὁμολογῶ οὕτω δεῖν πρὸς τοὺς ἐναντίους τοὺς ἡμετέρους πολίτας προσφέρεσθαι· πρὸς δὲ τοὺς βαρβάρους, ὡς νῦν οἱ Ἕλληνες πρὸς ἀλλήλους.
τιθῶμεν δὴ καὶ τοῦτον τὸν νόμον τοῖς φύλαξι, μήτε γῆν [471c] τέμνειν μήτε οἰκίας ἐμπιμπράναι;
θῶμεν, ἔφη, καὶ ἔχειν γε καλῶς ταῦτά τε καὶ τὰ πρόσθεν.
ἀλλὰ γάρ μοι δοκεῖς, ὦ Σώκρατες, ἐάν τίς σοι τὰ τοιαῦτα ἐπιτρέπῃ λέγειν, οὐδέποτε μνησθήσεσθαι ὃ ἐν τῷ πρόσθεν παρωσάμενος πάντα ταῦτα εἴρηκας, τὸ ὡς δυνατὴ αὕτη ἡ πολιτεία γενέσθαι καὶ τίνα τρόπον ποτὲ δυνατή· ἐπεὶ ὅτι γε, εἰ γένοιτο, πάντʼ ἂν εἴη ἀγαθὰ πόλει ᾗ γένοιτο, καὶ ἃ σὺ παραλείπεις ἐγὼ λέγω, ὅτι καὶ τοῖς πολεμίοις [471d] ἄριστʼ ἂν μάχοιντο τῷ ἥκιστα ἀπολείπειν ἀλλήλους, γιγνώσκοντές τε καὶ ἀνακαλοῦντες ταῦτα τὰ ὀνόματα ἑαυτούς, ἀδελφούς, πατέρας, ὑεῖς· εἰ δὲ καὶ τὸ θῆλυ συστρατεύοιτο, εἴτε καὶ ἐν τῇ αὐτῇ τάξει εἴτε καὶ ὄπισθεν ἐπιτεταγμένον, φόβων τε ἕνεκα τοῖς ἐχθροῖς καὶ εἴ ποτέ τις ἀνάγκη βοηθείας γένοιτο, οἶδʼ ὅτι ταύτῃ πάντῃ ἄμαχοι ἂν εἶεν· καὶ οἴκοι γε ἃ παραλείπεται ἀγαθά, ὅσα ἂν εἴη αὐτοῖς, ὁρῶ. [471e] ἀλλʼ ὡς ἐμοῦ ὁμολογοῦντος πάντα ταῦτα ὅτι εἴη ἂν καὶ ἄλλα γε μυρία, εἰ γένοιτο ἡ πολιτεία αὕτη, μηκέτι πλείω περὶ αὐτῆς λέγε, ἀλλὰ τοῦτο αὐτὸ ἤδη πειρώμεθα ἡμᾶς αὐτοὺς πείθειν, ὡς δυνατὸν καὶ ᾗ δυνατόν, τὰ δʼ ἄλλα χαίρειν ἐῶμεν.

[472a]
ἐξαίφνης γε σύ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὥσπερ καταδρομὴν ἐποιήσω ἐπὶ τὸν λόγον μου, καὶ οὐ συγγιγνώσκεις στραγγευομένῳ. ἴσως γὰρ οὐκ οἶσθα ὅτι μόγις μοι τὼ δύο κύματε ἐκφυγόντι νῦν τὸ μέγιστον καὶ χαλεπώτατον τῆς τρικυμίας ἐπάγεις, ὃ ἐπειδὰν ἴδῃς τε καὶ ἀκούσῃς, πάνυ συγγνώμην ἕξεις, ὅτι εἰκότως ἄρα ὤκνουν τε καὶ ἐδεδοίκη οὕτω παράδοξον λόγον λέγειν τε καὶ ἐπιχειρεῖν διασκοπεῖν.
ὅσῳ ἄν, ἔφη, τοιαῦτα πλείω λέγῃς, ἧττον ἀφεθήσῃ [472b] ὑφʼ ἡμῶν πρὸς τὸ μὴ εἰπεῖν πῇ δυνατὴ γίγνεσθαι αὕτη ἡ πολιτεία. ἀλλὰ λέγε καὶ μὴ διάτριβε.
οὐκοῦν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, πρῶτον μὲν τόδε χρὴ ἀναμνησθῆναι, ὅτι ἡμεῖς ζητοῦντες δικαιοσύνην οἷόν ἐστι καὶ ἀδικίαν δεῦρο ἥκομεν.
χρή· ἀλλὰ τί τοῦτο; ἔφη.
οὐδέν· ἀλλʼ ἐὰν εὕρωμεν οἷόν ἐστι δικαιοσύνη, ἆρα καὶ ἄνδρα τὸν δίκαιον ἀξιώσομεν μηδὲν δεῖν αὐτῆς ἐκείνης διαφέρειν, ἀλλὰ πανταχῇ τοιοῦτον εἶναι οἷον δικαιοσύνη [472c] ἐστίν; ἢ ἀγαπήσομεν ἐὰν ὅτι ἐγγύτατα αὐτῆς ᾖ καὶ πλεῖστα τῶν ἄλλων ἐκείνης μετέχῃ;
οὕτως, ἔφη· ἀγαπήσομεν.
παραδείγματος ἄρα ἕνεκα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἐζητοῦμεν αὐτό τε δικαιοσύνην οἷόν ἐστι, καὶ ἄνδρα τὸν τελέως δίκαιον εἰ γένοιτο, καὶ οἷος ἂν εἴη γενόμενος, καὶ ἀδικίαν αὖ καὶ τὸν ἀδικώτατον, ἵνα εἰς ἐκείνους ἀποβλέποντες, οἷοι ἂν ἡμῖν φαίνωνται εὐδαιμονίας τε πέρι καὶ τοῦ ἐναντίου, ἀναγκαζώμεθα καὶ περὶ ἡμῶν αὐτῶν ὁμολογεῖν, ὃς ἂν ἐκείνοις ὅτι [472d] ὁμοιότατος ᾖ, τὴν ἐκείνης μοῖραν ὁμοιοτάτην ἕξειν, ἀλλʼ οὐ τούτου ἕνεκα, ἵνʼ ἀποδείξωμεν ὡς δυνατὰ ταῦτα γίγνεσθαι.
τοῦτο μέν, ἔφη, ἀληθὲς λέγεις.
οἴει ἂν οὖν ἧττόν τι ἀγαθὸν ζωγράφον εἶναι ὃς ἂν γράψας παράδειγμα οἷον ἂν εἴη ὁ κάλλιστος ἄνθρωπος καὶ πάντα εἰς τὸ γράμμα ἱκανῶς ἀποδοὺς μὴ ἔχῃ ἀποδεῖξαι ὡς καὶ δυνατὸν γενέσθαι τοιοῦτον ἄνδρα;
μὰ Δίʼ οὐκ ἔγωγʼ, ἔφη.
τί οὖν; οὐ καὶ ἡμεῖς, φαμέν, παράδειγμα ἐποιοῦμεν [472e] λόγῳ ἀγαθῆς πόλεως;
πάνυ γε.
ἧττόν τι οὖν οἴει ἡμᾶς εὖ λέγειν τούτου ἕνεκα, ἐὰν μὴ ἔχωμεν ἀποδεῖξαι ὡς δυνατὸν οὕτω πόλιν οἰκῆσαι ὡς ἐλέγετο;
οὐ δῆτα, ἔφη.
τὸ μὲν τοίνυν ἀληθές, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, οὕτω· εἰ δὲ δὴ καὶ τοῦτο προθυμηθῆναι δεῖ σὴν χάριν, ἀποδεῖξαι πῇ μάλιστα καὶ κατὰ τί δυνατώτατʼ ἂν εἴη, πάλιν μοι πρὸς τὴν τοιαύτην ἀπόδειξιν τὰ αὐτὰ διομολόγησαι.
τὰ ποῖα;

### Book V, 473–480

[473a] ἆρʼ οἷόν τέ τι πραχθῆναι ὡς λέγεται, ἢ φύσιν ἔχει πρᾶξιν λέξεως ἧττον ἀληθείας ἐφάπτεσθαι, κἂν εἰ μή τῳ δοκεῖ; ἀλλὰ σὺ πότερον ὁμολογεῖς οὕτως ἢ οὔ;
ὁμολογῶ, ἔφη.
τοῦτο μὲν δὴ μὴ ἀνάγκαζέ με, οἷα τῷ λόγῳ διήλθομεν, τοιαῦτα παντάπασι καὶ τῷ ἔργῳ δεῖν γιγνόμενα ἂν ἀποφαίνειν· ἀλλʼ, ἐὰν οἷοί τε γενώμεθα εὑρεῖν ὡς ἂν ἐγγύτατα τῶν εἰρημένων πόλις οἰκήσειεν, φάναι ἡμᾶς [473b] ἐξηυρηκέναι ὡς δυνατὰ ταῦτα γίγνεσθαι ἃ σὺ ἐπιτάττεις. ἢ οὐκ ἀγαπήσεις τούτων τυγχάνων; ἐγὼ μὲν γὰρ ἂν ἀγαπῴην.
καὶ γὰρ ἐγώ, ἔφη.
τὸ δὲ δὴ μετὰ τοῦτο, ὡς ἔοικε, πειρώμεθα ζητεῖν τε καὶ ἀποδεικνύναι τί ποτε νῦν κακῶς ἐν ταῖς πόλεσι πράττεται διʼ ὃ οὐχ οὕτως οἰκοῦνται, καὶ τίνος ἂν σμικροτάτου μεταβαλόντος ἔλθοι εἰς τοῦτον τὸν τρόπον τῆς πολιτείας πόλις, μάλιστα μὲν ἑνός, εἰ δὲ μή, δυοῖν, εἰ δὲ μή, ὅτι ὀλιγίστων τὸν ἀριθμὸν καὶ σμικροτάτων τὴν δύναμιν. [473c]
παντάπασι μὲν οὖν, ἔφη.
ἑνὸς μὲν τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, μεταβαλόντος δοκοῦμέν μοι ἔχειν δεῖξαι ὅτι μεταπέσοι ἄν, οὐ μέντοι σμικροῦ γε οὐδὲ ῥᾳδίου, δυνατοῦ δέ.
τίνος; ἔφη.
ἐπʼ αὐτῷ δή, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, εἰμὶ ὃ τῷ μεγίστῳ προσῃκάζομεν κύματι. εἰρήσεται δʼ οὖν, εἰ καὶ μέλλει γέλωτί τε ἀτεχνῶς ὥσπερ κῦμα ἐκγελῶν καὶ ἀδοξίᾳ κατακλύσειν. σκόπει δὲ ὃ μέλλω λέγειν.
λέγε, ἔφη.
ἐὰν μή, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἢ οἱ φιλόσοφοι βασιλεύσωσιν ἐν [473d] ταῖς πόλεσιν ἢ οἱ βασιλῆς τε νῦν λεγόμενοι καὶ δυνάσται φιλοσοφήσωσι γνησίως τε καὶ ἱκανῶς, καὶ τοῦτο εἰς ταὐτὸν συμπέσῃ, δύναμίς τε πολιτικὴ καὶ φιλοσοφία, τῶν δὲ νῦν πορευομένων χωρὶς ἐφʼ ἑκάτερον αἱ πολλαὶ φύσεις ἐξ ἀνάγκης ἀποκλεισθῶσιν, οὐκ ἔστι κακῶν παῦλα, ὦ φίλε Γλαύκων, ταῖς πόλεσι, δοκῶ δʼ οὐδὲ τῷ ἀνθρωπίνῳ γένει, [473e] οὐδὲ αὕτη ἡ πολιτεία μή ποτε πρότερον φυῇ τε εἰς τὸ δυνατὸν καὶ φῶς ἡλίου ἴδῃ, ἣν νῦν λόγῳ διεληλύθαμεν. ἀλλὰ τοῦτό ἐστιν ὃ ἐμοὶ πάλαι ὄκνον ἐντίθησι λέγειν, ὁρῶντι ὡς πολὺ παρὰ δόξαν ῥηθήσεται· χαλεπὸν γὰρ ἰδεῖν ὅτι οὐκ ἂν ἄλλη τις εὐδαιμονήσειεν οὔτε ἰδίᾳ οὔτε δημοσίᾳ.
καὶ ὅς, ὦ Σώκρατες, ἔφη, τοιοῦτον ἐκβέβληκας ῥῆμά τε καὶ λόγον, ὃν εἰπὼν ἡγοῦ ἐπὶ σὲ πάνυ πολλούς τε καὶ

[474a]
οὐ φαύλους νῦν οὕτως, οἷον ῥίψαντας τὰ ἱμάτια, γυμνοὺς λαβόντας ὅτι ἑκάστῳ παρέτυχεν ὅπλον, θεῖν διατεταμένους ὡς θαυμάσια ἐργασομένους· οὓς εἰ μὴ ἀμυνῇ τῷ λόγῳ καὶ ἐκφεύξῃ, τῷ ὄντι τωθαζόμενος δώσεις δίκην.
οὐκοῦν σύ μοι, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τούτων αἴτιος;
καλῶς γʼ, ἔφη, ἐγὼ ποιῶν. ἀλλά τοί σε οὐ προδώσω, ἀλλʼ ἀμυνῶ οἷς δύναμαι· δύναμαι δὲ εὐνοίᾳ τε καὶ τῷ παρακελεύεσθαι, καὶ ἴσως ἂν ἄλλου του ἐμμελέστερόν σοι [474b] ἀποκρινοίμην. ἀλλʼ ὡς ἔχων τοιοῦτον βοηθὸν πειρῶ τοῖς ἀπιστοῦσιν ἐνδείξασθαι ὅτι ἔχει ᾗ σὺ λέγεις.
πειρατέον, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἐπειδὴ καὶ σὺ οὕτω μεγάλην συμμαχίαν παρέχῃ. ἀναγκαῖον οὖν μοι δοκεῖ, εἰ μέλλομέν πῃ ἐκφεύξεσθαι οὓς λέγεις, διορίσασθαι πρὸς αὐτοὺς τοὺς φιλοσόφους τίνας λέγοντες τολμῶμεν φάναι δεῖν ἄρχειν, ἵνα διαδήλων γενομένων δύνηταί τις ἀμύνεσθαι, ἐνδεικνύμενος [474c] ὅτι τοῖς μὲν προσήκει φύσει ἅπτεσθαί τε φιλοσοφίας ἡγεμονεύειν τʼ ἐν πόλει, τοῖς δʼ ἄλλοις μήτε ἅπτεσθαι ἀκολουθεῖν τε τῷ ἡγουμένῳ.
ὥρα ἂν εἴη, ἔφη, ὁρίζεσθαι.
ἴθι δή, ἀκολούθησόν μοι τῇδε, ἐὰν αὐτὸ ἁμῇ γέ πῃ ἱκανῶς ἐξηγησώμεθα.
ἄγε, ἔφη.
ἀναμιμνῄσκειν οὖν σε, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, δεήσει, ἢ μέμνησαι ὅτι ὃν ἂν φῶμεν φιλεῖν τι, δεῖ φανῆναι αὐτόν, ἐὰν ὀρθῶς λέγηται, οὐ τὸ μὲν φιλοῦντα ἐκείνου, τὸ δὲ μή, ἀλλὰ πᾶν στέργοντα; [474d]
ἀναμιμνῄσκειν, ἔφη, ὡς ἔοικεν, δεῖ· οὐ γὰρ πάνυ γε ἐννοῶ.
ἄλλῳ, εἶπον, ἔπρεπεν, ὦ Γλαύκων, λέγειν ἃ λέγεις· ἀνδρὶ δʼ ἐρωτικῷ οὐ πρέπει ἀμνημονεῖν ὅτι πάντες οἱ ἐν ὥρᾳ τὸν φιλόπαιδα καὶ ἐρωτικὸν ἁμῇ γέ πῃ δάκνουσί τε καὶ κινοῦσι, δοκοῦντες ἄξιοι εἶναι ἐπιμελείας τε καὶ τοῦ ἀσπάζεσθαι. ἢ οὐχ οὕτω ποιεῖτε πρὸς τοὺς καλούς; ὁ μέν, ὅτι σιμός, ἐπίχαρις κληθεὶς ἐπαινεθήσεται ὑφʼ ὑμῶν, τοῦ δὲ τὸ γρυπὸν βασιλικόν φατε εἶναι, τὸν δὲ δὴ διὰ [474e] μέσου τούτων ἐμμετρώτατα ἔχειν, μέλανας δὲ ἀνδρικοὺς ἰδεῖν, λευκοὺς δὲ θεῶν παῖδας εἶναι· μελιχλώρους δὲ καὶ τοὔνομα οἴει τινὸς ἄλλου ποίημα εἶναι ἢ ἐραστοῦ ὑποκοριζομένου τε καὶ εὐχερῶς φέροντος τὴν ὠχρότητα, ἐὰν ἐπὶ ὥρᾳ ᾖ;
καὶ ἑνὶ λόγῳ πάσας προφάσεις προφασίζεσθέ τε

[475a]
καὶ πάσας φωνὰς ἀφίετε, ὥστε μηδένα ἀποβάλλειν τῶν ἀνθούντων ἐν ὥρᾳ.
εἰ βούλει, ἔφη, ἐπʼ ἐμοῦ λέγειν περὶ τῶν ἐρωτικῶν ὅτι οὕτω ποιοῦσι, συγχωρῶ τοῦ λόγου χάριν.
τί δέ; ἦν δʼ ἐγώ· τοὺς φιλοίνους οὐ τὰ αὐτὰ ταῦτα ποιοῦντας ὁρᾷς; πάντα οἶνον ἐπὶ πάσης προφάσεως ἀσπαζομένους;
καὶ μάλα.
καὶ μὴν φιλοτίμους γε, ὡς ἐγᾦμαι, καθορᾷς ὅτι, ἂν μὴ στρατηγῆσαι δύνωνται, τριττυαρχοῦσιν, κἂν μὴ ὑπὸ μειζόνων [475b] καὶ σεμνοτέρων τιμᾶσθαι, ὑπὸ σμικροτέρων καὶ φαυλοτέρων τιμώμενοι ἀγαπῶσιν, ὡς ὅλως τιμῆς ἐπιθυμηταὶ ὄντες.
κομιδῇ μὲν οὖν.
τοῦτο δὴ φάθι ἢ μή· ἆρα ὃν ἄν τινος ἐπιθυμητικὸν λέγωμεν, παντὸς τοῦ εἴδους τούτου φήσομεν ἐπιθυμεῖν, ἢ τοῦ μέν, τοῦ δὲ οὔ;
παντός, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν καὶ τὸν φιλόσοφον σοφίας φήσομεν ἐπιθυμητὴν εἶναι, οὐ τῆς μέν, τῆς δʼ οὔ, ἀλλὰ πάσης;
ἀληθῆ.
τὸν ἄρα περὶ τὰ μαθήματα δυσχεραίνοντα, ἄλλως τε [475c] καὶ νέον ὄντα καὶ μήπω λόγον ἔχοντα τί τε χρηστὸν καὶ μή, οὐ φήσομεν φιλομαθῆ οὐδὲ φιλόσοφον εἶναι, ὥσπερ τὸν περὶ τὰ σιτία δυσχερῆ οὔτε πεινῆν φαμεν οὔτʼ ἐπιθυμεῖν σιτίων, οὐδὲ φιλόσιτον ἀλλὰ κακόσιτον εἶναι.
καὶ ὀρθῶς γε φήσομεν.
τὸν δὲ δὴ εὐχερῶς ἐθέλοντα παντὸς μαθήματος γεύεσθαι καὶ ἁσμένως ἐπὶ τὸ μανθάνειν ἰόντα καὶ ἀπλήστως ἔχοντα, τοῦτον δʼ ἐν δίκῃ φήσομεν φιλόσοφον· ἦ γάρ; [475d]
καὶ ὁ Γλαύκων ἔφη· πολλοὶ ἄρα καὶ ἄτοποι ἔσονταί σοι τοιοῦτοι. οἵ τε γὰρ φιλοθεάμονες πάντες ἔμοιγε δοκοῦσι τῷ καταμανθάνειν χαίροντες τοιοῦτοι εἶναι, οἵ τε φιλήκοοι ἀτοπώτατοί τινές εἰσιν ὥς γʼ ἐν φιλοσόφοις τιθέναι, οἳ πρὸς μὲν λόγους καὶ τοιαύτην διατριβὴν ἑκόντες οὐκ ἂν ἐθέλοιεν ἐλθεῖν, ὥσπερ δὲ ἀπομεμισθωκότες τὰ ὦτα ἐπακοῦσαι πάντων χορῶν περιθέουσι τοῖς Διονυσίοις οὔτε τῶν κατὰ πόλεις οὔτε τῶν κατὰ κώμας ἀπολειπόμενοι. τούτους οὖν πάντας καὶ ἄλλους τοιούτων τινῶν [475e] μαθητικοὺς καὶ τοὺς τῶν τεχνυδρίων φιλοσόφους φήσομεν;
οὐδαμῶς, εἶπον, ἀλλʼ ὁμοίους μὲν φιλοσόφοις.
τοὺς δὲ ἀληθινούς, ἔφη, τίνας λέγεις;
τοὺς τῆς ἀληθείας, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, φιλοθεάμονας.
καὶ τοῦτο μέν γʼ, ἔφη, ὀρθῶς· ἀλλὰ πῶς αὐτὸ λέγεις;
οὐδαμῶς, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ῥᾳδίως πρός γε ἄλλον· σὲ δὲ οἶμαι ὁμολογήσειν μοι τὸ τοιόνδε.
τὸ ποῖον;
ἐπειδή ἐστιν ἐναντίον καλὸν αἰσχρῷ, δύο αὐτὼ εἶναι.

[476a]
πῶς δʼ οὔ;
οὐκοῦν ἐπειδὴ δύο, καὶ ἓν ἑκάτερον;
καὶ τοῦτο.
καὶ περὶ δὴ δικαίου καὶ ἀδίκου καὶ ἀγαθοῦ καὶ κακοῦ καὶ πάντων τῶν εἰδῶν πέρι ὁ αὐτὸς λόγος, αὐτὸ μὲν ἓν ἕκαστον εἶναι, τῇ δὲ τῶν πράξεων καὶ σωμάτων καὶ ἀλλήλων κοινωνίᾳ πανταχοῦ φανταζόμενα πολλὰ φαίνεσθαι ἕκαστον.
ὀρθῶς, ἔφη, λέγεις.
ταύτῃ τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, διαιρῶ, χωρὶς μὲν οὓς νυνδὴ ἔλεγες φιλοθεάμονάς τε καὶ φιλοτέχνους καὶ πρακτικούς, [476b] καὶ χωρὶς αὖ περὶ ὧν ὁ λόγος, οὓς μόνους ἄν τις ὀρθῶς προσείποι φιλοσόφους.
πῶς, ἔφη, λέγεις;
οἱ μέν που, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, φιλήκοοι καὶ φιλοθεάμονες τάς τε καλὰς φωνὰς ἀσπάζονται καὶ χρόας καὶ σχήματα καὶ πάντα τὰ ἐκ τῶν τοιούτων δημιουργούμενα, αὐτοῦ δὲ τοῦ καλοῦ ἀδύνατος αὐτῶν ἡ διάνοια τὴν φύσιν ἰδεῖν τε καὶ ἀσπάσασθαι.
ἔχει γὰρ οὖν δή, ἔφη, οὕτως.
οἱ δὲ δὴ ἐπʼ αὐτὸ τὸ καλὸν δυνατοὶ ἰέναι τε καὶ ὁρᾶν καθʼ αὑτὸ ἆρα οὐ σπάνιοι ἂν εἶεν; [476c]
καὶ μάλα.
ὁ οὖν καλὰ μὲν πράγματα νομίζων, αὐτὸ δὲ κάλλος μήτε νομίζων μήτε, ἄν τις ἡγῆται ἐπὶ τὴν γνῶσιν αὐτοῦ, δυνάμενος ἕπεσθαι, ὄναρ ἢ ὕπαρ δοκεῖ σοι ζῆν; σκόπει δέ. τὸ ὀνειρώττειν ἆρα οὐ τόδε ἐστίν, ἐάντε ἐν ὕπνῳ τις ἐάντʼ ἐγρηγορὼς τὸ ὅμοιόν τῳ μὴ ὅμοιον ἀλλʼ αὐτὸ ἡγῆται εἶναι ᾧ ἔοικεν;
ἐγὼ γοῦν ἄν, ἦ δʼ ὅς, φαίην ὀνειρώττειν τὸν τοιοῦτον.
τί δέ; ὁ τἀναντία τούτων ἡγούμενός τέ τι αὐτὸ καλὸν [476d] καὶ δυνάμενος καθορᾶν καὶ αὐτὸ καὶ τὰ ἐκείνου μετέχοντα, καὶ οὔτε τὰ μετέχοντα αὐτὸ οὔτε αὐτὸ τὰ μετέχοντα ἡγούμενος, ὕπαρ ἢ ὄναρ αὖ καὶ οὗτος δοκεῖ σοι ζῆν;
καὶ μάλα, ἔφη, ὕπαρ.
οὐκοῦν τούτου μὲν τὴν διάνοιαν ὡς γιγνώσκοντος γνώμην ἂν ὀρθῶς φαῖμεν εἶναι, τοῦ δὲ δόξαν ὡς δοξάζοντος;
πάνυ μὲν οὖν.
τί οὖν ἐὰν ἡμῖν χαλεπαίνῃ οὗτος, ὅν φαμεν δοξάζειν ἀλλʼ οὐ γιγνώσκειν, καὶ ἀμφισβητῇ ὡς οὐκ ἀληθῆ λέγομεν; [476e] ἕξομέν τι παραμυθεῖσθαι αὐτὸν καὶ πείθειν ἠρέμα, ἐπικρυπτόμενοι ὅτι οὐχ ὑγιαίνει;
δεῖ γέ τοι δή, ἔφη.
ἴθι δή, σκόπει τί ἐροῦμεν πρὸς αὐτόν. ἢ βούλει ὧδε πυνθανώμεθα παρʼ αὐτοῦ, λέγοντες ὡς εἴ τι οἶδεν οὐδεὶς αὐτῷ φθόνος, ἀλλʼ ἅσμενοι ἂν ἴδοιμεν εἰδότα τι. ἀλλʼ ἡμῖν εἰπὲ τόδε· ὁ γιγνώσκων γιγνώσκει τὶ ἢ οὐδέν; σὺ οὖν μοι ὑπὲρ ἐκείνου ἀποκρίνου.
ἀποκρινοῦμαι, ἔφη, ὅτι γιγνώσκει τί.
πότερον ὂν ἢ οὐκ ὄν;

[477a]
ὄν· πῶς γὰρ ἂν μὴ ὄν γέ τι γνωσθείη;
ἱκανῶς οὖν τοῦτο ἔχομεν, κἂν εἰ πλεοναχῇ σκοποῖμεν, ὅτι τὸ μὲν παντελῶς ὂν παντελῶς γνωστόν, μὴ ὂν δὲ μηδαμῇ πάντῃ ἄγνωστον;
ἱκανώτατα.
εἶεν· εἰ δὲ δή τι οὕτως ἔχει ὡς εἶναί τε καὶ μὴ εἶναι, οὐ μεταξὺ ἂν κέοιτο τοῦ εἰλικρινῶς ὄντος καὶ τοῦ αὖ μηδαμῇ ὄντος;
μεταξύ.
οὐκοῦν ἐπὶ μὲν τῷ ὄντι γνῶσις ἦν, ἀγνωσία δʼ ἐξ ἀνάγκης ἐπὶ μὴ ὄντι, ἐπὶ δὲ τῷ μεταξὺ τούτῳ μεταξύ τι καὶ ζητητέον [477b] ἀγνοίας τε καὶ ἐπιστήμης, εἴ τι τυγχάνει ὂν τοιοῦτον;
πάνυ μὲν οὖν.
ἆρʼ οὖν λέγομέν τι δόξαν εἶναι;
πῶς γὰρ οὔ;
πότερον ἄλλην δύναμιν ἐπιστήμης ἢ τὴν αὐτήν;
ἄλλην.
ἐπʼ ἄλλῳ ἄρα τέτακται δόξα καὶ ἐπʼ ἄλλῳ ἐπιστήμη, κατὰ τὴν δύναμιν ἑκατέρα τὴν αὑτῆς.
οὕτω.
οὐκοῦν ἐπιστήμη μὲν ἐπὶ τῷ ὄντι πέφυκε, γνῶναι ὡς ἔστι τὸ ὄν; —μᾶλλον δὲ ὧδέ μοι δοκεῖ πρότερον ἀναγκαῖον εἶναι διελέσθαι.
πῶς; [477c]
φήσομεν δυνάμεις εἶναι γένος τι τῶν ὄντων, αἷς δὴ καὶ ἡμεῖς δυνάμεθα ἃ δυνάμεθα καὶ ἄλλο πᾶν ὅτι περ ἂν δύνηται, οἷον λέγω ὄψιν καὶ ἀκοὴν τῶν δυνάμεων εἶναι, εἰ ἄρα μανθάνεις ὃ βούλομαι λέγειν τὸ εἶδος.
ἀλλὰ μανθάνω, ἔφη.
ἄκουσον δὴ ὅ μοι φαίνεται περὶ αὐτῶν. δυνάμεως γὰρ ἐγὼ οὔτε τινὰ χρόαν ὁρῶ οὔτε σχῆμα οὔτε τι τῶν τοιούτων οἷον καὶ ἄλλων πολλῶν, πρὸς ἃ ἀποβλέπων ἔνια διορίζομαι παρʼ ἐμαυτῷ τὰ μὲν ἄλλα εἶναι, τὰ δὲ ἄλλα· δυνάμεως [477d] δʼ εἰς ἐκεῖνο μόνον βλέπω ἐφʼ ᾧ τε ἔστι καὶ ὃ ἀπεργάζεται, καὶ ταύτῃ ἑκάστην αὐτῶν δύναμιν ἐκάλεσα, καὶ τὴν μὲν ἐπὶ τῷ αὐτῷ τεταγμένην καὶ τὸ αὐτὸ ἀπεργαζομένην τὴν αὐτὴν καλῶ, τὴν δὲ ἐπὶ ἑτέρῳ καὶ ἕτερον ἀπεργαζομένην ἄλλην. τί δὲ σύ; πῶς ποιεῖς;
οὕτως, ἔφη.
δεῦρο δὴ πάλιν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὦ ἄριστε. ἐπιστήμην πότερον δύναμίν τινα φῂς εἶναι αὐτήν, ἢ εἰς τί γένος τιθεῖς;
εἰς τοῦτο, ἔφη, πασῶν γε δυνάμεων ἐρρωμενεστάτην. [477e]
τί δέ, δόξαν εἰς δύναμιν ἢ εἰς ἄλλο εἶδος οἴσομεν;
οὐδαμῶς, ἔφη· ᾧ γὰρ δοξάζειν δυνάμεθα, οὐκ ἄλλο τι ἢ δόξα ἐστίν.
ἀλλὰ μὲν δὴ ὀλίγον γε πρότερον ὡμολόγεις μὴ τὸ αὐτὸ εἶναι ἐπιστήμην τε καὶ δόξαν.
πῶς γὰρ ἄν, ἔφη, τό γε ἀναμάρτητον τῷ μὴ ἀναμαρτήτῳ ταὐτόν τις νοῦν ἔχων τιθείη;
καλῶς, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καὶ δῆλον ὅτι ἕτερον ἐπιστήμης δόξα

[478a]
ὁμολογεῖται ἡμῖν.
ἕτερον.
ἐφʼ ἑτέρῳ ἄρα ἕτερόν τι δυναμένη ἑκατέρα αὐτῶν πέφυκεν;
ἀνάγκη.
ἐπιστήμη μέν γέ που ἐπὶ τῷ ὄντι, τὸ ὂν γνῶναι ὡς ἔχει;
ναί.
δόξα δέ, φαμέν, δοξάζειν;
ναί.
ἦ ταὐτὸν ὅπερ ἐπιστήμη γιγνώσκει; καὶ ἔσται γνωστόν τε καὶ δοξαστὸν τὸ αὐτό; ἢ ἀδύνατον;
ἀδύνατον, ἔφη, ἐκ τῶν ὡμολογημένων· εἴπερ ἐπʼ ἄλλῳ ἄλλη δύναμις πέφυκεν, δυνάμεις δὲ ἀμφότεραί ἐστον, δόξα τε [478b] καὶ ἐπιστήμη, ἄλλη δὲ ἑκατέρα, ὥς φαμεν, ἐκ τούτων δὴ οὐκ ἐγχωρεῖ γνωστὸν καὶ δοξαστὸν ταὐτὸν εἶναι.
οὐκοῦν εἰ τὸ ὂν γνωστόν, ἄλλο τι ἂν δοξαστὸν ἢ τὸ ὂν εἴη;
ἄλλο.
ἆρʼ οὖν τὸ μὴ ὂν δοξάζει; ἢ ἀδύνατον καὶ δοξάσαι τό γε μὴ ὄν; ἐννόει δέ. οὐχ ὁ δοξάζων ἐπὶ τὶ φέρει τὴν δόξαν; ἢ οἷόν τε αὖ δοξάζειν μέν, δοξάζειν δὲ μηδέν;
ἀδύνατον.
ἀλλʼ ἕν γέ τι δοξάζει ὁ δοξάζων;
ναί.
ἀλλὰ μὴν μὴ ὄν γε οὐχ ἕν τι ἀλλὰ μηδὲν ὀρθότατʼ ἂν [478c] προσαγορεύοιτο;
πάνυ γε.
μὴ ὄντι μὴν ἄγνοιαν ἐξ ἀνάγκης ἀπέδομεν, ὄντι δὲ γνῶσιν;
ὀρθῶς, ἔφη.
οὐκ ἄρα ὂν οὐδὲ μὴ ὂν δοξάζει;
οὐ γάρ.
οὔτε ἄρα ἄγνοια οὔτε γνῶσις δόξα ἂν εἴη;
οὐκ ἔοικεν.
ἄρʼ οὖν ἐκτὸς τούτων ἐστίν, ὑπερβαίνουσα ἢ γνῶσιν σαφηνείᾳ ἢ ἄγνοιαν ἀσαφείᾳ;
οὐδέτερα.
ἀλλʼ ἆρα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, γνώσεως μέν σοι φαίνεται δόξα σκοτωδέστερον, ἀγνοίας δὲ φανότερον;
καὶ πολύ γε, ἔφη. [478d]
ἐντὸς δʼ ἀμφοῖν κεῖται;
ναί.
μεταξὺ ἄρα ἂν εἴη τούτοιν δόξα.
κομιδῇ μὲν οὖν.
οὐκοῦν ἔφαμεν ἐν τοῖς πρόσθεν, εἴ τι φανείη οἷον ἅμα ὄν τε καὶ μὴ ὄν, τὸ τοιοῦτον μεταξὺ κεῖσθαι τοῦ εἰλικρινῶς ὄντος τε καὶ τοῦ πάντως μὴ ὄντος, καὶ οὔτε ἐπιστήμην οὔτε ἄγνοιαν ἐπʼ αὐτῷ ἔσεσθαι, ἀλλὰ τὸ μεταξὺ αὖ φανὲν ἀγνοίας καὶ ἐπιστήμης;
ὀρθῶς.
νῦν δέ γε πέφανται μεταξὺ τούτοιν ὃ δὴ καλοῦμεν δόξαν;
πέφανται. [478e]
ἐκεῖνο δὴ λείποιτʼ ἂν ἡμῖν εὑρεῖν, ὡς ἔοικε, τὸ ἀμφοτέρων μετέχον, τοῦ εἶναί τε καὶ μὴ εἶναι, καὶ οὐδέτερον εἰλικρινὲς ὀρθῶς ἂν προσαγορευόμενον, ἵνα, ἐὰν φανῇ, δοξαστὸν αὐτὸ εἶναι ἐν δίκῃ προσαγορεύωμεν, τοῖς μὲν ἄκροις τὰ ἄκρα, τοῖς δὲ μεταξὺ τὰ μεταξὺ ἀποδιδόντες. ἢ οὐχ οὕτως;
οὕτω.
τούτων δὴ ὑποκειμένων λεγέτω μοι, φήσω, καὶ ἀποκρινέσθω

[479a]
ὁ χρηστὸς ὃς αὐτὸ μὲν καλὸν καὶ ἰδέαν τινὰ αὐτοῦ κάλλους μηδεμίαν ἡγεῖται ἀεὶ μὲν κατὰ ταὐτὰ ὡσαύτως ἔχουσαν, πολλὰ δὲ τὰ καλὰ νομίζει, ἐκεῖνος ὁ φιλοθεάμων καὶ οὐδαμῇ ἀνεχόμενος ἄν τις ἓν τὸ καλὸν φῇ εἶναι καὶ δίκαιον καὶ τἆλλα οὕτω. τούτων γὰρ δή, ὦ ἄριστε, φήσομεν, τῶν πολλῶν καλῶν μῶν τι ἔστιν ὃ οὐκ αἰσχρὸν φανήσεται; καὶ τῶν δικαίων, ὃ οὐκ ἄδικον; καὶ τῶν ὁσίων, ὃ οὐκ ἀνόσιον; [479b]
οὔκ, ἀλλʼ ἀνάγκη, ἔφη, καὶ καλά πως αὐτὰ καὶ αἰσχρὰ φανῆναι, καὶ ὅσα ἄλλα ἐρωτᾷς.
τί δὲ τὰ πολλὰ διπλάσια; ἧττόν τι ἡμίσεα ἢ διπλάσια φαίνεται;
οὐδέν.
καὶ μεγάλα δὴ καὶ σμικρὰ καὶ κοῦφα καὶ βαρέα μή τι μᾶλλον ἃ ἂν φήσωμεν, ταῦτα προσρηθήσεται ἢ τἀναντία;
οὔκ, ἀλλʼ ἀεί, ἔφη, ἕκαστον ἀμφοτέρων ἕξεται.
πότερον οὖν ἔστι μᾶλλον ἢ οὐκ ἔστιν ἕκαστον τῶν πολλῶν τοῦτο ὃ ἄν τις φῇ αὐτὸ εἶναι;
τοῖς ἐν ταῖς ἑστιάσεσιν, ἔφη, ἐπαμφοτερίζουσιν ἔοικεν, [479c] καὶ τῷ τῶν παίδων αἰνίγματι τῷ περὶ τοῦ εὐνούχου, τῆς βολῆς πέρι τῆς νυκτερίδος, ᾧ καὶ ἐφʼ οὗ αὐτὸν αὐτὴν αἰνίττονται βαλεῖν· καὶ γὰρ ταῦτα ἐπαμφοτερίζειν, καὶ οὔτʼ εἶναι οὔτε μὴ εἶναι οὐδὲν αὐτῶν δυνατὸν παγίως νοῆσαι, οὔτε ἀμφότερα οὔτε οὐδέτερον.
ἔχεις οὖν αὐτοῖς, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὅτι χρήσῃ, ἢ ὅποι θήσεις καλλίω θέσιν τῆς μεταξὺ οὐσίας τε καὶ τοῦ μὴ εἶναι; οὔτε γάρ που σκοτωδέστερα μὴ ὄντος πρὸς τὸ μᾶλλον μὴ εἶναι [479d] φανήσεται, οὔτε φανότερα ὄντος πρὸς τὸ μᾶλλον εἶναι.
ἀληθέστατα, ἔφη.
ηὑρήκαμεν ἄρα, ὡς ἔοικεν, ὅτι τὰ τῶν πολλῶν πολλὰ νόμιμα καλοῦ τε πέρι καὶ τῶν ἄλλων μεταξύ που κυλινδεῖται τοῦ τε μὴ ὄντος καὶ τοῦ ὄντος εἰλικρινῶς.
ηὑρήκαμεν.
προωμολογήσαμεν δέ γε, εἴ τι τοιοῦτον φανείη, δοξαστὸν αὐτὸ ἀλλʼ οὐ γνωστὸν δεῖν λέγεσθαι, τῇ μεταξὺ δυνάμει τὸ μεταξὺ πλανητὸν ἁλισκόμενον.
ὡμολογήκαμεν. [479e]
τοὺς ἄρα πολλὰ καλὰ θεωμένους, αὐτὸ δὲ τὸ καλὸν μὴ ὁρῶντας μηδʼ ἄλλῳ ἐπʼ αὐτὸ ἄγοντι δυναμένους ἕπεσθαι, καὶ πολλὰ δίκαια, αὐτὸ δὲ τὸ δίκαιον μή, καὶ πάντα οὕτω, δοξάζειν φήσομεν ἅπαντα, γιγνώσκειν δὲ ὧν δοξάζουσιν οὐδέν.
ἀνάγκη, ἔφη.
τί δὲ αὖ τοὺς αὐτὰ ἕκαστα θεωμένους καὶ ἀεὶ κατὰ ταὐτὰ ὡσαύτως ὄντα; ἆρʼ οὐ γιγνώσκειν ἀλλʼ οὐ δοξάζειν;
ἀνάγκη καὶ ταῦτα.
οὐκοῦν καὶ ἀσπάζεσθαί τε καὶ φιλεῖν τούτους μὲν ταῦτα

[480a]
φήσομεν ἐφʼ οἷς γνῶσίς ἐστιν, ἐκείνους δὲ ἐφʼ οἷς δόξα; ἢ οὐ μνημονεύομεν ὅτι φωνάς τε καὶ χρόας καλὰς καὶ τὰ τοιαῦτʼ ἔφαμεν τούτους φιλεῖν τε καὶ θεᾶσθαι, αὐτὸ δὲ τὸ καλὸν οὐδʼ ἀνέχεσθαι ὥς τι ὄν;
μεμνήμεθα.
μὴ οὖν τι πλημμελήσομεν φιλοδόξους καλοῦντες αὐτοὺς μᾶλλον ἢ φιλοσόφους; καὶ ἆρα ἡμῖν σφόδρα χαλεπανοῦσιν ἂν οὕτω λέγωμεν;
οὔκ, ἄν γέ μοι πείθωνται, ἔφη· τῷ γὰρ ἀληθεῖ χαλεπαίνειν οὐ θέμις.
τοὺς αὐτὸ ἄρα ἕκαστον τὸ ὂν ἀσπαζομένους φιλοσόφους ἀλλʼ οὐ φιλοδόξους κλητέον;
παντάπασι μὲν οὖν.

### Book VI, 484–492

[484a]
οἱ μὲν δὴ φιλόσοφοι, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὦ Γλαύκων, καὶ οἱ μὴ διὰ μακροῦ τινος διεξελθόντες λόγου μόγις πως ἀνεφάνησαν οἵ εἰσιν ἑκάτεροι.
ἴσως γάρ, ἔφη, διὰ βραχέος οὐ ῥᾴδιον.
οὐ φαίνεται, εἶπον· ἐμοὶ γοῦν ἔτι δοκεῖ ἂν βελτιόνως φανῆναι εἰ περὶ τούτου μόνου ἔδει ῥηθῆναι, καὶ μὴ πολλὰ τὰ λοιπὰ διελθεῖν μέλλοντι κατόψεσθαι τί διαφέρει βίος [484b] δίκαιος ἀδίκου.
τί οὖν, ἔφη, τὸ μετὰ τοῦτο ἡμῖν;
τί δʼ ἄλλο, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἢ τὸ ἑξῆς; ἐπειδὴ φιλόσοφοι μὲν οἱ τοῦ ἀεὶ κατὰ ταὐτὰ ὡσαύτως ἔχοντος δυνάμενοι ἐφάπτεσθαι, οἱ δὲ μὴ ἀλλʼ ἐν πολλοῖς καὶ παντοίως ἴσχουσιν πλανώμενοι οὐ φιλόσοφοι, ποτέρους δὴ δεῖ πόλεως ἡγεμόνας εἶναι;
πῶς οὖν λέγοντες ἂν αὐτό, ἔφη, μετρίως λέγοιμεν;
ὁπότεροι ἄν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, δυνατοὶ φαίνωνται φυλάξαι νόμους τε καὶ ἐπιτηδεύματα πόλεων, τούτους καθιστάναι [484c] φύλακας.
ὀρθῶς, ἔφη.
τόδε δέ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἆρα δῆλον, εἴτε τυφλὸν εἴτε ὀξὺ ὁρῶντα χρὴ φύλακα τηρεῖν ὁτιοῦν;
καὶ πῶς, ἔφη, οὐ δῆλον;
ἦ οὖν δοκοῦσί τι τυφλῶν διαφέρειν οἱ τῷ ὄντι τοῦ ὄντος ἑκάστου ἐστερημένοι τῆς γνώσεως, καὶ μηδὲν ἐναργὲς ἐν τῇ ψυχῇ ἔχοντες παράδειγμα, μηδὲ δυνάμενοι ὥσπερ γραφῆς εἰς τὸ ἀληθέστατον ἀποβλέποντες κἀκεῖσε ἀεὶ ἀναφέροντές τε [484d] καὶ θεώμενοι ὡς οἷόν τε ἀκριβέστατα, οὕτω δὴ καὶ τὰ ἐνθάδε νόμιμα καλῶν τε πέρι καὶ δικαίων καὶ ἀγαθῶν τίθεσθαί τε, ἐὰν δέῃ τίθεσθαι, καὶ τὰ κείμενα φυλάττοντες σῴζειν;
οὐ μὰ τὸν Δία, ἦ δʼ ὅς, οὐ πολύ τι διαφέρει.
τούτους οὖν μᾶλλον φύλακας στησόμεθα ἢ τοὺς ἐγνωκότας μὲν ἕκαστον τὸ ὄν, ἐμπειρίᾳ δὲ μηδὲν ἐκείνων ἐλλείποντας μηδʼ ἐν ἄλλῳ μηδενὶ μέρει ἀρετῆς ὑστεροῦντας;
ἄτοπον μεντἄν, ἔφη, εἴη ἄλλους αἱρεῖσθαι, εἴ γε τἆλλα μὴ ἐλλείποιντο· τούτῳ γὰρ αὐτῷ σχεδόν τι τῷ μεγίστῳ ἂν προέχοιεν.

[485a]
οὐκοῦν τοῦτο δὴ λέγωμεν, τίνα τρόπον οἷοί τʼ ἔσονται οἱ αὐτοὶ κἀκεῖνα καὶ ταῦτα ἔχειν;
πάνυ μὲν οὖν.
ὃ τοίνυν ἀρχόμενοι τούτου τοῦ λόγου ἐλέγομεν, τὴν φύσιν αὐτῶν πρῶτον δεῖ καταμαθεῖν· καὶ οἶμαι, ἐὰν ἐκείνην ἱκανῶς ὁμολογήσωμεν, ὁμολογήσειν καὶ ὅτι οἷοί τε ταῦτα ἔχειν οἱ αὐτοί, ὅτι τε οὐκ ἄλλους πόλεων ἡγεμόνας δεῖ εἶναι ἢ τούτους.
πῶς;
τοῦτο μὲν δὴ τῶν φιλοσόφων φύσεων πέρι ὡμολογήσθω [485b] ἡμῖν ὅτι μαθήματός γε ἀεὶ ἐρῶσιν ὃ ἂν αὐτοῖς δηλοῖ ἐκείνης τῆς οὐσίας τῆς ἀεὶ οὔσης καὶ μὴ πλανωμένης ὑπὸ γενέσεως καὶ φθορᾶς.
ὡμολογήσθω.
καὶ μήν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καὶ ὅτι πάσης αὐτῆς, καὶ οὔτε σμικροῦ οὔτε μείζονος οὔτε τιμιωτέρου οὔτε ἀτιμοτέρου μέρους ἑκόντες ἀφίενται, ὥσπερ ἐν τοῖς πρόσθεν περί τε τῶν φιλοτίμων καὶ ἐρωτικῶν διήλθομεν.
ὀρθῶς, ἔφη, λέγεις.
τόδε τοίνυν μετὰ τοῦτο σκόπει εἰ ἀνάγκη ἔχειν πρὸς [485c] τούτῳ ἐν τῇ φύσει οἳ ἂν μέλλωσιν ἔσεσθαι οἵους ἐλέγομεν.
τὸ ποῖον;
τὴν ἀψεύδειαν καὶ τὸ ἑκόντας εἶναι μηδαμῇ προσδέχεσθαι τὸ ψεῦδος ἀλλὰ μισεῖν, τὴν δʼ ἀλήθειαν στέργειν.
εἰκός γʼ, ἔφη.
οὐ μόνον γε, ὦ φίλε, εἰκός, ἀλλὰ καὶ πᾶσα ἀνάγκη τὸν ἐρωτικῶς του φύσει ἔχοντα πᾶν τὸ συγγενές τε καὶ οἰκεῖον τῶν παιδικῶν ἀγαπᾶν.
ὀρθῶς, ἔφη.
ἦ οὖν οἰκειότερον σοφίᾳ τι ἀληθείας ἂν εὕροις;
καὶ πῶς; ἦ δʼ ὅς.
ἦ οὖν δυνατὸν εἶναι τὴν αὐτὴν φύσιν φιλόσοφόν τε καὶ [485d] φιλοψευδῆ;
οὐδαμῶς γε.
τὸν ἄρα τῷ ὄντι φιλομαθῆ πάσης ἀληθείας δεῖ εὐθὺς ἐκ νέου ὅτι μάλιστα ὀρέγεσθαι.
παντελῶς γε.
ἀλλὰ μὴν ὅτῳ γε εἰς ἕν τι αἱ ἐπιθυμίαι σφόδρα ῥέπουσιν, ἴσμεν που ὅτι εἰς τἆλλα τούτῳ ἀσθενέστεραι, ὥσπερ ῥεῦμα ἐκεῖσε ἀπωχετευμένον.
τί μήν;
ὧι δὴ πρὸς τὰ μαθήματα καὶ πᾶν τὸ τοιοῦτον ἐρρυήκασιν, περὶ τὴν τῆς ψυχῆς οἶμαι ἡδονὴν αὐτῆς καθʼ αὑτὴν εἶεν ἄν, τὰς δὲ διὰ τοῦ σώματος ἐκλείποιεν, εἰ μὴ πεπλασμένως ἀλλʼ [485e] ἀληθῶς φιλόσοφός τις εἴη.
μεγάλη ἀνάγκη.
σώφρων μὴν ὅ γε τοιοῦτος καὶ οὐδαμῇ φιλοχρήματος· ὧν γὰρ ἕνεκα χρήματα μετὰ πολλῆς δαπάνης σπουδάζεται, ἄλλῳ τινὶ μᾶλλον ἢ τούτῳ προσήκει σπουδάζειν.
οὕτω.

[486a]
καὶ μήν που καὶ τόδε δεῖ σκοπεῖν, ὅταν κρίνειν μέλλῃς φύσιν φιλόσοφόν τε καὶ μή.
τὸ ποῖον;
μή σε λάθῃ μετέχουσα ἀνελευθερίας· ἐναντιώτατον γάρ που σμικρολογία ψυχῇ μελλούσῃ τοῦ ὅλου καὶ παντὸς ἀεὶ ἐπορέξεσθαι θείου τε καὶ ἀνθρωπίνου.
ἀληθέστατα, ἔφη.
ἧι οὖν ὑπάρχει διανοίᾳ μεγαλοπρέπεια καὶ θεωρία παντὸς μὲν χρόνου, πάσης δὲ οὐσίας, οἷόν τε οἴει τούτῳ μέγα τι δοκεῖν εἶναι τὸν ἀνθρώπινον βίον;
ἀδύνατον, ἦ δʼ ὅς. [486b]
οὐκοῦν καὶ θάνατον οὐ δεινόν τι ἡγήσεται ὁ τοιοῦτος;
ἥκιστά γε.
δειλῇ δὴ καὶ ἀνελευθέρῳ φύσει φιλοσοφίας ἀληθινῆς, ὡς ἔοικεν, οὐκ ἂν μετείη.
οὔ μοι δοκεῖ.
τί οὖν; ὁ κόσμιος καὶ μὴ φιλοχρήματος μηδʼ ἀνελεύθερος μηδʼ ἀλαζὼν μηδὲ δειλὸς ἔσθʼ ὅπῃ ἂν δυσσύμβολος ἢ ἄδικος γένοιτο;
οὐκ ἔστιν.
καὶ τοῦτο δὴ ψυχὴν σκοπῶν φιλόσοφον καὶ μὴ εὐθὺς νέου ὄντος ἐπισκέψῃ, εἰ ἄρα δικαία τε καὶ ἥμερος ἢ δυσκοινώνητος καὶ ἀγρία.
πάνυ μὲν οὖν. [486c]
οὐ μὴν οὐδὲ τόδε παραλείψεις, ὡς ἐγᾦμαι.
τὸ ποῖον;
εὐμαθὴς ἢ δυσμαθής. ἢ προσδοκᾷς ποτέ τινά τι ἱκανῶς ἂν στέρξαι, ὃ πράττων ἂν ἀλγῶν τε πράττοι καὶ μόγις σμικρὸν ἀνύτων;
οὐκ ἂν γένοιτο.
τί δʼ εἰ μηδὲν ὧν μάθοι σῴζειν δύναιτο, λήθης ὢν πλέως; ἆρʼ ἂν οἷός τʼ εἴη ἐπιστήμης μὴ κενὸς εἶναι;
καὶ πῶς;
ἀνόνητα δὴ πονῶν οὐκ οἴει ἀναγκασθήσεται τελευτῶν αὑτόν τε μισεῖν καὶ τὴν τοιαύτην πρᾶξιν;
πῶς δʼ οὔ; [486d]
ἐπιλήσμονα ἄρα ψυχὴν ἐν ταῖς ἱκανῶς φιλοσόφοις μή ποτε ἐγκρίνωμεν, ἀλλὰ μνημονικὴν αὐτὴν ζητῶμεν δεῖν εἶναι.
παντάπασι μὲν οὖν.
ἀλλʼ οὐ μὴν τό γε τῆς ἀμούσου τε καὶ ἀσχήμονος φύσεως ἄλλοσέ ποι ἂν φαῖμεν ἕλκειν ἢ εἰς ἀμετρίαν.
τί μήν;
ἀλήθειαν δʼ ἀμετρίᾳ ἡγῇ συγγενῆ εἶναι ἢ ἐμμετρίᾳ;
ἐμμετρίᾳ.
ἔμμετρον ἄρα καὶ εὔχαριν ζητῶμεν πρὸς τοῖς ἄλλοις διάνοιαν φύσει, ἣν ἐπὶ τὴν τοῦ ὄντος ἰδέαν ἑκάστου τὸ αὐτοφυὲς εὐάγωγον παρέξει.
πῶς δʼ οὔ; [486e]
τί οὖν; μή πῃ δοκοῦμέν σοι οὐκ ἀναγκαῖα ἕκαστα διεληλυθέναι καὶ ἑπόμενα ἀλλήλοις τῇ μελλούσῃ τοῦ ὄντος ἱκανῶς τε καὶ τελέως ψυχῇ μεταλήψεσθαι;

[487a]
ἀναγκαιότατα μὲν οὖν, ἔφη.
ἔστιν οὖν ὅπῃ μέμψῃ τοιοῦτον ἐπιτήδευμα, ὃ μή ποτʼ ἄν τις οἷός τε γένοιτο ἱκανῶς ἐπιτηδεῦσαι, εἰ μὴ φύσει εἴη μνήμων, εὐμαθής, μεγαλοπρεπής, εὔχαρις, φίλος τε καὶ συγγενὴς ἀληθείας, δικαιοσύνης, ἀνδρείας, σωφροσύνης;
οὐδʼ ἂν ὁ Μῶμος, ἔφη, τό γε τοιοῦτον μέμψαιτο.
ἀλλʼ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τελειωθεῖσι τοῖς τοιούτοις παιδείᾳ τε καὶ ἡλικίᾳ ἆρα οὐ μόνοις ἂν τὴν πόλιν ἐπιτρέποις; [487b]
καὶ ὁ Ἀδείμαντος, ὦ Σώκρατες, ἔφη, πρὸς μὲν ταῦτά σοι οὐδεὶς ἂν οἷός τʼ εἴη ἀντειπεῖν. ἀλλὰ γὰρ τοιόνδε τι πάσχουσιν οἱ ἀκούοντες ἑκάστοτε ἃ νῦν λέγεις· ἡγοῦνται διʼ ἀπειρίαν τοῦ ἐρωτᾶν καὶ ἀποκρίνεσθαι ὑπὸ τοῦ λόγου παρʼ ἕκαστον τὸ ἐρώτημα σμικρὸν παραγόμενοι, ἁθροισθέντων τῶν σμικρῶν ἐπὶ τελευτῆς τῶν λόγων μέγα τὸ σφάλμα καὶ ἐναντίον τοῖς πρώτοις ἀναφαίνεσθαι, καὶ ὥσπερ ὑπὸ τῶν πεττεύειν δεινῶν οἱ μὴ τελευτῶντες ἀποκλείονται καὶ οὐκ ἔχουσιν ὅτι [487c] φέρωσιν, οὕτω καὶ σφεῖς τελευτῶντες ἀποκλείεσθαι καὶ οὐκ ἔχειν ὅτι λέγωσιν ὑπὸ πεττείας αὖ ταύτης τινὸς ἑτέρας, οὐκ ἐν ψήφοις ἀλλʼ ἐν λόγοις· ἐπεὶ τό γε ἀληθὲς οὐδέν τι μᾶλλον ταύτῃ ἔχειν. λέγω δʼ εἰς τὸ παρὸν ἀποβλέψας. νῦν γὰρ φαίη ἄν τίς σοι λόγῳ μὲν οὐκ ἔχειν καθʼ ἕκαστον τὸ ἐρωτώμενον ἐναντιοῦσθαι, ἔργῳ δὲ ὁρᾶν, ὅσοι ἂν ἐπὶ φιλοσοφίαν ὁρμήσαντες μὴ τοῦ πεπαιδεῦσθαι ἕνεκα ἁψάμενοι νέοι ὄντες [487d] ἀπαλλάττωνται, ἀλλὰ μακρότερον ἐνδιατρίψωσιν, τοὺς μὲν πλείστους καὶ πάνυ ἀλλοκότους γιγνομένους, ἵνα μὴ παμπονήρους εἴπωμεν, τοὺς δʼ ἐπιεικεστάτους δοκοῦντας ὅμως τοῦτό γε ὑπὸ τοῦ ἐπιτηδεύματος οὗ σὺ ἐπαινεῖς πάσχοντας, ἀχρήστους ταῖς πόλεσι γιγνομένους.
καὶ ἐγὼ ἀκούσας, οἴει οὖν, εἶπον, τοὺς ταῦτα λέγοντας ψεύδεσθαι;
οὐκ οἶδα, ἦ δʼ ὅς, ἀλλὰ τὸ σοὶ δοκοῦν ἡδέως ἂν ἀκούοιμι.
ἀκούοις ἂν ὅτι ἔμοιγε φαίνονται τἀληθῆ λέγειν. [487e]
πῶς οὖν, ἔφη, εὖ ἔχει λέγειν ὅτι οὐ πρότερον κακῶν παύσονται αἱ πόλεις, πρὶν ἂν ἐν αὐταῖς οἱ φιλόσοφοι ἄρξωσιν, οὓς ἀχρήστους ὁμολογοῦμεν αὐταῖς εἶναι;
ἐρωτᾷς, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἐρώτημα δεόμενον ἀποκρίσεως διʼ εἰκόνος λεγομένης.
σὺ δέ γε, ἔφη, οἶμαι οὐκ εἴωθας διʼ εἰκόνων λέγειν.
εἶεν, εἶπον· σκώπτεις ἐμβεβληκώς με εἰς λόγον οὕτω

[488a]
δυσαπόδεικτον; ἄκουε δʼ οὖν τῆς εἰκόνος, ἵνʼ ἔτι μᾶλλον ἴδῃς ὡς γλίσχρως εἰκάζω. οὕτω γὰρ χαλεπὸν τὸ πάθος τῶν ἐπιεικεστάτων, ὃ πρὸς τὰς πόλεις πεπόνθασιν, ὥστε οὐδʼ ἔστιν ἓν οὐδὲν ἄλλο τοιοῦτον πεπονθός, ἀλλὰ δεῖ ἐκ πολλῶν αὐτὸ συναγαγεῖν εἰκάζοντα καὶ ἀπολογούμενον ὑπὲρ αὐτῶν, οἷον οἱ γραφῆς τραγελάφους καὶ τὰ τοιαῦτα μειγνύντες γράφουσιν. νόησον γὰρ τοιουτονὶ γενόμενον εἴτε πολλῶν νεῶν πέρι εἴτε μιᾶς· ναύκληρον μεγέθει μὲν καὶ [488b] ῥώμῃ ὑπὲρ τοὺς ἐν τῇ νηὶ πάντας, ὑπόκωφον δὲ καὶ ὁρῶντα ὡσαύτως βραχύ τι καὶ γιγνώσκοντα περὶ ναυτικῶν ἕτερα τοιαῦτα, τοὺς δὲ ναύτας στασιάζοντας πρὸς ἀλλήλους περὶ τῆς κυβερνήσεως, ἕκαστον οἰόμενον δεῖν κυβερνᾶν, μήτε μαθόντα πώποτε τὴν τέχνην μέτε ἔχοντα ἀποδεῖξαι διδάσκαλον ἑαυτοῦ μηδὲ χρόνον ἐν ᾧ ἐμάνθανεν, πρὸς δὲ τούτοις φάσκοντας μηδὲ διδακτὸν εἶναι, ἀλλὰ καὶ τὸν λέγοντα ὡς διδακτὸν ἑτοίμους κατατέμνειν, αὐτοὺς δὲ αὐτῷ ἀεὶ τῷ [488c] ναυκλήρῳ περικεχύσθαι δεομένους καὶ πάντα ποιοῦντας ὅπως ἂν σφίσι τὸ πηδάλιον ἐπιτρέψῃ, ἐνίοτε δʼ ἂν μὴ πείθωσιν ἀλλὰ ἄλλοι μᾶλλον, τοὺς μὲν ἄλλους ἢ ἀποκτεινύντας ἢ ἐκβάλλοντας ἐκ τῆς νεώς, τὸν δὲ γενναῖον ναύκληρον μανδραγόρᾳ ἢ μέθῃ ἤ τινι ἄλλῳ συμποδίσαντας τῆς νεὼς ἄρχειν χρωμένους τοῖς ἐνοῦσι, καὶ πίνοντάς τε καὶ εὐωχουμένους πλεῖν ὡς τὸ εἰκὸς τοὺς τοιούτους, πρὸς δὲ τούτοις ἐπαινοῦντας [488d] ναυτικὸν μὲν καλοῦντας καὶ κυβερνητικὸν καὶ ἐπιστάμενον τὰ κατὰ ναῦν, ὃς ἂν συλλαμβάνειν δεινὸς ᾖ ὅπως ἄρξουσιν ἢ πείθοντες ἢ βιαζόμενοι τὸν ναύκληρον, τὸν δὲ μὴ τοιοῦτον ψέγοντας ὡς ἄχρηστον, τοῦ δὲ ἀληθινοῦ κυβερνήτου πέρι μηδʼ ἐπαΐοντες, ὅτι ἀνάγκη αὐτῷ τὴν ἐπιμέλειαν ποιεῖσθαι ἐνιαυτοῦ καὶ ὡρῶν καὶ οὐρανοῦ καὶ ἄστρων καὶ πνευμάτων καὶ πάντων τῶν τῇ τέχνῃ προσηκόντων, εἰ μέλλει τῷ ὄντι νεὼς ἀρχικὸς ἔσεσθαι, ὅπως δὲ κυβερνήσει [488e] ἐάντε τινες βούλωνται ἐάντε μή, μήτε τέχνην τούτου μήτε μελέτην οἰόμενοι δυνατὸν εἶναι λαβεῖν ἅμα καὶ τὴν κυβερνητικήν.
τοιούτων δὴ περὶ τὰς ναῦς γιγνομένων τὸν ὡς ἀληθῶς κυβερνητικὸν οὐχ ἡγῇ ἂν τῷ ὄντι μετεωροσκόπον

[489a]
τε καὶ ἀδολέσχην καὶ ἄχρηστόν σφισι καλεῖσθαι ὑπὸ τῶν ἐν ταῖς οὕτω κατεσκευασμέναις ναυσὶ πλωτήρων;
καὶ μάλα, ἔφη ὁ Ἀδείμαντος.
οὐ δή, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, οἶμαι δεῖσθαί σε ἐξεταζομένην τὴν εἰκόνα ἰδεῖν, ὅτι ταῖς πόλεσι πρὸς τοὺς ἀληθινοὺς φιλοσόφους τὴν διάθεσιν ἔοικεν, ἀλλὰ μανθάνειν ὃ λέγω.
καὶ μάλʼ, ἔφη.
πρῶτον μὲν τοίνυν ἐκεῖνον τὸν θαυμάζοντα ὅτι οἱ φιλόσοφοι οὐ τιμῶνται ἐν ταῖς πόλεσι δίδασκέ τε τὴν εἰκόνα καὶ πειρῶ πείθειν ὅτι πολὺ ἂν θαυμαστότερον ἦν [489b] εἰ ἐτιμῶντο.
ἀλλὰ διδάξω, ἔφη.
καὶ ὅτι τοίνυν τἀληθῆ λέγεις, ὡς ἄχρηστοι τοῖς πολλοῖς οἱ ἐπιεικέστατοι τῶν ἐν φιλοσοφίᾳ· τῆς μέντοι ἀχρηστίας τοὺς μὴ χρωμένους κέλευε αἰτιᾶσθαι, ἀλλὰ μὴ τοὺς ἐπιεικεῖς. οὐ γὰρ ἔχει φύσιν κυβερνήτην ναυτῶν δεῖσθαι ἄρχεσθαι ὑφʼ αὑτοῦ οὐδὲ τοὺς σοφοὺς ἐπὶ τὰς τῶν πλουσίων θύρας ἰέναι, ἀλλʼ ὁ τοῦτο κομψευσάμενος ἐψεύσατο, τὸ δὲ ἀληθὲς πέφυκεν, ἐάντε πλούσιος ἐάντε πένης κάμνῃ, ἀναγκαῖον [489c] εἶναι ἐπὶ ἰατρῶν θύρας ἰέναι καὶ πάντα τὸν ἄρχεσθαι δεόμενον ἐπὶ τὰς τοῦ ἄρχειν δυναμένου, οὐ τὸν ἄρχοντα δεῖσθαι τῶν ἀρχομένων ἄρχεσθαι, οὗ ἂν τῇ ἀληθείᾳ τι ὄφελος ᾖ. ἀλλὰ τοὺς νῦν πολιτικοὺς ἄρχοντας ἀπεικάζων οἷς ἄρτι ἐλέγομεν ναύταις οὐχ ἁμαρτήσῃ, καὶ τοὺς ὑπὸ τούτων ἀχρήστους λεγομένους καὶ μετεωρολέσχας τοῖς ὡς ἀληθῶς κυβερνήταις.
ὀρθότατα, ἔφη.
ἔκ τε τοίνυν τούτων καὶ ἐν τούτοις οὐ ῥᾴδιον εὐδοκιμεῖν τὸ βέλτιστον ἐπιτήδευμα ὑπὸ τῶν τἀναντία ἐπιτηδευόντων· [489d] πολὺ δὲ μεγίστη καὶ ἰσχυροτάτη διαβολὴ γίγνεται φιλοσοφίᾳ διὰ τοὺς τὰ τοιαῦτα φάσκοντας ἐπιτηδεύειν, οὓς δὴ σὺ φῂς τὸν ἐγκαλοῦντα τῇ φιλοσοφίᾳ λέγειν ὡς παμπόνηροι οἱ πλεῖστοι τῶν ἰόντων ἐπʼ αὐτήν, οἱ δὲ ἐπιεικέστατοι ἄχρηστοι, καὶ ἐγὼ συνεχώρησα ἀληθῆ σε λέγειν. ἦ γάρ;
ναί.
οὐκοῦν τῆς μὲν τῶν ἐπιεικῶν ἀχρηστίας τὴν αἰτίαν διεληλύθαμεν;
καὶ μάλα.
τῆς δὲ τῶν πολλῶν πονηρίας τὴν ἀνάγκην βούλει τὸ μετὰ τοῦτο διέλθωμεν, καὶ ὅτι οὐδὲ τούτου φιλοσοφία αἰτία, [489e] ἂν δυνώμεθα, πειραθῶμεν δεῖξαι;
πάνυ μὲν οὖν.
ἀκούωμεν δὴ καὶ λέγωμεν ἐκεῖθεν ἀναμνησθέντες, ὅθεν διῇμεν τὴν φύσιν οἷον ἀνάγκη φῦναι τὸν καλόν τε κἀγαθὸν

[490a]
ἐσόμενον. ἡγεῖτο δʼ αὐτῷ, εἰ νῷ ἔχεις, πρῶτον μὲν ἀλήθεια, ἣν διώκειν αὐτὸν πάντως καὶ πάντῃ ἔδει ἢ ἀλαζόνι ὄντι μηδαμῇ μετεῖναι φιλοσοφίας ἀληθινῆς.
ἦν γὰρ οὕτω λεγόμενον.
οὐκοῦν ἓν μὲν τοῦτο σφόδρα οὕτω παρὰ δόξαν τοῖς νῦν δοκουμένοις περὶ αὐτοῦ;
καὶ μάλα, ἔφη.
ἆρʼ οὖν δὴ οὐ μετρίως ἀπολογησόμεθα ὅτι πρὸς τὸ ὂν πεφυκὼς εἴη ἁμιλλᾶσθαι ὅ γε ὄντως φιλομαθής, καὶ οὐκ [490b] ἐπιμένοι ἐπὶ τοῖς δοξαζομένοις εἶναι πολλοῖς ἑκάστοις, ἀλλʼ ἴοι καὶ οὐκ ἀμβλύνοιτο οὐδʼ ἀπολήγοι τοῦ ἔρωτος, πρὶν αὐτοῦ ὃ ἔστιν ἑκάστου τῆς φύσεως ἅψασθαι ᾧ προσήκει ψυχῆς ἐφάπτεσθαι τοῦ τοιούτου—προσήκει δὲ συγγενεῖ— ᾧ πλησιάσας καὶ μιγεὶς τῷ ὄντι ὄντως, γεννήσας νοῦν καὶ ἀλήθειαν, γνοίη τε καὶ ἀληθῶς ζῴη καὶ τρέφοιτο καὶ οὕτω λήγοι ὠδῖνος, πρὶν δʼ οὔ;
ὡς οἷόν τʼ, ἔφη, μετριώτατα.
τί οὖν; τούτῳ τι μετέσται ψεῦδος ἀγαπᾶν ἢ πᾶν τοὐναντίον μισεῖν; [490c]
μισεῖν, ἔφη.
ἡγουμένης δὴ ἀληθείας οὐκ ἄν ποτε οἶμαι φαμὲν αὐτῇ χορὸν κακῶν ἀκολουθῆσαι.
πῶς γάρ;
ἀλλʼ ὑγιές τε καὶ δίκαιον ἦθος, ᾧ καὶ σωφροσύνην ἕπεσθαι.
ὀρθῶς, ἔφη.
καὶ δὴ τὸν ἄλλον τῆς φιλοσόφου φύσεως χορὸν τί δεῖ πάλιν ἐξ ἀρχῆς ἀναγκάζοντα τάττειν; μέμνησαι γάρ που ὅτι συνέβη προσῆκον τούτοις ἀνδρεία, μεγαλοπρέπεια, εὐμάθεια, μνήμη· καὶ σοῦ ἐπιλαβομένου ὅτι πᾶς μὲν ἀναγκασθήσεται [490d] ὁμολογεῖν οἷς λέγομεν, ἐάσας δὲ τοὺς λόγους, εἰς αὐτοὺς ἀποβλέψας περὶ ὧν ὁ λόγος, φαίη ὁρᾶν αὐτῶν τοὺς μὲν ἀχρήστους, τοὺς δὲ πολλοὺς κακοὺς πᾶσαν κακίαν, τῆς διαβολῆς τὴν αἰτίαν ἐπισκοποῦντες ἐπὶ τούτῳ νῦν γεγόναμεν, τί ποθʼ οἱ πολλοὶ κακοί, καὶ τούτου δὴ ἕνεκα πάλιν ἀνειλήφαμεν τὴν τῶν ἀληθῶς φιλοσόφων φύσιν καὶ ἐξ ἀνάγκης ὡρισάμεθα. [490e]
ἔστιν, ἔφη, ταῦτα.
ταύτης δή, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τῆς φύσεως δεῖ θεάσασθαι τὰς φθοράς, ὡς διόλλυται ἐν πολλοῖς, σμικρὸν δέ τι ἐκφεύγει, οὓς δὴ καὶ οὐ πονηρούς, ἀχρήστους δὲ καλοῦσι· καὶ μετὰ

[491a]
τοῦτο αὖ τὰς μιμουμένας ταύτην καὶ εἰς τὸ ἐπιτήδευμα καθισταμένας αὐτῆς, οἷαι οὖσαι φύσεις ψυχῶν εἰς ἀνάξιον καὶ μεῖζον ἑαυτῶν ἀφικνούμεναι ἐπιτήδευμα, πολλαχῇ πλημμελοῦσαι, πανταχῇ καὶ ἐπὶ πάντας δόξαν οἵαν λέγεις φιλοσοφίᾳ προσῆψαν.
τίνας δέ, ἔφη, τὰς διαφθορὰς λέγεις;
ἐγώ σοι, εἶπον, ἂν οἷός τε γένωμαι, πειράσομαι διελθεῖν. τόδε μὲν οὖν οἶμαι πᾶς ἡμῖν ὁμολογήσει, τοιαύτην φύσιν καὶ πάντα ἔχουσαν ὅσα προσετάξαμεν νυνδή, εἰ τελέως [491b] μέλλοι φιλόσοφος γενέσθαι, ὀλιγάκις ἐν ἀνθρώποις φύεσθαι καὶ ὀλίγας. ἢ οὐκ οἴει;
σφόδρα γε.
τούτων δὴ τῶν ὀλίγων σκόπει ὡς πολλοὶ ὄλεθροι καὶ μεγάλοι.
τίνες δή;
ὃ μὲν πάντων θαυμαστότατον ἀκοῦσαι, ὅτι ἓν ἕκαστον ὧν ἐπῃνέσαμεν τῆς φύσεως ἀπόλλυσι τὴν ἔχουσαν ψυχὴν καὶ ἀποσπᾷ φιλοσοφίας. λέγω δὲ ἀνδρείαν, σωφροσύνην καὶ πάντα ἃ διήλθομεν.
ἄτοπον, ἔφη, ἀκοῦσαι. [491c]
ἔτι τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, πρὸς τούτοις τὰ λεγόμενα ἀγαθὰ πάντα φθείρει καὶ ἀποσπᾷ, κάλλος καὶ πλοῦτος καὶ ἰσχὺς σώματος καὶ συγγένεια ἐρρωμένη ἐν πόλει καὶ πάντα τὰ τούτων οἰκεῖα· ἔχεις γὰρ τὸν τύπον ὧν λέγω.
ἔχω, ἔφη· καὶ ἡδέως γʼ ἂν ἀκριβέστερον ἃ λέγεις πυθοίμην.
λαβοῦ τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὅλου αὐτοῦ ὀρθῶς, καί σοι εὔδηλόν τε φανεῖται καὶ οὐκ ἄτοπα δόξει τὰ προειρημένα περὶ αὐτῶν.
πῶς οὖν, ἔφη, κελεύεις; [491d]
παντός, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, σπέρματος πέρι ἢ φυτοῦ, εἴτε ἐγγείων εἴτε τῶν ζῴων, ἴσμεν ὅτι τὸ μὴ τυχὸν τροφῆς ἧς προσήκει ἑκάστῳ μηδʼ ὥρας μηδὲ τόπου, ὅσῳ ἂν ἐρρωμενέστερον ᾖ, τοσούτῳ πλειόνων ἐνδεῖ τῶν πρεπόντων· ἀγαθῷ γάρ που κακὸν ἐναντιώτερον ἢ τῷ μὴ ἀγαθῷ.
πῶς δʼ οὔ;
ἔχει δὴ οἶμαι λόγον τὴν ἀρίστην φύσιν ἐν ἀλλοτριωτέρᾳ οὖσαν τροφῇ κάκιον ἀπαλλάττειν τῆς φαύλης.
ἔχει. [491e]
οὐκοῦν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὦ Ἀδείμαντε, καὶ τὰς ψυχὰς οὕτω φῶμεν τὰς εὐφυεστάτας κακῆς παιδαγωγίας τυχούσας διαφερόντως κακὰς γίγνεσθαι; ἢ οἴει τὰ μεγάλα ἀδικήματα καὶ τὴν ἄκρατον πονηρίαν ἐκ φαύλης ἀλλʼ οὐκ ἐκ νεανικῆς φύσεως τροφῇ διολομένης γίγνεσθαι, ἀσθενῆ δὲ φύσιν μεγάλων οὔτε ἀγαθῶν οὔτε κακῶν αἰτίαν ποτὲ ἔσεσθαι;
οὔκ, ἀλλά, ἦ δʼ ὅς, οὕτως.

[492a]
ἣν τοίνυν ἔθεμεν τοῦ φιλοσόφου φύσιν, ἂν μὲν οἶμαι μαθήσεως προσηκούσης τύχῃ, εἰς πᾶσαν ἀρετὴν ἀνάγκη αὐξανομένην ἀφικνεῖσθαι, ἐὰν δὲ μὴ ἐν προσηκούσῃ σπαρεῖσά τε καὶ φυτευθεῖσα τρέφηται, εἰς πάντα τἀναντία αὖ, ἐὰν μή τις αὐτῇ βοηθήσας θεῶν τύχῃ. ἢ καὶ σὺ ἡγῇ, ὥσπερ οἱ πολλοί, διαφθειρομένους τινὰς εἶναι ὑπὸ σοφιστῶν νέους, διαφθείροντας δέ τινας σοφιστὰς ἰδιωτικούς, ὅτι καὶ ἄξιον λόγου, ἀλλʼ οὐκ αὐτοὺς τοὺς ταῦτα λέγοντας μεγίστους [492b] μὲν εἶναι σοφιστάς, παιδεύειν δὲ τελεώτατα καὶ ἀπεργάζεσθαι οἵους βούλονται εἶναι καὶ νέους καὶ πρεσβυτέρους καὶ ἄνδρας καὶ γυναῖκας;
πότε δή; ἦ δʼ ὅς.
ὅταν, εἶπον, συγκαθεζόμενοι ἁθρόοι πολλοὶ εἰς ἐκκλησίας ἢ εἰς δικαστήρια ἢ θέατρα ἢ στρατόπεδα ἤ τινα ἄλλον κοινὸν πλήθους σύλλογον σὺν πολλῷ θορύβῳ τὰ μὲν ψέγωσι τῶν λεγομένων ἢ πραττομένων, τὰ δὲ ἐπαινῶσιν, ὑπερβαλλόντως ἑκάτερα, καὶ ἐκβοῶντες καὶ κροτοῦντες, πρὸς δʼ [492c] αὐτοῖς αἵ τε πέτραι καὶ ὁ τόπος ἐν ᾧ ἂν ὦσιν ἐπηχοῦντες διπλάσιον θόρυβον παρέχωσι τοῦ ψόγου καὶ ἐπαίνου. ἐν δὴ τῷ τοιούτῳ τὸν νέον, τὸ λεγόμενον, τίνα οἴει καρδίαν ἴσχειν; ἢ ποίαν [ἂν] αὐτῷ παιδείαν ἰδιωτικὴν ἀνθέξειν, ἣν οὐ κατακλυσθεῖσαν ὑπὸ τοῦ τοιούτου ψόγου ἢ ἐπαίνου οἰχήσεσθαι φερομένην κατὰ ῥοῦν ᾗ ἂν οὗτος φέρῃ, καὶ φήσειν τε τὰ αὐτὰ τούτοις καλὰ καὶ αἰσχρὰ εἶναι, καὶ ἐπιτηδεύσειν ἅπερ ἂν οὗτοι, καὶ ἔσεσθαι τοιοῦτον; [492d]
πολλή, ἦ δʼ ὅς, ὦ Σώκρατες, ἀνάγκη.
καὶ μήν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, οὔπω τὴν μεγίστην ἀνάγκην εἰρήκαμεν.
ποίαν; ἔφη.
ἣν ἔργῳ προστιθέασι λόγῳ μὴ πείθοντες οὗτοι οἱ παιδευταί τε καὶ σοφισταί. ἢ οὐκ οἶσθα ὅτι τὸν μὴ πειθόμενον ἀτιμίαις τε καὶ χρήμασι καὶ θανάτοις κολάζουσι;
καὶ μάλα, ἔφη, σφόδρα.
τίνα οὖν ἄλλον σοφιστὴν οἴει ἢ ποίους ἰδιωτικοὺς λόγους ἐναντία τούτοις τείνοντας κρατήσειν; [492e]
οἶμαι μὲν οὐδένα, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
οὐ γάρ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἀλλὰ καὶ τὸ ἐπιχειρεῖν πολλὴ ἄνοια.
οὔτε γὰρ γίγνεται οὔτε γέγονεν οὐδὲ οὖν μὴ γένηται ἀλλοῖον ἦθος πρὸς ἀρετὴν παρὰ τὴν τούτων παιδείαν πεπαιδευμένον, ἀνθρώπειον, ὦ ἑταῖρε—θεῖον μέντοι κατὰ τὴν παροιμίαν ἐξαιρῶμεν λόγου· εὖ γὰρ χρὴ εἰδέναι, ὅτιπερ ἂν σωθῇ τε

### Book VI, 493–500

[493a]
καὶ γένηται οἷον δεῖ ἐν τοιαύτῃ καταστάσει πολιτειῶν, θεοῦ μοῖραν αὐτὸ σῶσαι λέγων οὐ κακῶς ἐρεῖς.
οὐδʼ ἐμοὶ ἄλλως, ἔφη, δοκεῖ.
ἔτι τοίνυν σοι, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, πρὸς τούτοις καὶ τόδε δοξάτω.
τὸ ποῖον;
ἕκαστος τῶν μισθαρνούντων ἰδιωτῶν, οὓς δὴ οὗτοι σοφιστὰς καλοῦσι καὶ ἀντιτέχνους ἡγοῦνται, μὴ ἄλλα παιδεύειν ἢ ταῦτα τὰ τῶν πολλῶν δόγματα, ἃ δοξάζουσιν ὅταν ἁθροισθῶσιν, καὶ σοφίαν ταύτην καλεῖν· οἷόνπερ ἂν εἰ θρέμματος μεγάλου καὶ ἰσχυροῦ τρεφομένου τὰς ὀργάς τις καὶ [493b] ἐπιθυμίας κατεμάνθανεν, ὅπῃ τε προσελθεῖν χρὴ καὶ ὅπῃ ἅψασθαι αὐτοῦ, καὶ ὁπότε χαλεπώτατον ἢ πρᾳότατον καὶ ἐκ τίνων γίγνεται, καὶ φωνὰς δὴ ἐφʼ οἷς ἑκάστας εἴωθεν φθέγγεσθαι, καὶ οἵας αὖ ἄλλου φθεγγομένου ἡμεροῦταί τε καὶ ἀγριαίνει, καταμαθὼν δὲ ταῦτα πάντα συνουσίᾳ τε καὶ χρόνου τριβῇ σοφίαν τε καλέσειεν καὶ ὡς τέχνην συστησάμενος ἐπὶ διδασκαλίαν τρέποιτο, μηδὲν εἰδὼς τῇ ἀληθείᾳ τούτων τῶν δογμάτων τε καὶ ἐπιθυμιῶν ὅτι καλὸν ἢ αἰσχρὸν [493c] ἢ ἀγαθὸν ἢ κακὸν ἢ δίκαιον ἢ ἄδικον, ὀνομάζοι δὲ πάντα ταῦτα ἐπὶ ταῖς τοῦ μεγάλου ζῴου δόξαις, οἷς μὲν χαίροι ἐκεῖνο ἀγαθὰ καλῶν, οἷς δὲ ἄχθοιτο κακά, ἄλλον δὲ μηδένα ἔχοι λόγον περὶ αὐτῶν, ἀλλὰ τἀναγκαῖα δίκαια καλοῖ καὶ καλά, τὴν δὲ τοῦ ἀναγκαίου καὶ ἀγαθοῦ φύσιν, ὅσον διαφέρει τῷ ὄντι, μήτε ἑωρακὼς εἴη μήτε ἄλλῳ δυνατὸς δεῖξαι. τοιοῦτος δὴ ὢν πρὸς Διὸς οὐκ ἄτοπος ἄν σοι δοκεῖ εἶναι παιδευτής;
ἔμοιγʼ, ἔφη.
ἦ οὖν τι τούτου δοκεῖ διαφέρειν ὁ τὴν τῶν πολλῶν καὶ [493d] παντοδαπῶν συνιόντων ὀργὴν καὶ ἡδονὰς κατανενοηκέναι σοφίαν ἡγούμενος, εἴτʼ ἐν γραφικῇ εἴτʼ ἐν μουσικῇ εἴτε δὴ ἐν πολιτικῇ; ὅτι μὲν γὰρ ἄν τις τούτοις ὁμιλῇ ἐπιδεικνύμενος, ἢ ποίησιν ἤ τινα ἄλλην δημιουργίαν ἢ πόλει διακονίαν, κυρίους αὑτοῦ ποιῶν τοὺς πολλούς, πέρα τῶν ἀναγκαίων, ἡ Διομηδεία λεγομένη ἀνάγκη ποιεῖν αὐτῷ ταῦτα ἃ ἂν οὗτοι ἐπαινῶσιν· ὡς δὲ καὶ ἀγαθὰ καὶ καλὰ ταῦτα τῇ ἀληθείᾳ, ἤδη πώποτέ του ἤκουσας αὐτῶν λόγον διδόντος οὐ καταγέλαστον; [493e]
οἶμαι δέ γε, ἦ δʼ ὅς, οὐδʼ ἀκούσομαι.
ταῦτα τοίνυν πάντα ἐννοήσας ἐκεῖνο ἀναμνήσθητι· αὐτὸ τὸ καλὸν ἀλλὰ μὴ τὰ πολλὰ καλά, ἢ αὐτό τι ἕκαστον καὶ

[494a]
μὴ τὰ πολλὰ ἕκαστα, ἔσθʼ ὅπως πλῆθος ἀνέξεται ἢ ἡγήσεαι εἶναι;
ἥκιστά γʼ, ἔφη.
φιλόσοφον μὲν ἄρα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, πλῆθος ἀδύνατον εἶναι.
ἀδύνατον.
καὶ τοὺς φιλοσοφοῦντας ἄρα ἀνάγκη ψέγεσθαι ὑπʼ αὐτῶν.
ἀνάγκη.
καὶ ὑπὸ τούτων δὴ τῶν ἰδιωτῶν, ὅσοι προσομιλοῦντες ὄχλῳ ἀρέσκειν αὐτῷ ἐπιθυμοῦσι.
δῆλον.
ἐκ δὴ τούτων τίνα ὁρᾷς σωτηρίαν φιλοσόφῳ φύσει, ὥστʼ ἐν τῷ ἐπιτηδεύματι μείνασαν πρὸς τέλος ἐλθεῖν; ἐννόει δʼ [494b] ἐκ τῶν ἔμπροσθεν. ὡμολόγηται γὰρ δὴ ἡμῖν εὐμάθεια καὶ μνήμη καὶ ἀνδρεία καὶ μεγαλοπρέπεια ταύτης εἶναι τῆς φύσεως.
ναί.
οὐκοῦν εὐθὺς ἐν παισὶν ὁ τοιοῦτος πρῶτος ἔσται ἐν ἅπασιν, ἄλλως τε καὶ ἐὰν τὸ σῶμα φυῇ προσφερὴς τῇ ψυχῇ;
τί δʼ οὐ μέλλει; ἔφη.
βουλήσονται δὴ οἶμαι αὐτῷ χρῆσθαι, ἐπειδὰν πρεσβύτερος γίγνηται, ἐπὶ τὰ αὑτῶν πράγματα οἵ τε οἰκεῖοι καὶ οἱ πολῖται.
πῶς δʼ οὔ; [494c]
ὑποκείσονται ἄρα δεόμενοι καὶ τιμῶντες, προκαταλαμβάνοντες καὶ προκολακεύοντες τὴν μέλλουσαν αὐτοῦ δύναμιν.
φιλεῖ γοῦν, ἔφη, οὕτω γίγνεσθαι.
τί οὖν οἴει, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τὸν τοιοῦτον ἐν τοῖς τοιούτοις ποιήσειν, ἄλλως τε καὶ ἐὰν τύχῃ μεγάλης πόλεως ὢν καὶ ἐν ταύτῃ πλούσιός τε καὶ γενναῖος, καὶ ἔτι εὐειδὴς καὶ μέγας; ἆρʼ οὐ πληρωθήσεσθαι ἀμηχάνου ἐλπίδος, ἡγούμενον καὶ τὰ τῶν Ἑλλήνων καὶ τὰ τῶν βαρβάρων ἱκανὸν ἔσεσθαι [494d] πράττειν, καὶ ἐπὶ τούτοις ὑψηλὸν ἐξαρεῖν αὑτόν, σχηματισμοῦ καὶ φρονήματος κενοῦ ἄνευ νοῦ ἐμπιμπλάμενον;
καὶ μάλʼ, ἔφη.
τῷ δὴ οὕτω διατιθεμένῳ ἐάν τις ἠρέμα προσελθὼν τἀληθῆ λέγῃ, ὅτι νοῦς οὐκ ἔνεστιν αὐτῷ, δεῖται δέ, τὸ δὲ οὐ κτητὸν μὴ δουλεύσαντι τῇ κτήσει αὐτοῦ, ἆρʼ εὐπετὲς οἴει εἶναι εἰσακοῦσαι διὰ τοσούτων κακῶν;
πολλοῦ γε δεῖ, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
ἐὰν δʼ οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, διὰ τὸ εὖ πεφυκέναι καὶ τὸ συγγενὲς [494e] τῶν λόγων εἰσαισθάνηταί τέ πῃ καὶ κάμπτηται καὶ ἕλκηται πρὸς φιλοσοφίαν, τί οἰόμεθα δράσειν ἐκείνους τοὺς ἡγουμένους ἀπολλύναι αὐτοῦ τὴν χρείαν τε καὶ ἑταιρίαν; οὐ πᾶν μὲν ἔργον, πᾶν δʼ ἔπος λέγοντάς τε καὶ πράττοντας καὶ περὶ αὐτόν, ὅπως ἂν μὴ πεισθῇ, καὶ περὶ τὸν πείθοντα, ὅπως ἂν μὴ οἷός τʼ ᾖ, καὶ ἰδίᾳ ἐπιβουλεύοντας καὶ δημοσίᾳ εἰς ἀγῶνας καθιστάντας;

[495a]
πολλή, ἦ δʼ ὅς, ἀνάγκη.
ἔστιν οὖν ὅπως ὁ τοιοῦτος φιλοσοφήσει;
οὐ πάνυ.
ὁρᾷς οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὅτι οὐ κακῶς ἐλέγομεν ὡς ἄρα καὶ αὐτὰ τὰ τῆς φιλοσόφου φύσεως μέρη, ὅταν ἐν κακῇ τροφῇ γένηται, αἴτια τρόπον τινὰ τοῦ ἐκπεσεῖν ἐκ τοῦ ἐπιτηδεύματος, καὶ τὰ λεγόμενα ἀγαθά, πλοῦτοί τε καὶ πᾶσα ἡ τοιαύτη παρασκευή;
οὐ γάρ, ἀλλʼ ὀρθῶς, ἔφη, ἐλέχθη.
οὗτος δή, εἶπον, ὦ θαυμάσιε, ὄλεθρός τε καὶ διαφθορὰ [495b] τοσαύτη τε καὶ τοιαύτη τῆς βελτίστης φύσεως εἰς τὸ ἄριστον ἐπιτήδευμα, ὀλίγης καὶ ἄλλως γιγνομένης, ὡς ἡμεῖς φαμεν. καὶ ἐκ τούτων δὴ τῶν ἀνδρῶν καὶ οἱ τὰ μέγιστα κακὰ ἐργαζόμενοι τὰς πόλεις γίγνονται καὶ τοὺς ἰδιώτας, καὶ οἱ τἀγαθά, οἳ ἂν ταύτῃ τύχωσι ῥυέντες· σμικρὰ δὲ φύσις οὐδὲν μέγα οὐδέποτε οὐδένα οὔτε ἰδιώτην οὔτε πόλιν δρᾷ.
ἀληθέστατα, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
οὗτοι μὲν δὴ οὕτως ἐκπίπτοντες, οἷς μάλιστα προσήκει, [495c] ἔρημον καὶ ἀτελῆ φιλοσοφίαν λείποντες αὐτοί τε βίον οὐ προσήκοντα οὐδʼ ἀληθῆ ζῶσιν, τὴν δέ, ὥσπερ ὀρφανὴν συγγενῶν, ἄλλοι ἐπεισελθόντες ἀνάξιοι ᾔσχυνάν τε καὶ ὀνείδη περιῆψαν, οἷα καὶ σὺ φῂς ὀνειδίζειν τοὺς ὀνειδίζοντας, ὡς οἱ συνόντες αὐτῇ οἱ μὲν οὐδενός, οἱ δὲ πολλοὶ πολλῶν κακῶν ἄξιοί εἰσιν.
καὶ γὰρ οὖν, ἔφη, τά γε λεγόμενα ταῦτα.
εἰκότως γε, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, λεγόμενα. καθορῶντες γὰρ ἄλλοι ἀνθρωπίσκοι κενὴν τὴν χώραν ταύτην γιγνομένην, καλῶν [495d] δὲ ὀνομάτων καὶ προσχημάτων μεστήν, ὥσπερ οἱ ἐκ τῶν εἱργμῶν εἰς τὰ ἱερὰ ἀποδιδράσκοντες, ἅσμενοι καὶ οὗτοι ἐκ τῶν τεχνῶν ἐκπηδῶσιν εἰς τὴν φιλοσοφίαν, οἳ ἂν κομψότατοι ὄντες τυγχάνωσι περὶ τὸ αὑτῶν τεχνίον. ὅμως γὰρ δὴ πρός γε τὰς ἄλλας τέχνας καίπερ οὕτω πραττούσης φιλοσοφίας τὸ ἀξίωμα μεγαλοπρεπέστερον λείπεται, οὗ δὴ ἐφιέμενοι πολλοὶ ἀτελεῖς μὲν τὰς φύσεις, ὑπὸ δὲ τῶν τεχνῶν τε καὶ δημιουργιῶν ὥσπερ τὰ σώματα λελώβηνται, οὕτω [495e] καὶ τὰς ψυχὰς συγκεκλασμένοι τε καὶ ἀποτεθρυμμένοι διὰ τὰς βαναυσίας τυγχάνουσιν—ἢ οὐκ ἀνάγκη;
καὶ μάλα, ἔφη.
δοκεῖς οὖν τι, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, διαφέρειν αὐτοὺς ἰδεῖν ἀργύριον κτησαμένου χαλκέως φαλακροῦ καὶ σμικροῦ, νεωστὶ μὲν ἐκ δεσμῶν λελυμένου, ἐν βαλανείῳ δὲ λελουμένου, νεουογὸν ἱμάτιον ἔχοντος, ὡς νυμφίου παρεσκευασμένου, διὰ πενίαν καὶ ἐρημίαν τοῦ δεσπότου τὴν θυγατέρα μέλλοντος γαμεῖν;

[496a]
οὐ πάνυ, ἔφη, διαφέρει.
ποῖʼ ἄττα οὖν εἰκὸς γεννᾶν τοὺς τοιούτους; οὐ νόθα καὶ φαῦλα;
πολλὴ ἀνάγκη.
τί δέ; τοὺς ἀναξίους παιδεύσεως, ὅταν αὐτῇ πλησιάζοντες ὁμιλῶσι μὴ κατʼ ἀξίαν, ποῖʼ ἄττα φῶμεν γεννᾶν διανοήματά τε καὶ δόξας; ἆρʼ οὐχ ὡς ἀληθῶς προσήκοντα ἀκοῦσαι σοφίσματα, καὶ οὐδὲν γνήσιον οὐδὲ φρονήσεως [ἄξιον] ἀληθινῆς ἐχόμενον;
παντελῶς μὲν οὖν, ἔφη.
πάνσμικρον δή τι, ἔφην ἐγώ, ὦ Ἀδείμαντε, λείπεται τῶν [496b] κατʼ ἀξίαν ὁμιλούντων φιλοσοφίᾳ, ἤ που ὑπὸ φυγῆς καταληφθὲν γενναῖον καὶ εὖ τεθραμμένον ἦθος, ἀπορίᾳ τῶν διαφθερούντων κατὰ φύσιν μεῖναν ἐπʼ αὐτῇ, ἢ ἐν σμικρᾷ πόλει ὅταν μεγάλη ψυχὴ φυῇ καὶ ἀτιμάσασα τὰ τῆς πόλεως ὑπερίδῃ· βραχὺ δέ πού τι καὶ ἀπʼ ἄλλης τέχνης δικαίως ἀτιμάσαν εὐφυὲς ἐπʼ αὐτὴν ἂν ἔλθοι. εἴη δʼ ἂν καὶ ὁ τοῦ ἡμετέρου ἑταίρου Θεάγους χαλινὸς οἷος κατασχεῖν· καὶ γὰρ [496c] Θεάγει τὰ μὲν ἄλλα πάντα παρεσκεύασται πρὸς τὸ ἐκπεσεῖν φιλοσοφίας, ἡ δὲ τοῦ σώματος νοσοτροφία ἀπείργουσα αὐτὸν τῶν πολιτικῶν κατέχει. τὸ δʼ ἡμέτερον οὐκ ἄξιον λέγειν, τὸ δαιμόνιον σημεῖον· ἢ γάρ πού τινι ἄλλῳ ἢ οὐδενὶ τῶν ἔμπροσθεν γέγονεν. καὶ τούτων δὴ τῶν ὀλίγων οἱ γενόμενοι καὶ γευσάμενοι ὡς ἡδὺ καὶ μακάριον τὸ κτῆμα, καὶ τῶν πολλῶν αὖ ἱκανῶς ἰδόντες τὴν μανίαν, καὶ ὅτι οὐδεὶς οὐδὲν ὑγιὲς ὡς ἔπος εἰπεῖν περὶ τὰ τῶν πόλεων πράττει οὐδʼ ἔστι [496d] σύμμαχος μεθʼ ὅτου τις ἰὼν ἐπὶ τὴν τῷ δικαίῳ βοήθειαν σῴζοιτʼ ἄν, ἀλλʼ ὥσπερ εἰς θηρία ἄνθρωπος ἐμπεσών, οὔτε συναδικεῖν ἐθέλων οὔτε ἱκανὸς ὢν εἷς πᾶσιν ἀγρίοις ἀντέχειν, πρίν τι τὴν πόλιν ἢ φίλους ὀνῆσαι προαπολόμενος ἀνωφελὴς αὑτῷ τε καὶ τοῖς ἄλλοις ἂν γένοιτο—ταῦτα πάντα λογισμῷ λαβών, ἡσυχίαν ἔχων καὶ τὰ αὑτοῦ πράττων, οἷον ἐν χειμῶνι κονιορτοῦ καὶ ζάλης ὑπὸ πνεύματος φερομένου ὑπὸ τειχίον ἀποστάς, ὁρῶν τοὺς ἄλλους καταπιμπλαμένους ἀνομίας, ἀγαπᾷ εἴ πῃ αὐτὸς καθαρὸς ἀδικίας τε καὶ ἀνοσίων [496e] ἔργων τόν τε ἐνθάδε βίον βιώσεται καὶ τὴν ἀπαλλαγὴν αὐτοῦ μετὰ καλῆς ἐλπίδος ἵλεώς τε καὶ εὐμενὴς ἀπαλλάξεται.

[497a]
ἀλλά τοι, ἦ δʼ ὅς, οὐ τὰ ἐλάχιστα ἂν διαπραξάμενος ἀπαλλάττοιτο.
οὐδέ γε, εἶπον, τὰ μέγιστα, μὴ τυχὼν πολιτείας προσηκούσης· ἐν γὰρ προσηκούσῃ αὐτός τε μᾶλλον αὐξήσεται καὶ μετὰ τῶν ἰδίων τὰ κοινὰ σώσει.
τὸ μὲν οὖν τῆς φιλοσοφίας ὧν ἕνεκα διαβολὴν εἴληφεν καὶ ὅτι οὐ δικαίως, ἐμοὶ μὲν δοκεῖ μετρίως εἰρῆσθαι, εἰ μὴ ἔτʼ ἄλλο λέγεις τι σύ.
ἀλλʼ οὐδέν, ἦ δʼ ὅς, ἔτι λέγω περὶ τούτου· ἀλλὰ τὴν προσήκουσαν αὐτῇ τίνα τῶν νῦν λέγεις πολιτειῶν; [497b]
οὐδʼ ἡντινοῦν, εἶπον, ἀλλὰ τοῦτο καὶ ἐπαιτιῶμαι, μηδεμίαν ἀξίαν εἶναι τῶν νῦν κατάστασιν πόλεως φιλοσόφου φύσεως· διὸ καὶ στρέφεσθαί τε καὶ ἀλλοιοῦσθαι αὐτήν, ὥσπερ ξενικὸν σπέρμα ἐν γῇ ἄλλῃ σπειρόμενον ἐξίτηλον εἰς τὸ ἐπιχώριον φιλεῖ κρατούμενον ἰέναι, οὕτω καὶ τοῦτο τὸ γένος νῦν μὲν οὐκ ἴσχειν τὴν αὑτοῦ δύναμιν, ἀλλʼ εἰς ἀλλότριον ἦθος ἐκπίπτειν· εἰ δὲ λήψεται τὴν ἀρίστην πολιτείαν, ὥσπερ [497c] καὶ αὐτὸ ἄριστόν ἐστιν, τότε δηλώσει ὅτι τοῦτο μὲν τῷ ὄντι θεῖον ἦν, τὰ δὲ ἄλλα ἀνθρώπινα, τά τε τῶν φύσεων καὶ τῶν ἐπιτηδευμάτων. δῆλος δὴ οὖν εἶ ὅτι μετὰ τοῦτο ἐρήσῃ τίς αὕτη ἡ πολιτεία.
οὐκ ἔγνως, ἔφη· οὐ γὰρ τοῦτο ἔμελλον, ἀλλʼ εἰ αὑτὴ ἣν ἡμεῖς διεληλύθαμεν οἰκίζοντες τὴν πόλιν ἢ ἄλλη.
τὰ μὲν ἄλλα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, αὕτη· τοῦτο δὲ αὐτὸ ἐρρήθη μὲν καὶ τότε, ὅτι δεήσοι τι ἀεὶ ἐνεῖναι ἐν τῇ πόλει λόγον [497d] ἔχον τῆς πολιτείας τὸν αὐτὸν ὅνπερ καὶ σὺ ὁ νομοθέτης ἔχων τοὺς νόμους ἐτίθεις.
ἐρρήθη γάρ, ἔφη.
ἀλλʼ οὐχ ἱκανῶς, εἶπον, ἐδηλώθη, φόβῳ ὧν ὑμεῖς ἀντιλαμβανόμενοι δεδηλώκατε μακρὰν καὶ χαλεπὴν αὐτοῦ τὴν ἀπόδειξιν· ἐπεὶ καὶ τὸ λοιπὸν οὐ πάντων ῥᾷστον διελθεῖν.
τὸ ποῖον;
τίνα τρόπον μεταχειριζομένη πόλις φιλοσοφίαν οὐ διολεῖται. τὰ γὰρ δὴ μεγάλα πάντα ἐπισφαλῆ, καὶ τὸ λεγόμενον τὰ καλὰ τῷ ὄντι χαλεπά. [497e]
ἀλλʼ ὅμως, ἔφη, λαβέτω τέλος ἡ ἀπόδειξις τούτου φανεροῦ γενομένου.
οὐ τὸ μὴ βούλεσθαι, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἀλλʼ εἴπερ, τὸ μὴ δύνασθαι διακωλύσει· παρὼν δὲ τήν γʼ ἐμὴν προθυμίαν εἴσῃ. σκόπει δὲ καὶ νῦν ὡς προθύμως καὶ παρακινδυνευτικῶς μέλλω λέγειν, ὅτι τοὐναντίον ἢ νῦν δεῖ τοῦ ἐπιτηδεύματος τούτου πόλιν ἅπτεσθαι.
πῶς;
νῦν μέν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, οἱ καὶ ἁπτόμενοι μειράκια ὄντα ἄρτι

[498a] ἐκ παίδων τὸ μεταξὺ οἰκονομίας καὶ χρηματισμοῦ πλησιάσαντες αὐτοῦ τῷ χαλεπωτάτῳ ἀπαλλάττονται, οἱ φιλοσοφώτατοι ποιούμενοι—λέγω δὲ χαλεπώτατον τὸ περὶ τοὺς λόγους —ἐν δὲ τῷ ἔπειτα, ἐὰν καὶ ἄλλων τοῦτο πραττόντων παρακαλούμενοι ἐθέλωσιν ἀκροαταὶ γίγνεσθαι, μεγάλα ἡγοῦνται, πάρεργον οἰόμενοι αὐτὸ δεῖν πράττειν· πρὸς δὲ τὸ γῆρας ἐκτὸς δή τινων ὀλίγων ἀποσβέννυνται πολὺ μᾶλλον τοῦ [498b] Ἡρακλειτείου ἡλίου, ὅσον αὖθις οὐκ ἐξάπτονται.
δεῖ δὲ πῶς; ἔφη.
πᾶν τοὐναντίον· μειράκια μὲν ὄντα καὶ παῖδας μειρακιώδη παιδείαν καὶ φιλοσοφίαν μεταχειρίζεσθαι, τῶν τε σωμάτων, ἐν ᾧ βλαστάνει τε καὶ ἀνδροῦται, εὖ μάλα ἐπιμελεῖσθαι, ὑπηρεσίαν φιλοσοφίᾳ κτωμένους· προϊούσης δὲ τῆς ἡλικίας, ἐν ᾗ ἡ ψυχὴ τελεοῦσθαι ἄρχεται, ἐπιτείνειν τὰ ἐκείνης γυμνάσια· ὅταν δὲ λήγῃ μὲν ἡ ῥώμη, πολιτικῶν δὲ καὶ [498c] στρατειῶν ἐκτὸς γίγνηται, τότε ἤδη ἀφέτους νέμεσθαι καὶ μηδὲν ἄλλο πράττειν, ὅτι μὴ πάρεργον, τοὺς μέλλοντας εὐδαιμόνως βιώσεσθαι καὶ τελευτήσαντας τῷ βίῳ τῷ βεβιωμένῳ τὴν ἐκεῖ μοῖραν ἐπιστήσειν πρέπουσαν.
ὡς ἀληθῶς μοι δοκεῖς, ἔφη, λέγειν γε προθύμως, ὦ Σώκρατες· οἶμαι μέντοι τοὺς πολλοὺς τῶν ἀκουόντων προθυμότερον ἔτι ἀντιτείνειν οὐδʼ ὁπωστιοῦν πεισομένους, ἀπὸ Θρασυμάχου ἀρξαμένους.
μὴ διάβαλλε, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἐμὲ καὶ Θρασύμαχον ἄρτι [498d] φίλους γεγονότας, οὐδὲ πρὸ τοῦ ἐχθροὺς ὄντας. πείρας γὰρ οὐδὲν ἀνήσομεν, ἕως ἂν ἢ πείσωμεν καὶ τοῦτον καὶ τοὺς ἄλλους, ἢ προὔργου τι ποιήσωμεν εἰς ἐκεῖνον τὸν βίον, ὅταν αὖθις γενόμενοι τοῖς τοιούτοις ἐντύχωσι λόγοις.
εἰς μικρόν γʼ, ἔφη, χρόνον εἴρηκας.
εἰς οὐδὲν μὲν οὖν, ἔφην, ὥς γε πρὸς τὸν ἅπαντα. τὸ μέντοι μὴ πείθεσθαι τοῖς λεγομένοις τοὺς πολλοὺς θαῦμα οὐδέν· οὐ γὰρ πώποτε εἶδον γενόμενον τὸ νῦν λεγόμενον, [498e] ἀλλὰ πολὺ μᾶλλον τοιαῦτʼ ἄττα ῥήματα ἐξεπίτηδες ἀλλήλοις ὡμοιωμένα, ἀλλʼ οὐκ ἀπὸ τοῦ αὐτομάτου ὥσπερ νῦν συμπεσόντα.
ἄνδρα δὲ ἀρετῇ παρισωμένον καὶ ὡμοιωμένον μέχρι τοῦ δυνατοῦ τελέως ἔργῳ τε καὶ λόγῳ, δυναστεύοντα

[499a] ἐν πόλει ἑτέρᾳ τοιαύτῃ, οὐ πώποτε ἑωράκασιν, οὔτε ἕνα οὔτε πλείους. ἢ οἴει;
οὐδαμῶς γε.
οὐδέ γε αὖ λόγων, ὦ μακάριε, καλῶν τε καὶ ἐλευθέρων ἱκανῶς ἐπήκοοι γεγόνασιν, οἵων ζητεῖν μὲν τὸ ἀληθὲς συντεταμένως ἐκ παντὸς τρόπου τοῦ γνῶναι χάριν, τὰ δὲ κομψά τε καὶ ἐριστικὰ καὶ μηδαμόσε ἄλλοσε τείνοντα ἢ πρὸς δόξαν καὶ ἔριν καὶ ἐν δίκαις καὶ ἐν ἰδίαις συνουσίαις πόρρωθεν ἀσπαζομένων.
οὐδὲ τούτων, ἔφη.
τούτων τοι χάριν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καὶ ταῦτα προορώμενοι [499b] ἡμεῖς τότε καὶ δεδιότες ὅμως ἐλέγομεν, ὑπὸ τἀληθοῦς ἠναγκασμένοι, ὅτι οὔτε πόλις οὔτε πολιτεία οὐδέ γʼ ἀνὴρ ὁμοίως μή ποτε γένηται τέλεος, πρὶν ἂν τοῖς φιλοσόφοις τούτοις τοῖς ὀλίγοις καὶ οὐ πονηροῖς, ἀχρήστοις δὲ νῦν κεκλημένοις, ἀνάγκη τις ἐκ τύχης περιβάλῃ, εἴτε βούλονται εἴτε μή, πόλεως ἐπιμεληθῆναι, καὶ τῇ πόλει κατηκόῳ γενέσθαι, ἢ τῶν νῦν ἐν δυναστείαις ἢ βασιλείαις ὄντων ὑέσιν ἢ αὐτοῖς [499c] ἔκ τινος θείας ἐπιπνοίας ἀληθινῆς φιλοσοφίας ἀληθινὸς ἔρως ἐμπέσῃ. τούτων δὲ πότερα γενέσθαι ἢ ἀμφότερα ὡς ἄρα ἐστὶν ἀδύνατον, ἐγὼ μὲν οὐδένα φημὶ ἔχειν λόγον. οὕτω γὰρ ἂν ἡμεῖς δικαίως καταγελῴμεθα, ὡς ἄλλως εὐχαῖς ὅμοια λέγοντες. ἢ οὐχ οὕτως;
οὕτως.
εἰ τοίνυν ἄκροις εἰς φιλοσοφίαν πόλεώς τις ἀνάγκη ἐπιμεληθῆναι ἢ γέγονεν ἐν τῷ ἀπείρῳ τῷ παρεληλυθότι χρόνῳ ἢ καὶ νῦν ἔστιν ἔν τινι βαρβαρικῷ τόπῳ, πόρρω που [499d] ἐκτὸς ὄντι τῆς ἡμετέρας ἐπόψεως, ἢ καὶ ἔπειτα γενήσεται, περὶ τούτου ἕτοιμοι τῷ λόγῳ διαμάχεσθαι, ὡς γέγονεν ἡ εἰρημένη πολιτεία καὶ ἔστιν καὶ γενήσεταί γε, ὅταν αὕτη ἡ Μοῦσα πόλεως ἐγκρατὴς γένηται. οὐ γὰρ ἀδύνατος γενέσθαι, οὐδʼ ἡμεῖς ἀδύνατα λέγομεν· χαλεπὰ δὲ καὶ παρʼ ἡμῶν ὁμολογεῖται.
καὶ ἐμοί, ἔφη, οὕτω δοκεῖ.
τοῖς δὲ πολλοῖς, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὅτι οὐκ αὖ δοκεῖ, ἐρεῖς;
ἴσως, ἔφη.
ὦ μακάριε, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, μὴ πάνυ οὕτω τῶν πολλῶν κατηγόρει. [499e] ἀλλοίαν τοι δόξαν ἕξουσιν, ἐὰν αὐτοῖς μὴ φιλονικῶν ἀλλὰ παραμυθούμενος καὶ ἀπολυόμενος τὴν τῆς φιλομαθείας διαβολὴν ἐνδεικνύῃ οὓς λέγεις τοὺς φιλοσόφους, καὶ διορίζῃ

[500a] ὥσπερ ἄρτι τήν τε φύσιν αὐτῶν καὶ τὴν ἐπιτήδευσιν, ἵνα μὴ ἡγῶνταί σε λέγειν οὓς αὐτοὶ οἴονται.
[ἢ καὶ ἐὰν οὕτω θεῶνται, ἀλλοίαν τοι φήσεις αὐτοὺς δόξαν λήψεσθαι καὶ ἄλλα ἀποκρινεῖσθαι.] ἢ οἴει τινὰ χαλεπαίνειν τῷ μὴ χαλεπῷ ἢ φθονεῖν τῷ μὴ φθονερῷ ἄφθονόν τε καὶ πρᾷον ὄντα; ἐγὼ μὲν γάρ σε προφθάσας λέγω ὅτι ἐν ὀλίγοις τισὶν ἡγοῦμαι, ἀλλʼ οὐκ ἐν τῷ πλήθει, χαλεπὴν οὕτω φύσιν γίγνεσθαι.
καὶ ἐγὼ ἀμέλει, ἔφη, συνοίομαι. [500b]
οὐκοῦν καὶ αὐτὸ τοῦτο συνοίει, τοῦ χαλεπῶς πρὸς φιλοσοφίαν τοὺς πολλοὺς διακεῖσθαι ἐκείνους αἰτίους εἶναι τοὺς ἔξωθεν οὐ προσῆκον ἐπεισκεκωμακότας, λοιδορουμένους τε αὑτοῖς καὶ φιλαπεχθημόνως ἔχοντας καὶ ἀεὶ περὶ ἀνθρώπων τοὺς λόγους ποιουμένους, ἥκιστα φιλοσοφίᾳ πρέπον ποιοῦντας;
πολύ γʼ, ἔφη.
οὐδὲ γάρ που, ὦ Ἀδείμαντε, σχολὴ τῷ γε ὡς ἀληθῶς πρὸς τοῖς οὖσι τὴν διάνοιαν ἔχοντι κάτω βλέπειν εἰς ἀνθρώπων [500c] πραγματείας, καὶ μαχόμενον αὐτοῖς φθόνου τε καὶ δυσμενείας ἐμπίμπλασθαι, ἀλλʼ εἰς τεταγμένα ἄττα καὶ κατὰ ταὐτὰ ἀεὶ ἔχοντα ὁρῶντας καὶ θεωμένους οὔτʼ ἀδικοῦντα οὔτʼ ἀδικούμενα ὑπʼ ἀλλήλων, κόσμῳ δὲ πάντα καὶ κατὰ λόγον ἔχοντα, ταῦτα μιμεῖσθαί τε καὶ ὅτι μάλιστα ἀφομοιοῦσθαι. ἢ οἴει τινὰ μηχανὴν εἶναι, ὅτῳ τις ὁμιλεῖ ἀγάμενος, μὴ μιμεῖσθαι ἐκεῖνο;
ἀδύνατον, ἔφη.
θείῳ δὴ καὶ κοσμίῳ ὅ γε φιλόσοφος ὁμιλῶν κόσμιός τε [500d] καὶ θεῖος εἰς τὸ δυνατὸν ἀνθρώπῳ γίγνεται· διαβολὴ δʼ ἐν πᾶσι πολλή.
παντάπασι μὲν οὖν.
ἂν οὖν τις, εἶπον, αὐτῷ ἀνάγκη γένηται ἃ ἐκεῖ ὁρᾷ μελετῆσαι εἰς ἀνθρώπων ἤθη καὶ ἰδίᾳ καὶ δημοσίᾳ τιθέναι καὶ μὴ μόνον ἑαυτὸν πλάττειν, ἆρα κακὸν δημιουργὸν αὐτὸν οἴει γενήσεσθαι σωφροσύνης τε καὶ δικαιοσύνης καὶ συμπάσης τῆς δημοτικῆς ἀρετῆς;
ἥκιστά γε, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
ἀλλʼ ἐὰν δὴ αἴσθωνται οἱ πολλοὶ ὅτι ἀληθῆ περὶ αὐτοῦ [500e] λέγομεν, χαλεπανοῦσι δὴ τοῖς φιλοσόφοις καὶ ἀπιστήσουσιν ἡμῖν λέγουσιν ὡς οὐκ ἄν ποτε ἄλλως εὐδαιμονήσειε πόλις, εἰ μὴ αὐτὴν διαγράψειαν οἱ τῷ θείῳ παραδείγματι χρώμενοι ζωγράφοι;
οὐ χαλεπανοῦσιν, ἦ δʼ ὅς, ἐάνπερ αἴσθωνται.
ἀλλὰ δὴ

### Book VI, 501–508

[501a]
τίνα λέγεις τρόπον τῆς διαγραφῆς;
λαβόντες, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὥσπερ πίνακα πόλιν τε καὶ ἤθη ἀνθρώπων, πρῶτον μὲν καθαρὰν ποιήσειαν ἄν, ὃ οὐ πάνυ ῥᾴδιον· ἀλλʼ οὖν οἶσθʼ ὅτι τούτῳ ἂν εὐθὺς τῶν ἄλλων διενέγκοιεν, τῷ μήτε ἰδιώτου μήτε πόλεως ἐθελῆσαι ἂν ἅψασθαι μηδὲ γράφειν νόμους, πρὶν ἢ παραλαβεῖν καθαρὰν ἢ αὐτοὶ ποιῆσαι.
καὶ ὀρθῶς γʼ, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν μετὰ ταῦτα οἴει ὑπογράψασθαι ἂν τὸ σχῆμα τῆς πολιτείας;
τί μήν; [501b]
ἔπειτα οἶμαι ἀπεργαζόμενοι πυκνὰ ἂν ἑκατέρωσʼ ἀποβλέποιεν, πρός τε τὸ φύσει δίκαιον καὶ καλὸν καὶ σῶφρον καὶ πάντα τὰ τοιαῦτα, καὶ πρὸς ἐκεῖνʼ αὖ τὸ ἐν τοῖς ἀνθρώποις ἐμποιοῖεν, συμμειγνύντες τε καὶ κεραννύντες ἐκ τῶν ἐπιτηδευμάτων τὸ ἀνδρείκελον, ἀπʼ ἐκείνου τεκμαιρόμενοι, ὃ δὴ καὶ Ὅμηρος ἐκάλεσεν ἐν τοῖς ἀνθρώποις ἐγγιγνόμενον θεοειδές τε καὶ θεοείκελον.
ὀρθῶς, ἔφη.
καὶ τὸ μὲν ἂν οἶμαι ἐξαλείφοιεν, τὸ δὲ πάλιν ἐγγράφοιεν, [501c] ἕως ὅτι μάλιστα ἀνθρώπεια ἤθη εἰς ὅσον ἐνδέχεται θεοφιλῆ ποιήσειαν.
καλλίστη γοῦν ἄν, ἔφη, ἡ γραφὴ γένοιτο.
ἆρʼ οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, πείθομέν πῃ ἐκείνους, οὓς διατεταμένους ἐφʼ ἡμᾶς ἔφησθα ἰέναι, ὡς τοιοῦτός ἐστι πολιτειῶν ζωγράφος ὃν τότʼ ἐπῃνοῦμεν πρὸς αὐτούς, διʼ ὃν ἐκεῖνοι ἐχαλέπαινον ὅτι τὰς πόλεις αὐτῷ παρεδίδομεν, καί τι μᾶλλον αὐτὸ νῦν ἀκούοντες πραΰνονται;
καὶ πολύ γε, ἦ δʼ ὅς, εἰ σωφρονοῦσιν. [501d]
πῇ γὰρ δὴ ἕξουσιν ἀμφισβητῆσαι; πότερον μὴ τοῦ ὄντος τε καὶ ἀληθείας ἐραστὰς εἶναι τοὺς φιλοσόφους;
ἄτοπον μεντἄν, ἔφη, εἴη.
ἀλλὰ μὴ τὴν φύσιν αὐτῶν οἰκείαν εἶναι τοῦ ἀρίστου, ἣν ἡμεῖς διήλθομεν;
οὐδὲ τοῦτο.
τί δέ; τὴν τοιαύτην τυχοῦσαν τῶν προσηκόντων ἐπιτηδευμάτων οὐκ ἀγαθὴν τελέως ἔσεσθαι καὶ φιλόσοφον, εἴπερ τινὰ ἄλλην; ἢ ἐκείνους φήσει μᾶλλον, οὓς ἡμεῖς ἀφωρίσαμεν; [501e]
οὐ δήπου.
ἔτι οὖν ἀγριανοῦσι λεγόντων ἡμῶν ὅτι πρὶν ἂν πόλεως τὸ φιλόσοφον γένος ἐγκρατὲς γένηται, οὔτε πόλει οὔτε πολίταις κακῶν παῦλα ἔσται, οὐδὲ ἡ πολιτεία ἣν μυθολογοῦμεν λόγῳ ἔργῳ τέλος λήψεται;
ἴσως, ἔφη, ἧττον.
βούλει οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, μὴ ἧττον φῶμεν αὐτοὺς ἀλλὰ

[502a]
παντάπασι πρᾴους γεγονέναι καὶ πεπεῖσθαι, ἵνα, εἰ μή τι, ἀλλὰ αἰσχυνθέντες ὁμολογήσωσιν;
πάνυ μὲν οὖν, ἔφη.
οὗτοι μὲν τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τοῦτο πεπεισμένοι ἔστων· τοῦδε δὲ πέρι τις ἀμφισβητήσει, ὡς οὐκ ἂν τύχοιεν γενόμενοι βασιλέων ἔκγονοι ἢ δυναστῶν τὰς φύσεις φιλόσοφοι;
οὐδʼ ἂν εἷς, ἔφη.
τοιούτους δὲ γενομένους ὡς πολλὴ ἀνάγκη διαφθαρῆναι, ἔχει τις λέγειν; ὡς μὲν γὰρ χαλεπὸν σωθῆναι, καὶ ἡμεῖς [502b] συγχωροῦμεν· ὡς δὲ ἐν παντὶ τῷ χρόνῳ τῶν πάντων οὐδέποτε οὐδʼ ἂν εἷς σωθείη, ἔσθʼ ὅστις ἀμφισβητήσειε;
καὶ πῶς;
ἀλλὰ μήν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, εἷς ἱκανὸς γενόμενος, πόλιν ἔχων πειθομένην, πάντʼ ἐπιτελέσαι τὰ νῦν ἀπιστούμενα.
ἱκανὸς γάρ, ἔφη.
ἄρχοντος γάρ που, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τιθέντος τοὺς νόμους καὶ τὰ ἐπιτηδεύματα ἃ διεληλύθαμεν, οὐ δήπου ἀδύνατον ἐθέλειν ποιεῖν τοὺς πολίτας.
οὐδʼ ὁπωστιοῦν.
ἀλλὰ δή, ἅπερ ἡμῖν δοκεῖ, δόξαι καὶ ἄλλοις θαυμαστόν τι καὶ ἀδύνατον; [502c]
οὐκ οἶμαι ἔγωγε, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
καὶ μὴν ὅτι γε βέλτιστα, εἴπερ δυνατά, ἱκανῶς ἐν τοῖς ἔμπροσθεν, ὡς ἐγᾦμαι, διήλθομεν.
ἱκανῶς γάρ.
νῦν δή, ὡς ἔοικεν, συμβαίνει ἡμῖν περὶ τῆς νομοθεσίας ἄριστα μὲν εἶναι ἃ λέγομεν, εἰ γένοιτο, χαλεπὰ δὲ γενέσθαι, οὐ μέντοι ἀδύνατά γε.
συμβαίνει γάρ, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν ἐπειδὴ τοῦτο μόγις τέλος ἔσχεν, τὰ ἐπίλοιπα δὴ μετὰ τοῦτο λεκτέον, τίνα τρόπον ἡμῖν καὶ ἐκ τίνων μαθημάτων [502d] τε καὶ ἐπιτηδευμάτων οἱ σωτῆρες ἐνέσονται τῆς πολιτείας, καὶ κατὰ ποίας ἡλικίας ἕκαστοι ἑκάστων ἁπτόμενοι;
λεκτέον μέντοι, ἔφη.
οὐδέν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τὸ σοφόν μοι ἐγένετο τήν τε τῶν γυναικῶν τῆς κτήσεως δυσχέρειαν ἐν τῷ πρόσθεν παραλιπόντι καὶ παιδογονίαν καὶ τὴν τῶν ἀρχόντων κατάστασιν, εἰδότι ὡς ἐπίφθονός τε καὶ χαλεπὴ γίγνεσθαι ἡ παντελῶς ἀληθής· νῦν γὰρ οὐδὲν ἧττον ἦλθεν τὸ δεῖν αὐτὰ διελθεῖν. [502e] καὶ τὰ μὲν δὴ τῶν γυναικῶν τε καὶ παίδων πεπέρανται, τὸ δὲ τῶν ἀρχόντων ὥσπερ ἐξ ἀρχῆς μετελθεῖν δεῖ.
ἐλέγομεν

[503a] δʼ, εἰ μνημονεύεις, δεῖν αὐτοὺς φιλοπόλιδάς τε φαίνεσθαι, βασανιζομένους ἐν ἡδοναῖς τε καὶ λύπαις, καὶ τὸ δόγμα τοῦτο μήτʼ ἐν πόνοις μήτʼ ἐν φόβοις μήτʼ ἐν ἄλλῃ μηδεμιᾷ μεταβολῇ φαίνεσθαι ἐκβάλλοντας, ἢ τὸν ἀδυνατοῦντα ἀποκριτέον, τὸν δὲ πανταχοῦ ἀκήρατον ἐκβαίνοντα ὥσπερ χρυσὸν ἐν πυρὶ βασανιζόμενον, στατέον ἄρχοντα καὶ γέρα δοτέον καὶ ζῶντι καὶ τελευτήσαντι καὶ ἆθλα. τοιαῦτʼ ἄττα ἦν τὰ λεγόμενα παρεξιόντος καὶ παρακαλυπτομένου τοῦ [503b] λόγου, πεφοβημένου κινεῖν τὸ νῦν παρόν.
ἀληθέστατα, ἔφη, λέγεις· μέμνημαι γάρ.
ὄκνος γάρ, ἔφην, ὦ φίλε, ἐγώ, εἰπεῖν τὰ νῦν ἀποτετολμημένα· νῦν δὲ τοῦτο μὲν τετολμήσθω εἰπεῖν, ὅτι τοὺς ἀκριβεστάτους φύλακας φιλοσόφους δεῖ καθιστάναι.
εἰρήσθω γάρ, ἔφη.
νόησον δὴ ὡς εἰκότως ὀλίγοι ἔσονταί σοι· ἣν γὰρ διήλθομεν φύσιν δεῖν ὑπάρχειν αὐτοῖς, εἰς ταὐτὸν συμφύεσθαι αὐτῆς τὰ μέρη ὀλιγάκις ἐθέλει, τὰ πολλὰ δὲ διεσπασμένη φύεται. [503c]
πῶς, ἔφη, λέγεις;
εὐμαθεῖς καὶ μνήμονες καὶ ἀγχίνοι καὶ ὀξεῖς καὶ ὅσα ἄλλα τούτοις ἕπεται οἶσθʼ ὅτι οὐκ ἐθέλουσιν ἅμα φύεσθαι καὶ νεανικοί τε καὶ μεγαλοπρεπεῖς τὰς διανοίας οἷοι κοσμίως μετὰ ἡσυχίας καὶ βεβαιότητος ἐθέλειν ζῆν, ἀλλʼ οἱ τοιοῦτοι ὑπὸ ὀξύτητος φέρονται ὅπῃ ἂν τύχωσιν, καὶ τὸ βέβαιον ἅπαν αὐτῶν ἐξοίχεται.
ἀληθῆ, ἔφη, λέγεις.
οὐκοῦν τὰ βέβαια αὖ ταῦτα ἤθη καὶ οὐκ εὐμετάβολα, οἷς [503d] ἄν τις μᾶλλον ὡς πιστοῖς χρήσαιτο, καὶ ἐν τῷ πολέμῳ πρὸς τοὺς φόβους δυσκίνητα ὄντα, πρὸς τὰς μαθήσεις αὖ ποιεῖ ταὐτόν· δυσκινήτως ἔχει καὶ δυσμαθῶς ὥσπερ ἀπονεναρκωμένα, καὶ ὕπνου τε καὶ χάσμης ἐμπίμπλανται, ὅταν τι δέῃ τοιοῦτον διαπονεῖν.
ἔστι ταῦτα, ἔφη.
ἡμεῖς δέ γέ φαμεν ἀμφοτέρων δεῖν εὖ τε καὶ καλῶς μετέχειν, ἢ μήτε παιδείας τῆς ἀκριβεστάτης δεῖν αὐτῷ μεταδιδόναι μήτε τιμῆς μήτε ἀρχῆς.
ὀρθῶς, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
οὐκοῦν σπάνιον αὐτὸ οἴει ἔσεσθαι;
πῶς δʼ οὔ; [503e]
βασανιστέον δὴ ἔν τε οἷς τότε ἐλέγομεν πόνοις τε καὶ φόβοις καὶ ἡδοναῖς, καὶ ἔτι δὴ ὃ τότε παρεῖμεν νῦν λέγομεν, ὅτι καὶ ἐν μαθήμασι πολλοῖς γυμνάζειν δεῖ, σκοποῦντας εἰ καὶ τὰ μέγιστα μαθήματα δυνατὴ ἔσται ἐνεγκεῖν εἴτε καὶ

[504a]
ἀποδειλιάσει, ὥσπερ οἱ ἐν τοῖς ἄλλοις ἀποδειλιῶντες.
πρέπει γέ τοι δή, ἔφη, οὕτω σκοπεῖν. ἀλλὰ ποῖα δὴ λέγεις μαθήματα μέγιστα;
μνημονεύεις μέν που, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὅτι τριττὰ εἴδη ψυχῆς διαστησάμενοι συνεβιβάζομεν δικαιοσύνης τε πέρι καὶ σωφροσύνης καὶ ἀνδρείας καὶ σοφίας ὃ ἕκαστον εἴη.
μὴ γὰρ μνημονεύων, ἔφη, τὰ λοιπὰ ἂν εἴην δίκαιος μὴ ἀκούειν.
ἦ καὶ τὸ προρρηθὲν αὐτῶν;
τὸ ποῖον δή; [504b]
ἐλέγομέν που ὅτι ὡς μὲν δυνατὸν ἦν κάλλιστα αὐτὰ κατιδεῖν ἄλλη μακροτέρα εἴη περίοδος, ἣν περιελθόντι καταφανῆ γίγνοιτο, τῶν μέντοι ἔμπροσθεν προειρημένων ἑπομένας ἀποδείξεις οἷόν τʼ εἴη προσάψαι. καὶ ὑμεῖς ἐξαρκεῖν ἔφατε, καὶ οὕτω δὴ ἐρρήθη τὰ τότε τῆς μὲν ἀκριβείας, ὡς ἐμοὶ ἐφαίνετο, ἐλλιπῆ, εἰ δὲ ὑμῖν ἀρεσκόντως, ὑμεῖς ἂν τοῦτο εἴποιτε.
ἀλλʼ ἔμοιγε, ἔφη, μετρίως· ἐφαίνετο μὴν καὶ τοῖς ἄλλοις. [504c]
ἀλλʼ, ὦ φίλε, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, μέτρον τῶν τοιούτων ἀπολεῖπον καὶ ὁτιοῦν τοῦ ὄντος οὐ πάνυ μετρίως γίγνεται· ἀτελὲς γὰρ οὐδὲν οὐδενὸς μέτρον. δοκεῖ δʼ ἐνίοτέ τισιν ἱκανῶς ἤδη ἔχειν καὶ οὐδὲν δεῖν περαιτέρω ζητεῖν.
καὶ μάλʼ, ἔφη, συχνοὶ πάσχουσιν αὐτὸ διὰ ῥᾳθυμίαν.
τούτου δέ γε, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τοῦ παθήματος ἥκιστα προσδεῖ φύλακι πόλεώς τε καὶ νόμων.
εἰκός, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
τὴν μακροτέραν τοίνυν, ὦ ἑταῖρε, ἔφην, περιιτέον τῷ [504d] τοιούτῳ, καὶ οὐχ ἧττον μανθάνοντι πονητέον ἢ γυμναζομένῳ· ἤ, ὃ νυνδὴ ἐλέγομεν, τοῦ μεγίστου τε καὶ μάλιστα προσήκοντος μαθήματος ἐπὶ τέλος οὔποτε ἥξει.
οὐ γὰρ ταῦτα, ἔφη, μέγιστα, ἀλλʼ ἔτι τι μεῖζον δικαιοσύνης τε καὶ ὧν διήλθομεν;
καὶ μεῖζον, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καὶ αὐτῶν τούτων οὐχ ὑπογραφὴν δεῖ ὥσπερ νῦν θεάσασθαι, ἀλλὰ τὴν τελεωτάτην ἀπεργασίαν μὴ παριέναι. ἢ οὐ γελοῖον ἐπὶ μὲν ἄλλοις σμικροῦ ἀξίοις [504e] πᾶν ποιεῖν συντεινομένους ὅπως ὅτι ἀκριβέστατα καὶ καθαρώτατα ἕξει, τῶν δὲ μεγίστων μὴ μεγίστας ἀξιοῦν εἶναι καὶ τὰς ἀκριβείας;
καὶ μάλα, ἔφη, [ἄξιον τὸ διανόημα]· ὃ μέντοι μέγιστον μάθημα καὶ περὶ ὅτι αὐτὸ λέγεις, οἴει τινʼ ἄν σε, ἔφη, ἀφεῖναι μὴ ἐρωτήσαντα τί ἐστιν;
οὐ πάνυ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἀλλὰ καὶ σὺ ἐρώτα.
πάντως αὐτὸ οὐκ ὀλιγάκις ἀκήκοας, νῦν δὲ ἢ οὐκ ἐννοεῖς ἢ αὖ διανοῇ

[505a]
ἐμοὶ πράγματα παρέχειν ἀντιλαμβανόμενος. οἶμαι δὲ τοῦτο μᾶλλον· ἐπεὶ ὅτι γε ἡ τοῦ ἀγαθοῦ ἰδέα μέγιστον μάθημα, πολλάκις ἀκήκοας, ᾗ δὴ καὶ δίκαια καὶ τἆλλα προσχρησάμενα χρήσιμα καὶ ὠφέλιμα γίγνεται. καὶ νῦν σχεδὸν οἶσθʼ ὅτι μέλλω τοῦτο λέγειν, καὶ πρὸς τούτῳ ὅτι αὐτὴν οὐχ ἱκανῶς ἴσμεν· εἰ δὲ μὴ ἴσμεν, ἄνευ δὲ ταύτης εἰ ὅτι μάλιστα τἆλλα ἐπισταίμεθα, οἶσθʼ ὅτι οὐδὲν ἡμῖν ὄφελος, ὥσπερ οὐδʼ εἰ [505b] κεκτῄμεθά τι ἄνευ τοῦ ἀγαθοῦ. ἢ οἴει τι πλέον εἶναι πᾶσαν κτῆσιν ἐκτῆσθαι, μὴ μέντοι ἀγαθήν; ἢ πάντα τἆλλα φρονεῖν ἄνευ τοῦ ἀγαθοῦ, καλὸν δὲ καὶ ἀγαθὸν μηδὲν φρονεῖν;
μὰ Δίʼ οὐκ ἔγωγʼ, ἔφη.
ἀλλὰ μὴν καὶ τόδε γε οἶσθα, ὅτι τοῖς μὲν πολλοῖς ἡδονὴ δοκεῖ εἶναι τὸ ἀγαθόν, τοῖς δὲ κομψοτέροις φρόνησις.
πῶς δʼ οὔ;
καὶ ὅτι γε, ὦ φίλε, οἱ τοῦτο ἡγούμενοι οὐκ ἔχουσι δεῖξαι ἥτις φρόνησις, ἀλλʼ ἀναγκάζονται τελευτῶντες τὴν τοῦ ἀγαθοῦ φάναι.
καὶ μάλα, ἔφη, γελοίως. [505c]
πῶς γὰρ οὐχί, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, εἰ ὀνειδίζοντές γε ὅτι οὐκ ἴσμεν τὸ ἀγαθὸν λέγουσι πάλιν ὡς εἰδόσιν; φρόνησιν γὰρ αὐτό φασιν εἶναι ἀγαθοῦ, ὡς αὖ συνιέντων ἡμῶν ὅτι λέγουσιν, ἐπειδὰν τὸ τοῦ ἀγαθοῦ φθέγξωνται ὄνομα.
ἀληθέστατα, ἔφη.
τί δὲ οἱ τὴν ἡδονὴν ἀγαθὸν ὁριζόμενοι; μῶν μή τι ἐλάττονος πλάνης ἔμπλεῳ τῶν ἑτέρων; ἢ οὐ καὶ οὗτοι ἀναγκάζονται ὁμολογεῖν ἡδονὰς εἶναι κακάς;
σφόδρα γε.
συμβαίνει δὴ αὐτοῖς οἶμαι ὁμολογεῖν ἀγαθὰ εἶναι καὶ κακὰ ταὐτά. ἦ γάρ; [505d]
τί μήν;
οὐκοῦν ὅτι μὲν μεγάλαι καὶ πολλαὶ ἀμφισβητήσεις περὶ αὐτοῦ, φανερόν;
πῶς γὰρ οὔ;
τί δέ; τόδε οὐ φανερόν, ὡς δίκαια μὲν καὶ καλὰ πολλοὶ ἂν ἕλοιντο τὰ δοκοῦντα, κἂν εἰ μὴ εἴη, ὅμως ταῦτα πράττειν καὶ κεκτῆσθαι καὶ δοκεῖν, ἀγαθὰ δὲ οὐδενὶ ἔτι ἀρκεῖ τὰ δοκοῦντα κτᾶσθαι, ἀλλὰ τὰ ὄντα ζητοῦσιν, τὴν δὲ δόξαν ἐνταῦθα ἤδη πᾶς ἀτιμάζει;
καὶ μάλα, ἔφη.
ὃ δὴ διώκει μὲν ἅπασα ψυχὴ καὶ τούτου ἕνεκα πάντα [505e] πράττει, ἀπομαντευομένη τι εἶναι, ἀποροῦσα δὲ καὶ οὐκ ἔχουσα λαβεῖν ἱκανῶς τί ποτʼ ἐστὶν οὐδὲ πίστει χρήσασθαι μονίμῳ οἵᾳ καὶ περὶ τἆλλα, διὰ τοῦτο δὲ ἀποτυγχάνει καὶ τῶν ἄλλων εἴ τι ὄφελος ἦν, περὶ δὴ τὸ τοιοῦτον καὶ τοσοῦτον

[506a] οὕτω φῶμεν δεῖν ἐσκοτῶσθαι καὶ ἐκείνους τοὺς βελτίστους ἐν τῇ πόλει, οἷς πάντα ἐγχειριοῦμεν;
ἥκιστά γʼ, ἔφη.
οἶμαι γοῦν, εἶπον, δίκαιά τε καὶ καλὰ ἀγνοούμενα ὅπῃ ποτὲ ἀγαθά ἐστιν, οὐ πολλοῦ τινος ἄξιον φύλακα κεκτῆσθαι ἂν ἑαυτῶν τὸν τοῦτο ἀγνοοῦντα· μαντεύομαι δὲ μηδένα αὐτὰ πρότερον γνώσεσθαι ἱκανῶς.
καλῶς γάρ, ἔφη, μαντεύῃ.
οὐκοῦν ἡμῖν ἡ πολιτεία τελέως κεκοσμήσεται, ἐὰν ὁ [506b] τοιοῦτος αὐτὴν ἐπισκοπῇ φύλαξ, ὁ τούτων ἐπιστήμων;
ἀνάγκη, ἔφη. ἀλλὰ σὺ δή, ὦ Σώκρατες, πότερον ἐπιστήμην τὸ ἀγαθὸν φῂς εἶναι ἢ ἡδονήν, ἢ ἄλλο τι παρὰ ταῦτα;
οὗτος, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἀνήρ, καλῶς ἦσθα καὶ πάλαι καταφανὴς ὅτι σοι οὐκ ἀποχρήσοι τὸ τοῖς ἄλλοις δοκοῦν περὶ αὐτῶν.
οὐδὲ γὰρ δίκαιόν μοι, ἔφη, ὦ Σώκρατες, φαίνεται τὰ τῶν ἄλλων μὲν ἔχειν εἰπεῖν δόγματα, τὸ δʼ αὑτοῦ μή, τοσοῦτον [506c] χρόνον περὶ ταῦτα πραγματευόμενον.
τί δέ; ἦν δʼ ἐγώ· δοκεῖ σοι δίκαιον εἶναι περὶ ὧν τις μὴ οἶδεν λέγειν ὡς εἰδότα;
οὐδαμῶς γʼ, ἔφη, ὡς εἰδότα, ὡς μέντοι οἰόμενον ταῦθʼ ἃ οἴεται ἐθέλειν λέγειν.
τί δέ; εἶπον· οὐκ ᾔσθησαι τὰς ἄνευ ἐπιστήμης δόξας, ὡς πᾶσαι αἰσχραί; ὧν αἱ βέλτισται τυφλαί—ἢ δοκοῦσί τί σοι τυφλῶν διαφέρειν ὁδὸν ὀρθῶς πορευομένων οἱ ἄνευ νοῦ ἀληθές τι δοξάζοντες;
οὐδέν, ἔφη.
βούλει οὖν αἰσχρὰ θεάσασθαι, τυφλά τε καὶ σκολιά, ἐξὸν [506d] παρʼ ἄλλων ἀκούειν φανά τε καὶ καλά;
μὴ πρὸς Διός, ἦ δʼ ὅς, ὦ Σώκρατες, ὁ Γλαύκων, ὥσπερ ἐπὶ τέλει ὢν ἀποστῇς. ἀρκέσει γὰρ ἡμῖν, κἂν ὥσπερ δικαιοσύνης πέρι καὶ σωφροσύνης καὶ τῶν ἄλλων διῆλθες, οὕτω καὶ περὶ τοῦ ἀγαθοῦ διέλθῃς.
καὶ γὰρ ἐμοί, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὦ ἑταῖρε, καὶ μάλα ἀρκέσει· ἀλλʼ ὅπως μὴ οὐχ οἷός τʼ ἔσομαι, προθυμούμενος δὲ ἀσχημονῶν γέλωτα ὀφλήσω. ἀλλʼ, ὦ μακάριοι, αὐτὸ μὲν τί ποτʼ [506e] ἐστὶ τἀγαθὸν ἐάσωμεν τὸ νῦν εἶναι—πλέον γάρ μοι φαίνεται ἢ κατὰ τὴν παροῦσαν ὁρμὴν ἐφικέσθαι τοῦ γε δοκοῦντος ἐμοὶ τὰ νῦν—ὃς δὲ ἔκγονός τε τοῦ ἀγαθοῦ φαίνεται καὶ ὁμοιότατος ἐκείνῳ, λέγειν ἐθέλω, εἰ καὶ ὑμῖν φίλον, εἰ δὲ μή, ἐᾶν.
ἀλλʼ, ἔφη, λέγε· εἰς αὖθις γὰρ τοῦ πατρὸς ἀποτείσεις τὴν διήγησιν.

[507a]
βουλοίμην ἄν, εἶπον, ἐμέ τε δύνασθαι αὐτὴν ἀποδοῦναι καὶ ὑμᾶς κομίσασθαι, ἀλλὰ μὴ ὥσπερ νῦν τοὺς τόκους μόνον. τοῦτον δὲ δὴ οὖν τὸν τόκον τε καὶ ἔκγονον αὐτοῦ τοῦ ἀγαθοῦ κομίσασθε. εὐλαβεῖσθε μέντοι μή πῃ ἐξαπατήσω ὑμᾶς ἄκων, κίβδηλον ἀποδιδοὺς τὸν λόγον τοῦ τόκου.
εὐλαβησόμεθα, ἔφη, κατὰ δύναμιν· ἀλλὰ μόνον λέγε.
διομολογησάμενός γʼ ἔφην ἐγώ, καὶ ἀναμνήσας ὑμᾶς τά τʼ ἐν τοῖς ἔμπροσθεν ῥηθέντα καὶ ἄλλοτε ἤδη πολλάκις εἰρημένα. [507b]
τὰ ποῖα; ἦ δʼ ὅς.
πολλὰ καλά, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καὶ πολλὰ ἀγαθὰ καὶ ἕκαστα οὕτως εἶναί φαμέν τε καὶ διορίζομεν τῷ λόγῳ.
φαμὲν γάρ.
καὶ αὐτὸ δὴ καλὸν καὶ αὐτὸ ἀγαθόν, καὶ οὕτω περὶ πάντων ἃ τότε ὡς πολλὰ ἐτίθεμεν, πάλιν αὖ κατʼ ἰδέαν μίαν ἑκάστου ὡς μιᾶς οὔσης τιθέντες, ὃ ἔστιν ἕκαστον προσαγορεύομεν.
ἔστι ταῦτα.
καὶ τὰ μὲν δὴ ὁρᾶσθαί φαμεν, νοεῖσθαι δʼ οὔ, τὰς δʼ αὖ ἰδέας νοεῖσθαι μέν, ὁρᾶσθαι δʼ οὔ.
παντάπασι μὲν οὖν. [507c]
τῷ οὖν ὁρῶμεν ἡμῶν αὐτῶν τὰ ὁρώμενα;
τῇ ὄψει, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καὶ ἀκοῇ τὰ ἀκουόμενα, καὶ ταῖς ἄλλαις αἰσθήσεσι πάντα τὰ αἰσθητά;
τί μήν;
ἆρʼ οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἐννενόηκας τὸν τῶν αἰσθήσεων δημιουργὸν ὅσῳ πολυτελεστάτην τὴν τοῦ ὁρᾶν τε καὶ ὁρᾶσθαι δύναμιν ἐδημιούργησεν;
οὐ πάνυ, ἔφη.
ἀλλʼ ὧδε σκόπει. ἔστιν ὅτι προσδεῖ ἀκοῇ καὶ φωνῇ γένους ἄλλου εἰς τὸ τὴν μὲν ἀκούειν, τὴν δὲ ἀκούεσθαι, ὃ [507d] ἐὰν μὴ παραγένηται τρίτον, ἡ μὲν οὐκ ἀκούσεται, ἡ δὲ οὐκ ἀκουσθήσεται;
οὐδενός, ἔφη.
οἶμαι δέ γε, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, οὐδʼ ἄλλαις πολλαῖς, ἵνα μὴ εἴπω ὅτι οὐδεμιᾷ, τοιούτου προσδεῖ οὐδενός. ἢ σύ τινα ἔχεις εἰπεῖν;
οὐκ ἔγωγε, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
τὴν δὲ τῆς ὄψεως καὶ τοῦ ὁρατοῦ οὐκ ἐννοεῖς ὅτι προσδεῖται;
πῶς;
ἐνούσης που ἐν ὄμμασιν ὄψεως καὶ ἐπιχειροῦντος τοῦ ἔχοντος χρῆσθαι αὐτῇ, παρούσης δὲ χρόας ἐν αὐτοῖς, ἐὰν μὴ [507e] παραγένηται γένος τρίτον ἰδίᾳ ἐπʼ αὐτὸ τοῦτο πεφυκός, οἶσθα ὅτι ἥ τε ὄψις οὐδὲν ὄψεται, τά τε χρώματα ἔσται ἀόρατα.
τίνος δὴ λέγεις, ἔφη, τούτου;
ὃ δὴ σὺ καλεῖς, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, φῶς.
ἀληθῆ, ἔφη, λέγεις.
οὐ σμικρᾷ ἄρα ἰδέᾳ ἡ τοῦ ὁρᾶν αἴσθησις καὶ ἡ τοῦ ὁρᾶσθαι

[508a]
δύναμις τῶν ἄλλων συζεύξεων τιμιωτέρῳ ζυγῷ ἐζύγησαν, εἴπερ μὴ ἄτιμον τὸ φῶς.
ἀλλὰ μήν, ἔφη, πολλοῦ γε δεῖ ἄτιμον εἶναι.
τίνα οὖν ἔχεις αἰτιάσασθαι τῶν ἐν οὐρανῷ θεῶν τούτου κύριον, οὗ ἡμῖν τὸ φῶς ὄψιν τε ποιεῖ ὁρᾶν ὅτι κάλλιστα καὶ τὰ ὁρώμενα ὁρᾶσθαι;
ὅνπερ καὶ σύ, ἔφη, καὶ οἱ ἄλλοι· τὸν ἥλιον γὰρ δῆλον ὅτι ἐρωτᾷς.
ἆρʼ οὖν ὧδε πέφυκεν ὄψις πρὸς τοῦτον τὸν θεόν;
πῶς;
οὐκ ἔστιν ἥλιος ἡ ὄψις οὔτε αὐτὴ οὔτʼ ἐν ᾧ ἐγγίγνεται, ὃ [508b] δὴ καλοῦμεν ὄμμα.
οὐ γὰρ οὖν.
ἀλλʼ ἡλιοειδέστατόν γε οἶμαι τῶν περὶ τὰς αἰσθήσεις ὀργάνων.
πολύ γε.
οὐκοῦν καὶ τὴν δύναμιν ἣν ἔχει ἐκ τούτου ταμιευομένην ὥσπερ ἐπίρρυτον κέκτηται;
πάνυ μὲν οὖν.
ἆρʼ οὖν οὐ καὶ ὁ ἥλιος ὄψις μὲν οὐκ ἔστιν, αἴτιος δʼ ὢν αὐτῆς ὁρᾶται ὑπʼ αὐτῆς ταύτης;
οὕτως, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
τοῦτον τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, φάναι με λέγειν τὸν τοῦ ἀγαθοῦ ἔκγονον, ὃν τἀγαθὸν ἐγέννησεν ἀνάλογον ἑαυτῷ, ὅτιπερ αὐτὸ [508c] ἐν τῷ νοητῷ τόπῳ πρός τε νοῦν καὶ τὰ νοούμενα, τοῦτο τοῦτον ἐν τῷ ὁρατῷ πρός τε ὄψιν καὶ τὰ ὁρώμενα.
πῶς; ἔφη· ἔτι δίελθέ μοι.
ὀφθαλμοί, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, οἶσθʼ ὅτι, ὅταν μηκέτι ἐπʼ ἐκεῖνά τις αὐτοὺς τρέπῃ ὧν ἂν τὰς χρόας τὸ ἡμερινὸν φῶς ἐπέχῃ, ἀλλὰ ὧν νυκτερινὰ φέγγη, ἀμβλυώττουσί τε καὶ ἐγγὺς φαίνονται τυφλῶν, ὥσπερ οὐκ ἐνούσης καθαρᾶς ὄψεως;
καὶ μάλα, ἔφη. [508d]
ὅταν δέ γʼ οἶμαι ὧν ὁ ἥλιος καταλάμπει, σαφῶς ὁρῶσι, καὶ τοῖς αὐτοῖς τούτοις ὄμμασιν ἐνοῦσα φαίνεται.
τί μήν;
οὕτω τοίνυν καὶ τὸ τῆς ψυχῆς ὧδε νόει· ὅταν μὲν οὗ καταλάμπει ἀλήθειά τε καὶ τὸ ὄν, εἰς τοῦτο ἀπερείσηται, ἐνόησέν τε καὶ ἔγνω αὐτὸ καὶ νοῦν ἔχειν φαίνεται· ὅταν δὲ εἰς τὸ τῷ σκότῳ κεκραμένον, τὸ γιγνόμενόν τε καὶ ἀπολλύμενον, δοξάζει τε καὶ ἀμβλυώττει ἄνω καὶ κάτω τὰς δόξας μεταβάλλον, καὶ ἔοικεν αὖ νοῦν οὐκ ἔχοντι.
ἔοικε γάρ. [508e]
τοῦτο τοίνυν τὸ τὴν ἀλήθειαν παρέχον τοῖς γιγνωσκομένοις καὶ τῷ γιγνώσκοντι τὴν δύναμιν ἀποδιδὸν τὴν τοῦ ἀγαθοῦ ἰδέαν φάθι εἶναι· αἰτίαν δʼ ἐπιστήμης οὖσαν καὶ ἀληθείας, ὡς γιγνωσκομένης μὲν διανοοῦ, οὕτω δὲ καλῶν ἀμφοτέρων ὄντων, γνώσεώς τε καὶ ἀληθείας, ἄλλο καὶ κάλλιον ἔτι τούτων ἡγούμενος αὐτὸ ὀρθῶς ἡγήσῃ·
ἐπιστήμην

### Book VI, 509–511

[509a] δὲ καὶ ἀλήθειαν, ὥσπερ ἐκεῖ φῶς τε καὶ ὄψιν ἡλιοειδῆ μὲν νομίζειν ὀρθόν, ἥλιον δʼ ἡγεῖσθαι οὐκ ὀρθῶς ἔχει, οὕτω καὶ ἐνταῦθα ἀγαθοειδῆ μὲν νομίζειν ταῦτʼ ἀμφότερα ὀρθόν, ἀγαθὸν δὲ ἡγεῖσθαι ὁπότερον αὐτῶν οὐκ ὀρθόν, ἀλλʼ ἔτι μειζόνως τιμητέον τὴν τοῦ ἀγαθοῦ ἕξιν.
ἀμήχανον κάλλος, ἔφη, λέγεις, εἰ ἐπιστήμην μὲν καὶ ἀλήθειαν παρέχει, αὐτὸ δʼ ὑπὲρ ταῦτα κάλλει ἐστίν· οὐ γὰρ δήπου σύ γε ἡδονὴν αὐτὸ λέγεις.
εὐφήμει, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ· ἀλλʼ ὧδε μᾶλλον τὴν εἰκόνα αὐτοῦ ἔτι ἐπισκόπει. [509b]
πῶς;
τὸν ἥλιον τοῖς ὁρωμένοις οὐ μόνον οἶμαι τὴν τοῦ ὁρᾶσθαι δύναμιν παρέχειν φήσεις, ἀλλὰ καὶ τὴν γένεσιν καὶ αὔξην καὶ τροφήν, οὐ γένεσιν αὐτὸν ὄντα.
πῶς γάρ;
καὶ τοῖς γιγνωσκομένοις τοίνυν μὴ μόνον τὸ γιγνώσκεσθαι φάναι ὑπὸ τοῦ ἀγαθοῦ παρεῖναι, ἀλλὰ καὶ τὸ εἶναί τε καὶ τὴν οὐσίαν ὑπʼ ἐκείνου αὐτοῖς προσεῖναι, οὐκ οὐσίας ὄντος τοῦ ἀγαθοῦ, ἀλλʼ ἔτι ἐπέκεινα τῆς οὐσίας πρεσβείᾳ καὶ δυνάμει ὑπερέχοντος. [509c]
καὶ ὁ Γλαύκων μάλα γελοίως, Ἄπολλον, ἔφη, δαιμονίας ὑπερβολῆς.
σὺ γάρ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, αἴτιος, ἀναγκάζων τὰ ἐμοὶ δοκοῦντα περὶ αὐτοῦ λέγειν.
καὶ μηδαμῶς γʼ, ἔφη, παύσῃ, εἰ μή τι, ἀλλὰ τὴν περὶ τὸν ἥλιον ὁμοιότητα αὖ διεξιών, εἴ πῃ ἀπολείπεις.
ἀλλὰ μήν, εἶπον, συχνά γε ἀπολείπω.
μηδὲ σμικρὸν τοίνυν, ἔφη, παραλίπῃς.
οἶμαι μέν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καὶ πολύ· ὅμως δέ, ὅσα γʼ ἐν τῷ παρόντι δυνατόν, ἑκὼν οὐκ ἀπολείψω.
μὴ γάρ, ἔφη. [509d]
νόησον τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὥσπερ λέγομεν, δύο αὐτὼ εἶναι, καὶ βασιλεύειν τὸ μὲν νοητοῦ γένους τε καὶ τόπου, τὸ δʼ αὖ ὁρατοῦ, ἵνα μὴ οὐρανοῦ εἰπὼν δόξω σοι σοφίζεσθαι περὶ τὸ ὄνομα. ἀλλʼ οὖν ἔχεις ταῦτα διττὰ εἴδη, ὁρατόν, νοητόν;
ἔχω.
ὥσπερ τοίνυν γραμμὴν δίχα τετμημένην λαβὼν ἄνισα τμήματα, πάλιν τέμνε ἑκάτερον τὸ τμῆμα ἀνὰ τὸν αὐτὸν λόγον, τό τε τοῦ ὁρωμένου γένους καὶ τὸ τοῦ νοουμένου, καί σοι ἔσται σαφηνείᾳ καὶ ἀσαφείᾳ πρὸς ἄλληλα ἐν μὲν τῷ ὁρωμένῳ [509e] τὸ μὲν ἕτερον τμῆμα εἰκόνες—
λέγω δὲ τὰς εἰκόνας πρῶτον

[510a]
μὲν τὰς σκιάς, ἔπειτα τὰ ἐν τοῖς ὕδασι φαντάσματα καὶ ἐν τοῖς ὅσα πυκνά τε καὶ λεῖα καὶ φανὰ συνέστηκεν, καὶ πᾶν τὸ τοιοῦτον, εἰ κατανοεῖς.
ἀλλὰ κατανοῶ.
τὸ τοίνυν ἕτερον τίθει ᾧ τοῦτο ἔοικεν, τά τε περὶ ἡμᾶς ζῷα καὶ πᾶν τὸ φυτευτὸν καὶ τὸ σκευαστὸν ὅλον γένος.
τίθημι, ἔφη.
ἦ καὶ ἐθέλοις ἂν αὐτὸ φάναι, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, διῃρῆσθαι ἀληθείᾳ τε καὶ μή, ὡς τὸ δοξαστὸν πρὸς τὸ γνωστόν, οὕτω τὸ ὁμοιωθὲν πρὸς τὸ ᾧ ὡμοιώθη; [510b]
ἔγωγʼ, ἔφη, καὶ μάλα.
σκόπει δὴ αὖ καὶ τὴν τοῦ νοητοῦ τομὴν ᾗ τμητέον.
πῇ;
ἧι τὸ μὲν αὐτοῦ τοῖς τότε μιμηθεῖσιν ὡς εἰκόσιν χρωμένη ψυχὴ ζητεῖν ἀναγκάζεται ἐξ ὑποθέσεων, οὐκ ἐπʼ ἀρχὴν πορευομένη ἀλλʼ ἐπὶ τελευτήν, τὸ δʼ αὖ ἕτερον—τὸ ἐπʼ ἀρχὴν ἀνυπόθετον—ἐξ ὑποθέσεως ἰοῦσα καὶ ἄνευ τῶν περὶ ἐκεῖνο εἰκόνων, αὐτοῖς εἴδεσι διʼ αὐτῶν τὴν μέθοδον ποιουμένη.
ταῦτʼ, ἔφη, ἃ λέγεις, οὐχ ἱκανῶς ἔμαθον. [510c]
ἀλλʼ αὖθις, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ· ῥᾷον γὰρ τούτων προειρημένων μαθήσῃ. οἶμαι γάρ σε εἰδέναι ὅτι οἱ περὶ τὰς γεωμετρίας τε καὶ λογισμοὺς καὶ τὰ τοιαῦτα πραγματευόμενοι, ὑποθέμενοι τό τε περιττὸν καὶ τὸ ἄρτιον καὶ τὰ σχήματα καὶ γωνιῶν τριττὰ εἴδη καὶ ἄλλα τούτων ἀδελφὰ καθʼ ἑκάστην μέθοδον, ταῦτα μὲν ὡς εἰδότες, ποιησάμενοι ὑποθέσεις αὐτά, οὐδένα λόγον οὔτε αὑτοῖς οὔτε ἄλλοις ἔτι ἀξιοῦσι περὶ αὐτῶν διδόναι [510d] ὡς παντὶ φανερῶν, ἐκ τούτων δʼ ἀρχόμενοι τὰ λοιπὰ ἤδη διεξιόντες τελευτῶσιν ὁμολογουμένως ἐπὶ τοῦτο οὗ ἂν ἐπὶ σκέψιν ὁρμήσωσι.
πάνυ μὲν οὖν, ἔφη, τοῦτό γε οἶδα.
οὐκοῦν καὶ ὅτι τοῖς ὁρωμένοις εἴδεσι προσχρῶνται καὶ τοὺς λόγους περὶ αὐτῶν ποιοῦνται, οὐ περὶ τούτων διανοούμενοι, ἀλλʼ ἐκείνων πέρι οἷς ταῦτα ἔοικε, τοῦ τετραγώνου αὐτοῦ ἕνεκα τοὺς λόγους ποιούμενοι καὶ διαμέτρου αὐτῆς, ἀλλʼ οὐ [510e] ταύτης ἣν γράφουσιν, καὶ τἆλλα οὕτως, αὐτὰ μὲν ταῦτα ἃ πλάττουσίν τε καὶ γράφουσιν, ὧν καὶ σκιαὶ καὶ ἐν ὕδασιν εἰκόνες εἰσίν, τούτοις μὲν ὡς εἰκόσιν αὖ χρώμενοι, ζητοῦντες

[511a] δὲ αὐτὰ ἐκεῖνα ἰδεῖν ἃ οὐκ ἂν ἄλλως ἴδοι τις ἢ τῇ διανοίᾳ.
ἀληθῆ, ἔφη, λέγεις.
τοῦτο τοίνυν νοητὸν μὲν τὸ εἶδος ἔλεγον, ὑποθέσεσι δʼ ἀναγκαζομένην ψυχὴν χρῆσθαι περὶ τὴν ζήτησιν αὐτοῦ, οὐκ ἐπʼ ἀρχὴν ἰοῦσαν, ὡς οὐ δυναμένην τῶν ὑποθέσεων ἀνωτέρω ἐκβαίνειν, εἰκόσι δὲ χρωμένην αὐτοῖς τοῖς ὑπὸ τῶν κάτω ἀπεικασθεῖσιν καὶ ἐκείνοις πρὸς ἐκεῖνα ὡς ἐναργέσι δεδοξασμένοις τε καὶ τετιμημένοις. [511b]
μανθάνω, ἔφη, ὅτι τὸ ὑπὸ ταῖς γεωμετρίαις τε καὶ ταῖς ταύτης ἀδελφαῖς τέχναις λέγεις.
τὸ τοίνυν ἕτερον μάνθανε τμῆμα τοῦ νοητοῦ λέγοντά με τοῦτο οὗ αὐτὸς ὁ λόγος ἅπτεται τῇ τοῦ διαλέγεσθαι δυνάμει, τὰς ὑποθέσεις ποιούμενος οὐκ ἀρχὰς ἀλλὰ τῷ ὄντι ὑποθέσεις, οἷον ἐπιβάσεις τε καὶ ὁρμάς, ἵνα μέχρι τοῦ ἀνυποθέτου ἐπὶ τὴν τοῦ παντὸς ἀρχὴν ἰών, ἁψάμενος αὐτῆς, πάλιν αὖ ἐχόμενος τῶν ἐκείνης ἐχομένων, οὕτως ἐπὶ τελευτὴν καταβαίνῃ, [511c] αἰσθητῷ παντάπασιν οὐδενὶ προσχρώμενος, ἀλλʼ εἴδεσιν αὐτοῖς διʼ αὐτῶν εἰς αὐτά, καὶ τελευτᾷ εἰς εἴδη.
μανθάνω, ἔφη, ἱκανῶς μὲν οὔ—δοκεῖς γάρ μοι συχνὸν ἔργον λέγειν—ὅτι μέντοι βούλει διορίζειν σαφέστερον εἶναι τὸ ὑπὸ τῆς τοῦ διαλέγεσθαι ἐπιστήμης τοῦ ὄντος τε καὶ νοητοῦ θεωρούμενον ἢ τὸ ὑπὸ τῶν τεχνῶν καλουμένων, αἷς αἱ ὑποθέσεις ἀρχαὶ καὶ διανοίᾳ μὲν ἀναγκάζονται ἀλλὰ μὴ αἰσθήσεσιν αὐτὰ θεᾶσθαι οἱ θεώμενοι, διὰ δὲ τὸ μὴ ἐπʼ ἀρχὴν [511d] ἀνελθόντες σκοπεῖν ἀλλʼ ἐξ ὑποθέσεων, νοῦν οὐκ ἴσχειν περὶ αὐτὰ δοκοῦσί σοι, καίτοι νοητῶν ὄντων μετὰ ἀρχῆς. διάνοιαν δὲ καλεῖν μοι δοκεῖς τὴν τῶν γεωμετρικῶν τε καὶ τὴν τῶν τοιούτων ἕξιν ἀλλʼ οὐ νοῦν, ὡς μεταξύ τι δόξης τε καὶ νοῦ τὴν διάνοιαν οὖσαν.
ἱκανώτατα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἀπεδέξω. καί μοι ἐπὶ τοῖς τέτταρσι τμήμασι τέτταρα ταῦτα παθήματα ἐν τῇ ψυχῇ γιγνόμενα λαβέ, νόησιν μὲν ἐπὶ τῷ ἀνωτάτω, διάνοιαν [511e] δὲ ἐπὶ τῷ δευτέρῳ, τῷ τρίτῳ δὲ πίστιν ἀπόδος καὶ τῷ τελευταίῳ εἰκασίαν, καὶ τάξον αὐτὰ ἀνὰ λόγον, ὥσπερ ἐφʼ οἷς ἐστιν ἀληθείας μετέχει, οὕτω ταῦτα σαφηνείας ἡγησάμενος μετέχειν.
μανθάνω, ἔφη, καὶ συγχωρῶ καὶ τάττω ὡς λέγεις.

### Book VII, 514–522

[514a]
μετὰ ταῦτα δή, εἶπον, ἀπείκασον τοιούτῳ πάθει τὴν ἡμετέραν φύσιν παιδείας τε πέρι καὶ ἀπαιδευσίας. ἰδὲ γὰρ ἀνθρώπους οἷον ἐν καταγείῳ οἰκήσει σπηλαιώδει, ἀναπεπταμένην πρὸς τὸ φῶς τὴν εἴσοδον ἐχούσῃ μακρὰν παρὰ πᾶν τὸ σπήλαιον, ἐν ταύτῃ ἐκ παίδων ὄντας ἐν δεσμοῖς καὶ τὰ σκέλη καὶ τοὺς αὐχένας, ὥστε μένειν τε αὐτοὺς εἴς τε τὸ [514b] πρόσθεν μόνον ὁρᾶν, κύκλῳ δὲ τὰς κεφαλὰς ὑπὸ τοῦ δεσμοῦ ἀδυνάτους περιάγειν, φῶς δὲ αὐτοῖς πυρὸς ἄνωθεν καὶ πόρρωθεν καόμενον ὄπισθεν αὐτῶν, μεταξὺ δὲ τοῦ πυρὸς καὶ τῶν δεσμωτῶν ἐπάνω ὁδόν, παρʼ ἣν ἰδὲ τειχίον παρῳκοδομημένον, ὥσπερ τοῖς θαυματοποιοῖς πρὸ τῶν ἀνθρώπων πρόκειται τὰ παραφράγματα, ὑπὲρ ὧν τὰ θαύματα δεικνύασιν.
ὁρῶ, ἔφη.
ὅρα τοίνυν παρὰ τοῦτο τὸ τειχίον φέροντας ἀνθρώπους [514c] σκεύη τε παντοδαπὰ ὑπερέχοντα τοῦ τειχίου καὶ ἀνδριάντας

[515a]
καὶ ἄλλα ζῷα λίθινά τε καὶ ξύλινα καὶ παντοῖα εἰργασμένα, οἷον εἰκὸς τοὺς μὲν φθεγγομένους, τοὺς δὲ σιγῶντας τῶν παραφερόντων.
ἄτοπον, ἔφη, λέγεις εἰκόνα καὶ δεσμώτας ἀτόπους.
ὁμοίους ἡμῖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ· τοὺς γὰρ τοιούτους πρῶτον μὲν ἑαυτῶν τε καὶ ἀλλήλων οἴει ἄν τι ἑωρακέναι ἄλλο πλὴν τὰς σκιὰς τὰς ὑπὸ τοῦ πυρὸς εἰς τὸ καταντικρὺ αὐτῶν τοῦ σπηλαίου προσπιπτούσας;
πῶς γάρ, ἔφη, εἰ ἀκινήτους γε τὰς κεφαλὰς ἔχειν ἠναγκασμένοι [515b] εἶεν διὰ βίου;
τί δὲ τῶν παραφερομένων; οὐ ταὐτὸν τοῦτο;
τί μήν;
εἰ οὖν διαλέγεσθαι οἷοί τʼ εἶεν πρὸς ἀλλήλους, οὐ ταῦτα ἡγῇ ἂν τὰ ὄντα αὐτοὺς νομίζειν ἅπερ ὁρῷεν;
ἀνάγκη.
τί δʼ εἰ καὶ ἠχὼ τὸ δεσμωτήριον ἐκ τοῦ καταντικρὺ ἔχοι; ὁπότε τις τῶν παριόντων φθέγξαιτο, οἴει ἂν ἄλλο τι αὐτοὺς ἡγεῖσθαι τὸ φθεγγόμενον ἢ τὴν παριοῦσαν σκιάν;
μὰ Δίʼ οὐκ ἔγωγʼ, ἔφη. [515c]
παντάπασι δή, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, οἱ τοιοῦτοι οὐκ ἂν ἄλλο τι νομίζοιεν τὸ ἀληθὲς ἢ τὰς τῶν σκευαστῶν σκιάς.
πολλὴ ἀνάγκη, ἔφη.
σκόπει δή, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, αὐτῶν λύσιν τε καὶ ἴασιν τῶν τε δεσμῶν καὶ τῆς ἀφροσύνης, οἵα τις ἂν εἴη, εἰ φύσει τοιάδε συμβαίνοι αὐτοῖς· ὁπότε τις λυθείη καὶ ἀναγκάζοιτο ἐξαίφνης ἀνίστασθαί τε καὶ περιάγειν τὸν αὐχένα καὶ βαδίζειν καὶ πρὸς τὸ φῶς ἀναβλέπειν, πάντα δὲ ταῦτα ποιῶν ἀλγοῖ τε καὶ διὰ τὰς μαρμαρυγὰς ἀδυνατοῖ καθορᾶν ἐκεῖνα ὧν [515d] τότε τὰς σκιὰς ἑώρα, τί ἂν οἴει αὐτὸν εἰπεῖν, εἴ τις αὐτῷ λέγοι ὅτι τότε μὲν ἑώρα φλυαρίας, νῦν δὲ μᾶλλόν τι ἐγγυτέρω τοῦ ὄντος καὶ πρὸς μᾶλλον ὄντα τετραμμένος ὀρθότερον βλέποι, καὶ δὴ καὶ ἕκαστον τῶν παριόντων δεικνὺς αὐτῷ ἀναγκάζοι ἐρωτῶν ἀποκρίνεσθαι ὅτι ἔστιν; οὐκ οἴει αὐτὸν ἀπορεῖν τε ἂν καὶ ἡγεῖσθαι τὰ τότε ὁρώμενα ἀληθέστερα ἢ τὰ νῦν δεικνύμενα;
πολύ γʼ, ἔφη. [515e]
οὐκοῦν κἂν εἰ πρὸς αὐτὸ τὸ φῶς ἀναγκάζοι αὐτὸν βλέπειν, ἀλγεῖν τε ἂν τὰ ὄμματα καὶ φεύγειν ἀποστρεφόμενον πρὸς ἐκεῖνα ἃ δύναται καθορᾶν, καὶ νομίζειν ταῦτα τῷ ὄντι σαφέστερα τῶν δεικνυμένων;
οὕτως, ἔφη.
εἰ δέ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἐντεῦθεν ἕλκοι τις αὐτὸν βίᾳ διὰ τραχείας τῆς ἀναβάσεως καὶ ἀνάντους, καὶ μὴ ἀνείη πρὶν ἐξελκύσειεν εἰς τὸ τοῦ ἡλίου φῶς, ἆρα οὐχὶ ὀδυνᾶσθαί τε

[516a]
ἂν καὶ ἀγανακτεῖν ἑλκόμενον, καὶ ἐπειδὴ πρὸς τὸ φῶς ἔλθοι, αὐγῆς ἂν ἔχοντα τὰ ὄμματα μεστὰ ὁρᾶν οὐδʼ ἂν ἓν δύνασθαι τῶν νῦν λεγομένων ἀληθῶν;
οὐ γὰρ ἄν, ἔφη, ἐξαίφνης γε.
συνηθείας δὴ οἶμαι δέοιτʼ ἄν, εἰ μέλλοι τὰ ἄνω ὄψεσθαι. καὶ πρῶτον μὲν τὰς σκιὰς ἂν ῥᾷστα καθορῷ, καὶ μετὰ τοῦτο ἐν τοῖς ὕδασι τά τε τῶν ἀνθρώπων καὶ τὰ τῶν ἄλλων εἴδωλα, ὕστερον δὲ αὐτά· ἐκ δὲ τούτων τὰ ἐν τῷ οὐρανῷ καὶ αὐτὸν τὸν οὐρανὸν νύκτωρ ἂν ῥᾷον θεάσαιτο, προσβλέπων τὸ τῶν [516b] ἄστρων τε καὶ σελήνης φῶς, ἢ μεθʼ ἡμέραν τὸν ἥλιόν τε καὶ τὸ τοῦ ἡλίου.
πῶς δʼ οὔ;
τελευταῖον δὴ οἶμαι τὸν ἥλιον, οὐκ ἐν ὕδασιν οὐδʼ ἐν ἀλλοτρίᾳ ἕδρᾳ φαντάσματα αὐτοῦ, ἀλλʼ αὐτὸν καθʼ αὑτὸν ἐν τῇ αὑτοῦ χώρᾳ δύναιτʼ ἂν κατιδεῖν καὶ θεάσασθαι οἷός ἐστιν.
ἀναγκαῖον, ἔφη.
καὶ μετὰ ταῦτʼ ἂν ἤδη συλλογίζοιτο περὶ αὐτοῦ ὅτι οὗτος ὁ τάς τε ὥρας παρέχων καὶ ἐνιαυτοὺς καὶ πάντα ἐπιτροπεύων [516c] τὰ ἐν τῷ ὁρωμένῳ τόπῳ, καὶ ἐκείνων ὧν σφεῖς ἑώρων τρόπον τινὰ πάντων αἴτιος.
δῆλον, ἔφη, ὅτι ἐπὶ ταῦτα ἂν μετʼ ἐκεῖνα ἔλθοι.
τί οὖν; ἀναμιμνῃσκόμενον αὐτὸν τῆς πρώτης οἰκήσεως καὶ τῆς ἐκεῖ σοφίας καὶ τῶν τότε συνδεσμωτῶν οὐκ ἂν οἴει αὑτὸν μὲν εὐδαιμονίζειν τῆς μεταβολῆς, τοὺς δὲ ἐλεεῖν;
καὶ μάλα.
τιμαὶ δὲ καὶ ἔπαινοι εἴ τινες αὐτοῖς ἦσαν τότε παρʼ ἀλλήλων καὶ γέρα τῷ ὀξύτατα καθορῶντι τὰ παριόντα, καὶ μνημονεύοντι μάλιστα ὅσα τε πρότερα αὐτῶν καὶ ὕστερα [516d] εἰώθει καὶ ἅμα πορεύεσθαι, καὶ ἐκ τούτων δὴ δυνατώτατα ἀπομαντευομένῳ τὸ μέλλον ἥξειν, δοκεῖς ἂν αὐτὸν ἐπιθυμητικῶς αὐτῶν ἔχειν καὶ ζηλοῦν τοὺς παρʼ ἐκείνοις τιμωμένους τε καὶ ἐνδυναστεύοντας, ἢ τὸ τοῦ Ὁμήρου ἂν πεπονθέναι καὶ σφόδρα βούλεσθαι ἐπάρουρον ἐόντα θητευέμεν ἄλλῳ ἀνδρὶ παρʼ ἀκλήρῳ καὶ ὁτιοῦν ἂν πεπονθέναι μᾶλλον ἢ ʼκεῖνά τε δοξάζειν καὶ ἐκείνως ζῆν; [516e]
οὕτως, ἔφη, ἔγωγε οἶμαι, πᾶν μᾶλλον πεπονθέναι ἂν δέξασθαι ἢ ζῆν ἐκείνως.
καὶ τόδε δὴ ἐννόησον, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ. εἰ πάλιν ὁ τοιοῦτος καταβὰς εἰς τὸν αὐτὸν θᾶκον καθίζοιτο, ἆρʼ οὐ σκότους ἂν ἀνάπλεως σχοίη τοὺς ὀφθαλμούς, ἐξαίφνης ἥκων ἐκ τοῦ ἡλίου;
καὶ μάλα γʼ, ἔφη.
τὰς δὲ δὴ σκιὰς ἐκείνας πάλιν εἰ δέοι αὐτὸν γνωματεύοντα διαμιλλᾶσθαι τοῖς ἀεὶ δεσμώταις ἐκείνοις, ἐν ᾧ ἀμβλυώττει,

[517a]
πρὶν καταστῆναι τὰ ὄμματα, οὗτος δʼ ὁ χρόνος μὴ πάνυ ὀλίγος εἴη τῆς συνηθείας, ἆρʼ οὐ γέλωτʼ ἂν παράσχοι, καὶ λέγοιτο ἂν περὶ αὐτοῦ ὡς ἀναβὰς ἄνω διεφθαρμένος ἥκει τὰ ὄμματα, καὶ ὅτι οὐκ ἄξιον οὐδὲ πειρᾶσθαι ἄνω ἰέναι; καὶ τὸν ἐπιχειροῦντα λύειν τε καὶ ἀνάγειν, εἴ πως ἐν ταῖς χερσὶ δύναιντο λαβεῖν καὶ ἀποκτείνειν, ἀποκτεινύναι ἄν;
σφόδρα γʼ, ἔφη.
ταύτην τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τὴν εἰκόνα, ὦ φίλε Γλαύκων, [517b] προσαπτέον ἅπασαν τοῖς ἔμπροσθεν λεγομένοις, τὴν μὲν διʼ ὄψεως φαινομένην ἕδραν τῇ τοῦ δεσμωτηρίου οἰκήσει ἀφομοιοῦντα, τὸ δὲ τοῦ πυρὸς ἐν αὐτῇ φῶς τῇ τοῦ ἡλίου δυνάμει· τὴν δὲ ἄνω ἀνάβασιν καὶ θέαν τῶν ἄνω τὴν εἰς τὸν νοητὸν τόπον τῆς ψυχῆς ἄνοδον τιθεὶς οὐχ ἁμαρτήσῃ τῆς γʼ ἐμῆς ἐλπίδος, ἐπειδὴ ταύτης ἐπιθυμεῖς ἀκούειν. θεὸς δέ που οἶδεν εἰ ἀληθὴς οὖσα τυγχάνει. τὰ δʼ οὖν ἐμοὶ φαινόμενα οὕτω φαίνεται, ἐν τῷ γνωστῷ τελευταία ἡ τοῦ [517c] ἀγαθοῦ ἰδέα καὶ μόγις ὁρᾶσθαι, ὀφθεῖσα δὲ συλλογιστέα εἶναι ὡς ἄρα πᾶσι πάντων αὕτη ὀρθῶν τε καὶ καλῶν αἰτία, ἔν τε ὁρατῷ φῶς καὶ τὸν τούτου κύριον τεκοῦσα, ἔν τε νοητῷ αὐτὴ κυρία ἀλήθειαν καὶ νοῦν παρασχομένη, καὶ ὅτι δεῖ ταύτην ἰδεῖν τὸν μέλλοντα ἐμφρόνως πράξειν ἢ ἰδίᾳ ἢ δημοσίᾳ.
συνοίομαι, ἔφη, καὶ ἐγώ, ὅν γε δὴ τρόπον δύναμαι.
ἴθι τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καὶ τόδε συνοιήθητι καὶ μὴ θαυμάσῃς ὅτι οἱ ἐνταῦθα ἐλθόντες οὐκ ἐθέλουσιν τὰ τῶν ἀνθρώπων πράττειν, ἀλλʼ ἄνω ἀεὶ ἐπείγονται αὐτῶν αἱ ψυχαὶ διατρίβειν· [517d] εἰκὸς γάρ που οὕτως, εἴπερ αὖ κατὰ τὴν προειρημένην εἰκόνα τοῦτʼ ἔχει.
εἰκὸς μέντοι, ἔφη.
τί δέ; τόδε οἴει τι θαυμαστόν, εἰ ἀπὸ θείων, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, θεωριῶν ἐπὶ τὰ ἀνθρώπειά τις ἐλθὼν κακὰ ἀσχημονεῖ τε καὶ φαίνεται σφόδρα γελοῖος ἔτι ἀμβλυώττων καὶ πρὶν ἱκανῶς συνήθης γενέσθαι τῷ παρόντι σκότῳ ἀναγκαζόμενος ἐν δικαστηρίοις ἢ ἄλλοθί που ἀγωνίζεσθαι περὶ τῶν τοῦ δικαίου σκιῶν ἢ ἀγαλμάτων ὧν αἱ σκιαί, καὶ διαμιλλᾶσθαι [517e] περὶ τούτου, ὅπῃ ποτὲ ὑπολαμβάνεται ταῦτα ὑπὸ τῶν αὐτὴν δικαιοσύνην μὴ πώποτε ἰδόντων;
οὐδʼ ὁπωστιοῦν θαυμαστόν, ἔφη.

[518a]
ἀλλʼ εἰ νοῦν γε ἔχοι τις, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, μεμνῇτʼ ἂν ὅτι διτταὶ καὶ ἀπὸ διττῶν γίγνονται ἐπιταράξεις ὄμμασιν, ἔκ τε φωτὸς εἰς σκότος μεθισταμένων καὶ ἐκ σκότους εἰς φῶς. ταὐτὰ δὲ ταῦτα νομίσας γίγνεσθαι καὶ περὶ ψυχήν, ὁπότε ἴδοι θορυβουμένην τινὰ καὶ ἀδυνατοῦσάν τι καθορᾶν, οὐκ ἂν ἀλογίστως γελῷ, ἀλλʼ ἐπισκοποῖ ἂν πότερον ἐκ φανοτέρου βίου ἥκουσα ὑπὸ ἀηθείας ἐσκότωται, ἢ ἐξ ἀμαθίας πλείονος εἰς φανότερον ἰοῦσα ὑπὸ λαμπροτέρου μαρμαρυγῆς [518b] ἐμπέπλησται, καὶ οὕτω δὴ τὴν μὲν εὐδαιμονίσειεν ἂν τοῦ πάθους τε καὶ βίου, τὴν δὲ ἐλεήσειεν, καὶ εἰ γελᾶν ἐπʼ αὐτῇ βούλοιτο, ἧττον ἂν καταγέλαστος ὁ γέλως αὐτῷ εἴη ἢ ὁ ἐπὶ τῇ ἄνωθεν ἐκ φωτὸς ἡκούσῃ.
καὶ μάλα, ἔφη, μετρίως λέγεις.
δεῖ δή, εἶπον, ἡμᾶς τοιόνδε νομίσαι περὶ αὐτῶν, εἰ ταῦτʼ ἀληθῆ· τὴν παιδείαν οὐχ οἵαν τινὲς ἐπαγγελλόμενοί φασιν εἶναι τοιαύτην καὶ εἶναι. φασὶ δέ που οὐκ ἐνούσης ἐν τῇ [518c] ψυχῇ ἐπιστήμης σφεῖς ἐντιθέναι, οἷον τυφλοῖς ὀφθαλμοῖς ὄψιν ἐντιθέντες.
φασὶ γὰρ οὖν, ἔφη.
ὁ δέ γε νῦν λόγος, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, σημαίνει ταύτην τὴν ἐνοῦσαν ἑκάστου δύναμιν ἐν τῇ ψυχῇ καὶ τὸ ὄργανον ᾧ καταμανθάνει ἕκαστος, οἷον εἰ ὄμμα μὴ δυνατὸν ἦν ἄλλως ἢ σὺν ὅλῳ τῷ σώματι στρέφειν πρὸς τὸ φανὸν ἐκ τοῦ σκοτώδους, οὕτω σὺν ὅλῃ τῇ ψυχῇ ἐκ τοῦ γιγνομένου περιακτέον εἶναι, ἕως ἂν εἰς τὸ ὂν καὶ τοῦ ὄντος τὸ φανότατον δυνατὴ γένηται ἀνασχέσθαι θεωμένη· τοῦτο δʼ εἶναί φαμεν [518d] τἀγαθόν. ἦ γάρ;
ναί.
τούτου τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, αὐτοῦ τέχνη ἂν εἴη, τῆς περιαγωγῆς, τίνα τρόπον ὡς ῥᾷστά τε καὶ ἀνυσιμώτατα μεταστραφήσεται, οὐ τοῦ ἐμποιῆσαι αὐτῷ τὸ ὁρᾶν, ἀλλʼ ὡς ἔχοντι μὲν αὐτό, οὐκ ὀρθῶς δὲ τετραμμένῳ οὐδὲ βλέποντι οἷ ἔδει, τοῦτο διαμηχανήσασθαι.
ἔοικεν γάρ, ἔφη.
αἱ μὲν τοίνυν ἄλλαι ἀρεταὶ καλούμεναι ψυχῆς κινδυνεύουσιν ἐγγύς τι εἶναι τῶν τοῦ σώματος—τῷ ὄντι γὰρ [518e] οὐκ ἐνοῦσαι πρότερον ὕστερον ἐμποιεῖσθαι ἔθεσι καὶ ἀσκήσεσιν—ἡ δὲ τοῦ φρονῆσαι παντὸς μᾶλλον θειοτέρου τινὸς τυγχάνει, ὡς ἔοικεν, οὖσα, ὃ τὴν μὲν δύναμιν οὐδέποτε ἀπόλλυσιν, ὑπὸ δὲ τῆς περιαγωγῆς χρήσιμόν τε καὶ ὠφέλιμον

[519a] καὶ ἄχρηστον αὖ καὶ βλαβερὸν γίγνεται.
ἢ οὔπω ἐννενόηκας, τῶν λεγομένων πονηρῶν μέν, σοφῶν δέ, ὡς δριμὺ μὲν βλέπει τὸ ψυχάριον καὶ ὀξέως διορᾷ ταῦτα ἐφʼ ἃ τέτραπται, ὡς οὐ φαύλην ἔχον τὴν ὄψιν, κακίᾳ δʼ ἠναγκασμένον ὑπηρετεῖν, ὥστε ὅσῳ ἂν ὀξύτερον βλέπῃ, τοσούτῳ πλείω κακὰ ἐργαζόμενον;
πάνυ μὲν οὖν, ἔφη.
τοῦτο μέντοι, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τὸ τῆς τοιαύτης φύσεως εἰ ἐκ παιδὸς εὐθὺς κοπτόμενον περιεκόπη τὰς τῆς γενέσεως [519b] συγγενεῖς ὥσπερ μολυβδίδας, αἳ δὴ ἐδωδαῖς τε καὶ τοιούτων ἡδοναῖς τε καὶ λιχνείαις προσφυεῖς γιγνόμεναι [περὶ] κάτω στρέφουσι τὴν τῆς ψυχῆς ὄψιν· ὧν εἰ ἀπαλλαγὲν περιεστρέφετο εἰς τὰ ἀληθῆ, καὶ ἐκεῖνα ἂν τὸ αὐτὸ τοῦτο τῶν αὐτῶν ἀνθρώπων ὀξύτατα ἑώρα, ὥσπερ καὶ ἐφʼ ἃ νῦν τέτραπται.
εἰκός γε, ἔφη.
τί δέ; τόδε οὐκ εἰκός, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καὶ ἀνάγκη ἐκ τῶν προειρημένων, μήτε τοὺς ἀπαιδεύτους καὶ ἀληθείας ἀπείρους [519c] ἱκανῶς ἄν ποτε πόλιν ἐπιτροπεῦσαι, μήτε τοὺς ἐν παιδείᾳ ἐωμένους διατρίβειν διὰ τέλους, τοὺς μὲν ὅτι σκοπὸν ἐν τῷ βίῳ οὐκ ἔχουσιν ἕνα, οὗ στοχαζομένους δεῖ ἅπαντα πράττειν ἃ ἂν πράττωσιν ἰδίᾳ τε καὶ δημοσίᾳ, τοὺς δὲ ὅτι ἑκόντες εἶναι οὐ πράξουσιν, ἡγούμενοι ἐν μακάρων νήσοις ζῶντες ἔτι ἀπῳκίσθαι;
ἀληθῆ, ἔφη.
ἡμέτερον δὴ ἔργον, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τῶν οἰκιστῶν τάς τε βελτίστας φύσεις ἀναγκάσαι ἀφικέσθαι πρὸς τὸ μάθημα ὃ ἐν τῷ πρόσθεν ἔφαμεν εἶναι μέγιστον, ἰδεῖν τε τὸ ἀγαθὸν [519d] καὶ ἀναβῆναι ἐκείνην τὴν ἀνάβασιν, καὶ ἐπειδὰν ἀναβάντες ἱκανῶς ἴδωσι, μὴ ἐπιτρέπειν αὐτοῖς ὃ νῦν ἐπιτρέπεται.
τὸ ποῖον δή;
τὸ αὐτοῦ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καταμένειν καὶ μὴ ἐθέλειν πάλιν καταβαίνειν παρʼ ἐκείνους τοὺς δεσμώτας μηδὲ μετέχειν τῶν παρʼ ἐκείνοις πόνων τε καὶ τιμῶν, εἴτε φαυλότεραι εἴτε σπουδαιότεραι.
ἔπειτʼ, ἔφη, ἀδικήσομεν αὐτούς, καὶ ποιήσομεν χεῖρον ζῆν, δυνατὸν αὐτοῖς ὂν ἄμεινον; [519e]
ἐπελάθου, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, πάλιν, ὦ φίλε, ὅτι νόμῳ οὐ τοῦτο μέλει, ὅπως ἕν τι γένος ἐν πόλει διαφερόντως εὖ πράξει, ἀλλʼ ἐν ὅλῃ τῇ πόλει τοῦτο μηχανᾶται ἐγγενέσθαι, συναρμόττων τοὺς πολίτας πειθοῖ τε καὶ ἀνάγκῃ, ποιῶν μεταδιδόναι

[520a]
ἀλλήλοις τῆς ὠφελίας ἣν ἂν ἕκαστοι τὸ κοινὸν δυνατοὶ ὦσιν ὠφελεῖν καὶ αὐτὸς ἐμποιῶν τοιούτους ἄνδρας ἐν τῇ πόλει, οὐχ ἵνα ἀφιῇ τρέπεσθαι ὅπῃ ἕκαστος βούλεται, ἀλλʼ ἵνα καταχρῆται αὐτὸς αὐτοῖς ἐπὶ τὸν σύνδεσμον τῆς πόλεως.
ἀληθῆ, ἔφη· ἐπελαθόμην γάρ.
σκέψαι τοίνυν, εἶπον, ὦ Γλαύκων, ὅτι οὐδʼ ἀδικήσομεν τοὺς παρʼ ἡμῖν φιλοσόφους γιγνομένους, ἀλλὰ δίκαια πρὸς αὐτοὺς ἐροῦμεν, προσαναγκάζοντες τῶν ἄλλων ἐπιμελεῖσθαί τε καὶ φυλάττειν. ἐροῦμεν γὰρ ὅτι οἱ μὲν ἐν ταῖς ἄλλαις [520b] πόλεσι τοιοῦτοι γιγνόμενοι εἰκότως οὐ μετέχουσι τῶν ἐν αὐταῖς πόνων· αὐτόματοι γὰρ ἐμφύονται ἀκούσης τῆς ἐν ἑκάστῃ πολιτείας, δίκην δʼ ἔχει τό γε αὐτοφυὲς μηδενὶ τροφὴν ὀφεῖλον μηδʼ ἐκτίνειν τῳ προθυμεῖσθαι τὰ τροφεῖα· ὑμᾶς δʼ ἡμεῖς ὑμῖν τε αὐτοῖς τῇ τε ἄλλῃ πόλει ὥσπερ ἐν σμήνεσιν ἡγεμόνας τε καὶ βασιλέας ἐγεννήσαμεν, ἄμεινόν τε καὶ τελεώτερον ἐκείνων πεπαιδευμένους καὶ μᾶλλον δυνατοὺς [520c] ἀμφοτέρων μετέχειν. καταβατέον οὖν ἐν μέρει ἑκάστῳ εἰς τὴν τῶν ἄλλων συνοίκησιν καὶ συνεθιστέον τὰ σκοτεινὰ θεάσασθαι· συνεθιζόμενοι γὰρ μυρίῳ βέλτιον ὄψεσθε τῶν ἐκεῖ καὶ γνώσεσθε ἕκαστα τὰ εἴδωλα ἅττα ἐστὶ καὶ ὧν, διὰ τὸ τἀληθῆ ἑωρακέναι καλῶν τε καὶ δικαίων καὶ ἀγαθῶν πέρι. καὶ οὕτω ὕπαρ ἡμῖν καὶ ὑμῖν ἡ πόλις οἰκήσεται ἀλλʼ οὐκ ὄναρ, ὡς νῦν αἱ πολλαὶ ὑπὸ σκιαμαχούντων τε πρὸς ἀλλήλους καὶ στασιαζόντων περὶ τοῦ ἄρχειν [520d] οἰκοῦνται, ὡς μεγάλου τινὸς ἀγαθοῦ ὄντος. τὸ δέ που ἀληθὲς ὧδʼ ἔχει· ἐν πόλει ᾗ ἥκιστα πρόθυμοι ἄρχειν οἱ μέλλοντες ἄρξειν, ταύτην ἄριστα καὶ ἀστασιαστότατα ἀνάγκη οἰκεῖσθαι, τὴν δʼ ἐναντίους ἄρχοντας σχοῦσαν ἐναντίως.
πάνυ μὲν οὖν, ἔφη.
ἀπειθήσουσιν οὖν ἡμῖν οἴει οἱ τρόφιμοι ταῦτʼ ἀκούοντες, καὶ οὐκ ἐθελήσουσιν συμπονεῖν ἐν τῇ πόλει ἕκαστοι ἐν μέρει, τὸν δὲ πολὺν χρόνον μετʼ ἀλλήλων οἰκεῖν ἐν τῷ καθαρῷ; [520e]
ἀδύνατον, ἔφη· δίκαια γὰρ δὴ δικαίοις ἐπιτάξομεν. παντὸς μὴν μᾶλλον ὡς ἐπʼ ἀναγκαῖον αὐτῶν ἕκαστος εἶσι τὸ ἄρχειν, τοὐναντίον τῶν νῦν ἐν ἑκάστῃ πόλει ἀρχόντων.
οὕτω γὰρ ἔχει, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὦ ἑταῖρε· εἰ μὲν βίον ἐξευρήσεις

[521a]
ἀμείνω τοῦ ἄρχειν τοῖς μέλλουσιν ἄρξειν, ἔστι σοι δυνατὴ γενέσθαι πόλις εὖ οἰκουμένη· ἐν μόνῃ γὰρ αὐτῇ ἄρξουσιν οἱ τῷ ὄντι πλούσιοι, οὐ χρυσίου ἀλλʼ οὗ δεῖ τὸν εὐδαίμονα πλουτεῖν, ζωῆς ἀγαθῆς τε καὶ ἔμφρονος. εἰ δὲ πτωχοὶ καὶ πεινῶντες ἀγαθῶν ἰδίων ἐπὶ τὰ δημόσια ἴασιν, ἐντεῦθεν οἰόμενοι τἀγαθὸν δεῖν ἁρπάζειν, οὐκ ἔστι· περιμάχητον γὰρ τὸ ἄρχειν γιγνόμενον, οἰκεῖος ὢν καὶ ἔνδον ὁ τοιοῦτος πόλεμος αὐτούς τε ἀπόλλυσι καὶ τὴν ἄλλην πόλιν.
ἀληθέστατα, ἔφη. [521b]
ἔχεις οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, βίον ἄλλον τινὰ πολιτικῶν ἀρχῶν καταφρονοῦντα ἢ τὸν τῆς ἀληθινῆς φιλοσοφίας;
οὐ μὰ τὸν Δία, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
ἀλλὰ μέντοι δεῖ γε μὴ ἐραστὰς τοῦ ἄρχειν ἰέναι ἐπʼ αὐτό· εἰ δὲ μή, οἵ γε ἀντερασταὶ μαχοῦνται.
πῶς δʼ οὔ;
τίνας οὖν ἄλλους ἀναγκάσεις ἰέναι ἐπὶ φυλακὴν τῆς πόλεως ἢ οἳ περὶ τούτων τε φρονιμώτατοι διʼ ὧν ἄριστα πόλις οἰκεῖται, ἔχουσί τε τιμὰς ἄλλας καὶ βίον ἀμείνω τοῦ πολιτικοῦ;
οὐδένας ἄλλους, ἔφη. [521c]
βούλει οὖν τοῦτʼ ἤδη σκοπῶμεν, τίνα τρόπον οἱ τοιοῦτοι ἐγγενήσονται, καὶ πῶς τις ἀνάξει αὐτοὺς εἰς φῶς, ὥσπερ ἐξ Ἅιδου λέγονται δή τινες εἰς θεοὺς ἀνελθεῖν;
πῶς γὰρ οὐ βούλομαι; ἔφη.
τοῦτο δή, ὡς ἔοικεν, οὐκ ὀστράκου ἂν εἴη περιστροφή, ἀλλὰ ψυχῆς περιαγωγὴ ἐκ νυκτερινῆς τινος ἡμέρας εἰς ἀληθινήν, τοῦ ὄντος οὖσαν ἐπάνοδον, ἣν δὴ φιλοσοφίαν ἀληθῆ φήσομεν εἶναι.
πάνυ μὲν οὖν.
οὐκοῦν δεῖ σκοπεῖσθαι τί τῶν μαθημάτων ἔχει τοιαύτην [521d] δύναμιν;
πῶς γὰρ οὔ;
τί ἂν οὖν εἴη, ὦ Γλαύκων, μάθημα ψυχῆς ὁλκὸν ἀπὸ τοῦ γιγνομένου ἐπὶ τὸ ὄν; τόδε δʼ ἐννοῶ λέγων ἅμα· οὐκ ἀθλητὰς μέντοι πολέμου ἔφαμεν τούτους ἀναγκαῖον εἶναι νέους ὄντας;
ἔφαμεν γάρ.
δεῖ ἄρα καὶ τοῦτο προσέχειν τὸ μάθημα ὃ ζητοῦμεν πρὸς ἐκείνῳ.
τὸ ποῖον;
μὴ ἄχρηστον πολεμικοῖς ἀνδράσιν εἶναι.
δεῖ μέντοι, ἔφη, εἴπερ οἷόν τε.
γυμναστικῇ μὴν καὶ μουσικῇ ἔν γε τῷ πρόσθεν ἐπαιδεύοντο [521e] ἡμῖν.
ἦν ταῦτα, ἔφη.
καὶ γυμναστικὴ μέν που περὶ γιγνόμενον καὶ ἀπολλύμενον τετεύτακεν· σώματος γὰρ αὔξης καὶ φθίσεως. ἐπιστατεῖ.
φαίνεται.
τοῦτο μὲν δὴ οὐκ ἂν εἴη ὃ ζητοῦμεν μάθημα.

[522a]
οὐ γάρ.
ἀλλʼ ἆρα μουσικὴ ὅσην τὸ πρότερον διήλθομεν;
ἀλλʼ ἦν ἐκείνη γʼ, ἔφη, ἀντίστροφος τῆς γυμναστικῆς, εἰ μέμνησαι, ἔθεσι παιδεύουσα τοὺς φύλακας, κατά τε ἁρμονίαν εὐαρμοστίαν τινά, οὐκ ἐπιστήμην, παραδιδοῦσα, καὶ κατὰ ῥυθμὸν εὐρυθμίαν, ἔν τε τοῖς λόγοις ἕτερα τούτων ἀδελφὰ ἔθη ἄττα ἔχουσα, καὶ ὅσοι μυθώδεις τῶν λόγων καὶ ὅσοι ἀληθινώτεροι ἦσαν· μάθημα δὲ πρὸς τοιοῦτόν τι [522b] ἄγον, οἷον σὺ νῦν ζητεῖς, οὐδὲν ἦν ἐν αὐτῇ.
ἀκριβέστατα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἀναμιμνῄσκεις με· τῷ γὰρ ὄντι τοιοῦτον οὐδὲν εἶχεν. ἀλλʼ, ὦ δαιμόνιε Γλαύκων, τί ἂν εἴη τοιοῦτον; αἵ τε γὰρ τέχναι βάναυσοί που ἅπασαι ἔδοξαν εἶναι—
πῶς δʼ οὔ; καὶ μὴν τί ἔτʼ ἄλλο λείπεται μάθημα, μουσικῆς καὶ γυμναστικῆς καὶ τῶν τεχνῶν κεχωρισμένον;
φέρε, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, εἰ μηδὲν ἔτι ἐκτὸς τούτων ἔχομεν λαβεῖν, τῶν ἐπὶ πάντα τεινόντων τι λάβωμεν.
τὸ ποῖον; [522c]
οἷον τοῦτο τὸ κοινόν, ᾧ πᾶσαι προσχρῶνται τέχναι τε καὶ διάνοιαι καὶ ἐπιστῆμαι—ὃ καὶ παντὶ ἐν πρώτοις ἀνάγκη μανθάνειν.
τὸ ποῖον; ἔφη.
τὸ φαῦλον τοῦτο, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τὸ ἕν τε καὶ τὰ δύο καὶ τὰ τρία διαγιγνώσκειν· λέγω δὲ αὐτὸ ἐν κεφαλαίῳ ἀριθμόν τε καὶ λογισμόν. ἢ οὐχ οὕτω περὶ τούτων ἔχει, ὡς πᾶσα τέχνη τε καὶ ἐπιστήμη ἀναγκάζεται αὐτῶν μέτοχος γίγνεσθαι;
καὶ μάλα, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καὶ ἡ πολεμική;
πολλή, ἔφη, ἀνάγκη. [522d]
παγγέλοιον γοῦν, ἔφην, στρατηγὸν Ἀγαμέμνονα ἐν ταῖς τραγῳδίαις Παλαμήδης ἑκάστοτε ἀποφαίνει. ἢ οὐκ ἐννενόηκας ὅτι φησὶν ἀριθμὸν εὑρὼν τάς τε τάξεις τῷ στρατοπέδῳ καταστῆσαι ἐν Ἰλίῳ καὶ ἐξαριθμῆσαι ναῦς τε καὶ τἆλλα πάντα, ὡς πρὸ τοῦ ἀναριθμήτων ὄντων καὶ τοῦ Ἀγαμέμνονος, ὡς ἔοικεν, οὐδʼ ὅσους πόδας εἶχεν εἰδότος, εἴπερ ἀριθμεῖν μὴ ἠπίστατο; καίτοι ποῖόν τινʼ αὐτὸν οἴει στρατηγὸν εἶναι;
ἄτοπόν τινʼ, ἔφη, ἔγωγε, εἰ ἦν τοῦτʼ ἀληθές. [522e]
ἄλλο τι οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, μάθημα ἀναγκαῖον πολεμικῷ ἀνδρὶ θήσομεν λογίζεσθαί τε καὶ ἀριθμεῖν δύνασθαι;
πάντων γʼ, ἔφη, μάλιστα, εἰ καὶ ὁτιοῦν μέλλει τάξεων ἐπαΐειν, μᾶλλον δʼ εἰ καὶ ἄνθρωπος ἔσεσθαι.
ἐννοεῖς οὖν, εἶπον, περὶ τοῦτο τὸ μάθημα ὅπερ ἐγώ;
τὸ ποῖον;

### Book VII, 523–530

[523a]
κινδυνεύει τῶν πρὸς τὴν νόησιν ἀγόντων φύσει εἶναι ὧν ζητοῦμεν, χρῆσθαι δʼ οὐδεὶς αὐτῷ ὀρθῶς, ἑλκτικῷ ὄντι παντάπασι πρὸς οὐσίαν.
πῶς, ἔφη, λέγεις;
ἐγὼ πειράσομαι, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τό γʼ ἐμοὶ δοκοῦν δηλῶσαι. ἃ γὰρ διαιροῦμαι παρʼ ἐμαυτῷ ἀγωγά τε εἶναι οἷ λέγομεν καὶ μή, συνθεατὴς γενόμενος σύμφαθι ἢ ἄπειπε, ἵνα καὶ τοῦτο σαφέστερον ἴδωμεν εἰ ἔστιν οἷον μαντεύομαι.
δείκνυʼ, ἔφη.
δείκνυμι δή, εἶπον, εἰ καθορᾷς, τὰ μὲν ἐν ταῖς αἰσθήσεσιν [523b] οὐ παρακαλοῦντα τὴν νόησιν εἰς ἐπίσκεψιν, ὡς ἱκανῶς ὑπὸ τῆς αἰσθήσεως κρινόμενα, τὰ δὲ παντάπασι διακελευόμενα ἐκείνην ἐπισκέψασθαι, ὡς τῆς αἰσθήσεως οὐδὲν ὑγιὲς ποιούσης.
τὰ πόρρωθεν, ἔφη, φαινόμενα δῆλον ὅτι λέγεις καὶ τὰ ἐσκιαγραφημένα.
οὐ πάνυ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἔτυχες οὗ λέγω.
ποῖα μήν, ἔφη, λέγεις;
τὰ μὲν οὐ παρακαλοῦντα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὅσα μὴ ἐκβαίνει [523c] εἰς ἐναντίαν αἴσθησιν ἅμα· τὰ δʼ ἐκβαίνοντα ὡς παρακαλοῦντα τίθημι, ἐπειδὰν ἡ αἴσθησις μηδὲν μᾶλλον τοῦτο ἢ τὸ ἐναντίον δηλοῖ, εἴτʼ ἐγγύθεν προσπίπτουσα εἴτε πόρρωθεν. ὧδε δὲ ἃ λέγω σαφέστερον εἴσῃ. οὗτοί φαμεν τρεῖς ἂν εἶεν δάκτυλοι, ὅ τε σμικρότατος καὶ ὁ δεύτερος καὶ ὁ μέσος.
πάνυ γʼ, ἔφη.
ὡς ἐγγύθεν τοίνυν ὁρωμένους λέγοντός μου διανοοῦ. ἀλλά μοι περὶ αὐτῶν τόδε σκόπει.
τὸ ποῖον;
δάκτυλος μέν που αὐτῶν φαίνεται ὁμοίως ἕκαστος, καὶ [523d] ταύτῃ γε οὐδὲν διαφέρει, ἐάντε ἐν μέσῳ ὁρᾶται ἐάντʼ ἐπʼ ἐσχάτῳ, ἐάντε λευκὸς ἐάντε μέλας, ἐάντε παχὺς ἐάντε λεπτός, καὶ πᾶν ὅτι τοιοῦτον. ἐν πᾶσι γὰρ τούτοις οὐκ ἀναγκάζεται τῶν πολλῶν ἡ ψυχὴ τὴν νόησιν ἐπερέσθαι τί ποτʼ ἐστὶ δάκτυλος· οὐδαμοῦ γὰρ ἡ ὄψις αὐτῇ ἅμα ἐσήμηνεν τὸ δάκτυλον τοὐναντίον ἢ δάκτυλον εἶναι.
οὐ γὰρ οὖν, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, εἰκότως τό γε τοιοῦτον νοήσεως οὐκ [523e] ἂν παρακλητικὸν οὐδʼ ἐγερτικὸν εἴη.
εἰκότως.
τί δὲ δή; τὸ μέγεθος αὐτῶν καὶ τὴν σμικρότητα ἡ ὄψις ἆρα ἱκανῶς ὁρᾷ, καὶ οὐδὲν αὐτῇ διαφέρει ἐν μέσῳ τινὰ αὐτῶν κεῖσθαι ἢ ἐπʼ ἐσχάτῳ; καὶ ὡσαύτως πάχος καὶ λεπτότητα ἢ μαλακότητα καὶ σκληρότητα ἡ ἁφή; καὶ αἱ ἄλλαι αἰσθήσεις ἆρʼ οὐκ ἐνδεῶς τὰ τοιαῦτα δηλοῦσιν;
ἢ

[524a]
ὧδε ποιεῖ ἑκάστη αὐτῶν· πρῶτον μὲν ἡ ἐπὶ τῷ σκληρῷ τεταγμένη αἴσθησις ἠνάγκασται καὶ ἐπὶ τῷ μαλακῷ τετάχθαι, καὶ παραγγέλλει τῇ ψυχῇ ὡς ταὐτὸν σκληρόν τε καὶ μαλακὸν αἰσθανομένη;
οὕτως, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἀναγκαῖον ἔν γε τοῖς τοιούτοις αὖ τὴν ψυχὴν ἀπορεῖν τί ποτε σημαίνει αὕτη ἡ αἴσθησις τὸ σκληρόν, εἴπερ τὸ αὐτὸ καὶ μαλακὸν λέγει, καὶ ἡ τοῦ κούφου καὶ ἡ τοῦ βαρέος, τί τὸ κοῦφον καὶ βαρύ, εἰ τό τε βαρὺ κοῦφον καὶ τὸ κοῦφον βαρὺ σημαίνει; [524b]
καὶ γάρ, ἔφη, αὗταί γε ἄτοποι τῇ ψυχῇ αἱ ἑρμηνεῖαι καὶ ἐπισκέψεως δεόμεναι.
εἰκότως ἄρα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἐν τοῖς τοιούτοις πρῶτον μὲν πειρᾶται λογισμόν τε καὶ νόησιν ψυχὴ παρακαλοῦσα ἐπισκοπεῖν εἴτε ἓν εἴτε δύο ἐστὶν ἕκαστα τῶν εἰσαγγελλομένων.
πῶς δʼ οὔ;
οὐκοῦν ἐὰν δύο φαίνηται, ἕτερόν τε καὶ ἓν ἑκάτερον φαίνεται;
ναί.
εἰ ἄρα ἓν ἑκάτερον, ἀμφότερα δὲ δύο, τά γε δύο κεχωρισμένα [524c] νοήσει· οὐ γὰρ ἂν ἀχώριστά γε δύο ἐνόει, ἀλλʼ ἕν.
ὀρθῶς.
μέγα μὴν καὶ ὄψις καὶ σμικρὸν ἑώρα, φαμέν, ἀλλʼ οὐ κεχωρισμένον ἀλλὰ συγκεχυμένον τι. ἦ γάρ;
ναί.
διὰ δὲ τὴν τούτου σαφήνειαν μέγα αὖ καὶ σμικρὸν ἡ νόησις ἠναγκάσθη ἰδεῖν, οὐ συγκεχυμένα ἀλλὰ διωρισμένα, τοὐναντίον ἢ ʼκείνη.
ἀληθῆ.
οὐκοῦν ἐντεῦθέν ποθεν πρῶτον ἐπέρχεται ἐρέσθαι ἡμῖν τί οὖν ποτʼ ἐστὶ τὸ μέγα αὖ καὶ τὸ σμικρόν;
παντάπασι μὲν οὖν.
καὶ οὕτω δὴ τὸ μὲν νοητόν, τὸ δʼ ὁρατὸν ἐκαλέσαμεν. [524d]
ὀρθότατʼ, ἔφη.
ταῦτα τοίνυν καὶ ἄρτι ἐπεχείρουν λέγειν, ὡς τὰ μὲν παρακλητικὰ τῆς διανοίας ἐστί, τὰ δʼ οὔ, ἃ μὲν εἰς τὴν αἴσθησιν ἅμα τοῖς ἐναντίοις ἑαυτοῖς ἐμπίπτει, παρακλητικὰ ὁριζόμενος, ὅσα δὲ μή, οὐκ ἐγερτικὰ τῆς νοήσεως.
μανθάνω τοίνυν ἤδη, ἔφη, καὶ δοκεῖ μοι οὕτω.
τί οὖν; ἀριθμός τε καὶ τὸ ἓν ποτέρων δοκεῖ εἶναι;
οὐ συννοῶ, ἔφη.
ἀλλʼ ἐκ τῶν προειρημένων, ἔφην, ἀναλογίζου. εἰ μὲν γὰρ ἱκανῶς αὐτὸ καθʼ αὑτὸ ὁρᾶται ἢ ἄλλῃ τινὶ αἰσθήσει [524e] λαμβάνεται τὸ ἕν, οὐκ ἂν ὁλκὸν εἴη ἐπὶ τὴν οὐσίαν, ὥσπερ ἐπὶ τοῦ δακτύλου ἐλέγομεν·
εἰ δʼ ἀεί τι αὐτῷ ἅμα ὁρᾶται ἐναντίωμα, ὥστε μηδὲν μᾶλλον ἓν ἢ καὶ τοὐναντίον φαίνεσθαι, τοῦ ἐπικρινοῦντος δὴ δέοι ἂν ἤδη καὶ ἀναγκάζοιτʼ ἂν ἐν αὐτῷ ψυχὴ ἀπορεῖν καὶ ζητεῖν, κινοῦσα ἐν ἑαυτῇ τὴν ἔννοιαν, καὶ ἀνερωτᾶν τί ποτέ ἐστιν αὐτὸ τὸ ἕν, καὶ οὕτω τῶν

[525a]
ἀγωγῶν ἂν εἴη καὶ μεταστρεπτικῶν ἐπὶ τὴν τοῦ ὄντος θέαν ἡ περὶ τὸ ἓν μάθησις.
ἀλλὰ μέντοι, ἔφη, τοῦτό γʼ ἔχει οὐχ ἥκιστα ἡ περὶ αὐτὸ ὄψις· ἅμα γὰρ ταὐτὸν ὡς ἕν τε ὁρῶμεν καὶ ὡς ἄπειρα τὸ πλῆθος.
οὐκοῦν εἴπερ τὸ ἕν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καὶ σύμπας ἀριθμὸς ταὐτὸν πέπονθε τοῦτο;
πῶς δʼ οὔ;
ἀλλὰ μὴν λογιστική τε καὶ ἀριθμητικὴ περὶ ἀριθμὸν πᾶσα.
καὶ μάλα. [525b]
ταῦτα δέ γε φαίνεται ἀγωγὰ πρὸς ἀλήθειαν.
ὑπερφυῶς μὲν οὖν.
ὧν ζητοῦμεν ἄρα, ὡς ἔοικε, μαθημάτων ἂν εἴη· πολεμικῷ μὲν γὰρ διὰ τὰς τάξεις ἀναγκαῖον μαθεῖν ταῦτα, φιλοσόφῳ δὲ διὰ τὸ τῆς οὐσίας ἁπτέον εἶναι γενέσεως ἐξαναδύντι, ἢ μηδέποτε λογιστικῷ γενέσθαι.
ἔστι ταῦτʼ, ἔφη.
ὁ δέ γε ἡμέτερος φύλαξ πολεμικός τε καὶ φιλόσοφος τυγχάνει ὤν.
τί μήν;
προσῆκον δὴ τὸ μάθημα ἂν εἴη, ὦ Γλαύκων, νομοθετῆσαι καὶ πείθειν τοὺς μέλλοντας ἐν τῇ πόλει τῶν μεγίστων [525c] μεθέξειν ἐπὶ λογιστικὴν ἰέναι καὶ ἀνθάπτεσθαι αὐτῆς μὴ ἰδιωτικῶς, ἀλλʼ ἕως ἂν ἐπὶ θέαν τῆς τῶν ἀριθμῶν φύσεως ἀφίκωνται τῇ νοήσει αὐτῇ, οὐκ ὠνῆς οὐδὲ πράσεως χάριν ὡς ἐμπόρους ἢ καπήλους μελετῶντας, ἀλλʼ ἕνεκα πολέμου τε καὶ αὐτῆς τῆς ψυχῆς ῥᾳστώνης μεταστροφῆς ἀπὸ γενέσεως ἐπʼ ἀλήθειάν τε καὶ οὐσίαν.
κάλλιστʼ, ἔφη, λέγεις.
καὶ μήν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, νῦν καὶ ἐννοῶ, ῥηθέντος τοῦ περὶ [525d] τοὺς λογισμοὺς μαθήματος, ὡς κομψόν ἐστι καὶ πολλαχῇ χρήσιμον ἡμῖν πρὸς ὃ βουλόμεθα, ἐὰν τοῦ γνωρίζειν ἕνεκά τις αὐτὸ ἐπιτηδεύῃ ἀλλὰ μὴ τοῦ καπηλεύειν.
πῇ δή; ἔφη.
τοῦτό γε, ὃ νυνδὴ ἐλέγομεν, ὡς σφόδρα ἄνω ποι ἄγει τὴν ψυχὴν καὶ περὶ αὐτῶν τῶν ἀριθμῶν ἀναγκάζει διαλέγεσθαι, οὐδαμῇ ἀποδεχόμενον ἐάν τις αὐτῇ ὁρατὰ ἢ ἁπτὰ σώματα ἔχοντας ἀριθμοὺς προτεινόμενος διαλέγηται. οἶσθα γάρ που τοὺς περὶ ταῦτα δεινοὺς αὖ ὡς, ἐάν τις αὐτὸ τὸ [525e] ἓν ἐπιχειρῇ τῷ λόγῳ τέμνειν, καταγελῶσί τε καὶ οὐκ ἀποδέχονται, ἀλλʼ ἐὰν σὺ κερματίζῃς αὐτό, ἐκεῖνοι πολλαπλασιοῦσιν, εὐλαβούμενοι μή ποτε φανῇ τὸ ἓν μὴ ἓν ἀλλὰ πολλὰ μόρια.
ἀληθέστατα, ἔφη, λέγεις.

[526a]
τί οὖν οἴει, ὦ Γλαύκων, εἴ τις ἔροιτο αὐτούς· ὦ θαυμάσιοι, περὶ ποίων ἀριθμῶν διαλέγεσθε, ἐν οἷς τὸ ἓν οἷον ὑμεῖς ἀξιοῦτέ ἐστιν, ἴσον τε ἕκαστον πᾶν παντὶ καὶ οὐδὲ σμικρὸν διαφέρον, μόριόν τε ἔχον ἐν ἑαυτῷ οὐδέν; τί ἂν οἴει αὐτοὺς ἀποκρίνασθαι;
τοῦτο ἔγωγε, ὅτι περὶ τούτων λέγουσιν ὧν διανοηθῆναι μόνον ἐγχωρεῖ, ἄλλως δʼ οὐδαμῶς μεταχειρίζεσθαι δυνατόν.
ὁρᾷς οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὦ φίλε, ὅτι τῷ ὄντι ἀναγκαῖον [526b] ἡμῖν κινδυνεύει εἶναι τὸ μάθημα, ἐπειδὴ φαίνεταί γε προσαναγκάζον αὐτῇ τῇ νοήσει χρῆσθαι τὴν ψυχὴν ἐπʼ αὐτὴν τὴν ἀλήθειαν;
καὶ μὲν δή, ἔφη, σφόδρα γε ποιεῖ αὐτό.
τί δέ; τόδε ἤδη ἐπεσκέψω, ὡς οἵ τε φύσει λογιστικοὶ εἰς πάντα τὰ μαθήματα ὡς ἔπος εἰπεῖν ὀξεῖς φύονται, οἵ τε βραδεῖς, ἂν ἐν τούτῳ παιδευθῶσιν καὶ γυμνάσωνται, κἂν μηδὲν ἄλλο ὠφεληθῶσιν, ὅμως εἴς γε τὸ ὀξύτεροι αὐτοὶ αὑτῶν γίγνεσθαι πάντες ἐπιδιδόασιν;
ἔστιν, ἔφη, οὕτω. [526c]
καὶ μήν, ὡς ἐγᾦμαι, ἅ γε μείζω πόνον παρέχει μανθάνοντι καὶ μελετῶντι, οὐκ ἂν ῥᾳδίως οὐδὲ πολλὰ ἂν εὕροις ὡς τοῦτο.
οὐ γὰρ οὖν.
πάντων δὴ ἕνεκα τούτων οὐκ ἀφετέον τὸ μάθημα, ἀλλʼ οἱ ἄριστοι τὰς φύσεις παιδευτέοι ἐν αὐτῷ.
σύμφημι, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
τοῦτο μὲν τοίνυν, εἶπον, ἓν ἡμῖν κείσθω· δεύτερον δὲ τὸ ἐχόμενον τούτου σκεψώμεθα ἆρά τι προσήκει ἡμῖν.
τὸ ποῖον; ἢ γεωμετρίαν, ἔφη, λέγεις;
αὐτὸ τοῦτο, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ. [526d]
ὅσον μέν, ἔφη, πρὸς τὰ πολεμικὰ αὐτοῦ τείνει, δῆλον ὅτι προσήκει· πρὸς γὰρ τὰς στρατοπεδεύσεις καὶ καταλήψεις χωρίων καὶ συναγωγὰς καὶ ἐκτάσεις στρατιᾶς καὶ ὅσα δὴ ἄλλα σχηματίζουσι τὰ στρατόπεδα ἐν αὐταῖς τε ταῖς μάχαις καὶ πορείαις διαφέροι ἂν αὐτὸς αὑτοῦ γεωμετρικός τε καὶ μὴ ὤν.
ἀλλʼ οὖν δή, εἶπον, πρὸς μὲν τὰ τοιαῦτα καὶ βραχύ τι ἂν ἐξαρκοῖ γεωμετρίας τε καὶ λογισμῶν μόριον· τὸ δὲ πολὺ αὐτῆς καὶ πορρωτέρω προϊὸν σκοπεῖσθαι δεῖ εἴ τι πρὸς ἐκεῖνο [526e] τείνει, πρὸς τὸ ποιεῖν κατιδεῖν ῥᾷον τὴν τοῦ ἀγαθοῦ ἰδέαν. τείνει δέ, φαμέν, πάντα αὐτόσε, ὅσα ἀναγκάζει ψυχὴν εἰς ἐκεῖνον τὸν τόπον μεταστρέφεσθαι ἐν ᾧ ἐστι τὸ εὐδαιμονέστατον τοῦ ὄντος, ὃ δεῖ αὐτὴν παντὶ τρόπῳ ἰδεῖν.
ὀρθῶς, ἔφη, λέγεις.
οὐκοῦν εἰ μὲν οὐσίαν ἀναγκάζει θεάσασθαι, προσήκει, εἰ δὲ γένεσιν, οὐ προσήκει.
φαμέν γε δή.

[527a]
οὐ τοίνυν τοῦτό γε, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἀμφισβητήσουσιν ἡμῖν ὅσοι καὶ σμικρὰ γεωμετρίας ἔμπειροι, ὅτι αὕτη ἡ ἐπιστήμη πᾶν τοὐναντίον ἔχει τοῖς ἐν αὐτῇ λόγοις λεγομένοις ὑπὸ τῶν μεταχειριζομένων.
πῶς; ἔφη.
λέγουσι μέν που μάλα γελοίως τε καὶ ἀναγκαίως· ὡς γὰρ πράττοντές τε καὶ πράξεως ἕνεκα πάντας τοὺς λόγους ποιούμενοι λέγουσιν τετραγωνίζειν τε καὶ παρατείνειν καὶ προστιθέναι καὶ πάντα οὕτω φθεγγόμενοι, τὸ δʼ ἔστι που [527b] πᾶν τὸ μάθημα γνώσεως ἕνεκα ἐπιτηδευόμενον.
παντάπασι μὲν οὖν, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν τοῦτο ἔτι διομολογητέον;
τὸ ποῖον;
ὡς τοῦ ἀεὶ ὄντος γνώσεως, ἀλλὰ οὐ τοῦ ποτέ τι γιγνομένου καὶ ἀπολλυμένου.
εὐομολόγητον, ἔφη· τοῦ γὰρ ἀεὶ ὄντος ἡ γεωμετρικὴ γνῶσίς ἐστιν.
ὁλκὸν ἄρα, ὦ γενναῖε, ψυχῆς πρὸς ἀλήθειαν εἴη ἂν καὶ ἀπεργαστικὸν φιλοσόφου διανοίας πρὸς τὸ ἄνω σχεῖν ἃ νῦν κάτω οὐ δέον ἔχομεν.
ὡς οἷόν τε μάλιστα, ἔφη. [527c]
ὡς οἷόν τʼ ἄρα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, μάλιστα προστακτέον ὅπως οἱ ἐν τῇ καλλιπόλει σοι μηδενὶ τρόπῳ γεωμετρίας ἀφέξονται. καὶ γὰρ τὰ πάρεργα αὐτοῦ οὐ σμικρά.
ποῖα; ἦ δʼ ὅς.
ἅ τε δὴ σὺ εἶπες, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τὰ περὶ τὸν πόλεμον, καὶ δὴ καὶ πρὸς πάσας μαθήσεις, ὥστε κάλλιον ἀποδέχεσθαι, ἴσμεν που ὅτι τῷ ὅλῳ καὶ παντὶ διοίσει ἡμμένος τε γεωμετρίας καὶ μή.
τῷ παντὶ μέντοι νὴ Δίʼ, ἔφη.
δεύτερον δὴ τοῦτο τιθῶμεν μάθημα τοῖς νέοις;
τιθῶμεν, ἔφη. [527d]
τί δέ; τρίτον θῶμεν ἀστρονομίαν; ἢ οὐ δοκεῖ;
ἐμοὶ γοῦν, ἔφη· τὸ γὰρ περὶ ὥρας εὐαισθητοτέρως ἔχειν καὶ μηνῶν καὶ ἐνιαυτῶν οὐ μόνον γεωργίᾳ οὐδὲ ναυτιλίᾳ προσήκει, ἀλλὰ καὶ στρατηγίᾳ οὐχ ἧττον.
ἡδὺς εἶ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὅτι ἔοικας δεδιότι τοὺς πολλούς, μὴ δοκῇς ἄχρηστα μαθήματα προστάττειν. τὸ δʼ ἔστιν οὐ πάνυ φαῦλον ἀλλὰ χαλεπὸν πιστεῦσαι ὅτι ἐν τούτοις τοῖς μαθήμασιν ἑκάστου ὄργανόν τι ψυχῆς ἐκκαθαίρεταί τε καὶ [527e] ἀναζωπυρεῖται ἀπολλύμενον καὶ τυφλούμενον ὑπὸ τῶν ἄλλων ἐπιτηδευμάτων, κρεῖττον ὂν σωθῆναι μυρίων ὀμμάτων· μόνῳ γὰρ αὐτῷ ἀλήθεια ὁρᾶται. οἷς μὲν οὖν ταῦτα συνδοκεῖ ἀμηχάνως ὡς εὖ δόξεις λέγειν, ὅσοι δὲ τούτου μηδαμῇ ᾐσθημένοι εἰσὶν εἰκότως ἡγήσονταί σε λέγειν οὐδέν· ἄλλην γὰρ ἀπʼ αὐτῶν οὐχ ὁρῶσιν ἀξίαν λόγου ὠφελίαν.
σκόπει

[528a]
οὖν αὐτόθεν πρὸς ποτέρους διαλέγῃ· ἢ οὐδὲ πρὸς ἑτέρους, ἀλλὰ σαυτοῦ ἕνεκα τὸ μέγιστον ποιῇ τοὺς λόγους, φθονοῖς μὴν οὐδʼ ἂν ἄλλῳ, εἴ τίς τι δύναιτο ἀπʼ αὐτῶν ὄνασθαι.
οὕτως, ἔφη, αἱροῦμαι, ἐμαυτοῦ ἕνεκα τὸ πλεῖστον λέγειν τε καὶ ἐρωτᾶν καὶ ἀποκρίνεσθαι.
ἄναγε τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, εἰς τοὐπίσω· νυνδὴ γὰρ οὐκ ὀρθῶς τὸ ἑξῆς ἐλάβομεν τῇ γεωμετρίᾳ.
πῶς λαβόντες; ἔφη.
μετὰ ἐπίπεδον, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἐν περιφορᾷ ὂν ἤδη στερεὸν [528b] λαβόντες, πρὶν αὐτὸ καθʼ αὑτὸ λαβεῖν· ὀρθῶς δὲ ἔχει ἑξῆς μετὰ δευτέραν αὔξην τρίτην λαμβάνειν. ἔστι δέ που τοῦτο περὶ τὴν τῶν κύβων αὔξην καὶ τὸ βάθους μετέχον.
ἔστι γάρ, ἔφη· ἀλλὰ ταῦτά γε, ὦ Σώκρατες, δοκεῖ οὔπω ηὑρῆσθαι.
διττὰ γάρ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τὰ αἴτια· ὅτι τε οὐδεμία πόλις ἐντίμως αὐτὰ ἔχει, ἀσθενῶς ζητεῖται χαλεπὰ ὄντα, ἐπιστάτου τε δέονται οἱ ζητοῦντες, ἄνευ οὗ οὐκ ἂν εὕροιεν, ὃν πρῶτον μὲν γενέσθαι χαλεπόν, ἔπειτα καὶ γενομένου, ὡς νῦν ἔχει, [528c] οὐκ ἂν πείθοιντο οἱ περὶ ταῦτα ζητητικοὶ μεγαλοφρονούμενοι. εἰ δὲ πόλις ὅλη συνεπιστατοῖ ἐντίμως ἄγουσα αὐτά, οὗτοί τε ἂν πείθοιντο καὶ συνεχῶς τε ἂν καὶ ἐντόνως ζητούμενα ἐκφανῆ γένοιτο ὅπῃ ἔχει· ἐπεὶ καὶ νῦν ὑπὸ τῶν πολλῶν ἀτιμαζόμενα καὶ κολουόμενα, ὑπὸ δὲ τῶν ζητούντων λόγον οὐκ ἐχόντων καθʼ ὅτι χρήσιμα, ὅμως πρὸς ἅπαντα ταῦτα βίᾳ ὑπὸ χάριτος αὐξάνεται, καὶ οὐδὲν θαυμαστὸν αὐτὰ φανῆναι. [528d]
καὶ μὲν δή, ἔφη, τό γε ἐπίχαρι καὶ διαφερόντως ἔχει. ἀλλά μοι σαφέστερον εἰπὲ ἃ νυνδὴ ἔλεγες. τὴν μὲν γάρ που τοῦ ἐπιπέδου πραγματείαν γεωμετρίαν ἐτίθεις.
ναί, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ.
εἶτά γʼ, ἔφη, τὸ μὲν πρῶτον ἀστρονομίαν μετὰ ταύτην, ὕστερον δʼ ἀνεχώρησας.
σπεύδων γάρ, ἔφην, ταχὺ πάντα διεξελθεῖν μᾶλλον βραδύνω· ἑξῆς γὰρ οὖσαν τὴν βάθους αὔξης μέθοδον, ὅτι τῇ ζητήσει γελοίως ἔχει, ὑπερβὰς αὐτὴν μετὰ γεωμετρίαν [528e] ἀστρονομίαν ἔλεγον, φορὰν οὖσαν βάθους.
ὀρθῶς, ἔφη, λέγεις.
τέταρτον τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τιθῶμεν μάθημα ἀστρονομίαν, ὡς ὑπαρχούσης τῆς νῦν παραλειπομένης, ἐὰν αὐτὴν πόλις μετίῃ.
εἰκός, ἦ δʼ ὅς. καὶ ὅ γε νυνδή μοι, ὦ Σώκρατες, ἐπέπληξας περὶ ἀστρονομίας ὡς φορτικῶς ἐπαινοῦντι, νῦν ᾗ σὺ μετέρχῃ

[529a]
ἐπαινῶ· παντὶ γάρ μοι δοκεῖ δῆλον ὅτι αὕτη γε ἀναγκάζει ψυχὴν εἰς τὸ ἄνω ὁρᾶν καὶ ἀπὸ τῶν ἐνθένδε ἐκεῖσε ἄγει.
ἴσως, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, παντὶ δῆλον πλὴν ἐμοί· ἐμοὶ γὰρ οὐ δοκεῖ οὕτως.
ἀλλὰ πῶς; ἔφη.
ὡς μὲν νῦν αὐτὴν μεταχειρίζονται οἱ εἰς φιλοσοφίαν ἀνάγοντες, πάνυ ποιεῖν κάτω βλέπειν.
πῶς, ἔφη, λέγεις;
οὐκ ἀγεννῶς μοι δοκεῖς, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τὴν περὶ τὰ ἄνω μάθησιν λαμβάνειν παρὰ σαυτῷ ἥ ἐστι· κινδυνεύεις γὰρ [529b] καὶ εἴ τις ἐν ὀροφῇ ποικίλματα θεώμενος ἀνακύπτων καταμανθάνοι τι, ἡγεῖσθαι ἂν αὐτὸν νοήσει ἀλλʼ οὐκ ὄμμασι θεωρεῖν. ἴσως οὖν καλῶς ἡγῇ, ἐγὼ δʼ εὐηθικῶς. ἐγὼ γὰρ αὖ οὐ δύναμαι ἄλλο τι νομίσαι ἄνω ποιοῦν ψυχὴν βλέπειν μάθημα ἢ ἐκεῖνο ὃ ἂν περὶ τὸ ὄν τε ᾖ καὶ τὸ ἀόρατον, ἐάν τέ τις ἄνω κεχηνὼς ἢ κάτω συμμεμυκὼς τῶν αἰσθητῶν τι ἐπιχειρῇ μανθάνειν, οὔτε μαθεῖν ἄν ποτέ φημι αὐτόν—ἐπιστήμην [529c] γὰρ οὐδὲν ἔχειν τῶν τοιούτων—οὔτε ἄνω ἀλλὰ κάτω αὐτοῦ βλέπειν τὴν ψυχήν, κἂν ἐξ ὑπτίας νέων ἐν γῇ ἢ ἐν θαλάττῃ μανθάνῃ.
δίκην, ἔφη, ἔχω· ὀρθῶς γάρ μοι ἐπέπληξας. ἀλλὰ πῶς δὴ ἔλεγες δεῖν ἀστρονομίαν μανθάνειν παρὰ ἃ νῦν μανθάνουσιν, εἰ μέλλοιεν ὠφελίμως πρὸς ἃ λέγομεν μαθήσεσθαι;
ὧδε, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ. ταῦτα μὲν τὰ ἐν τῷ οὐρανῷ ποικίλματα, ἐπείπερ ἐν ὁρατῷ πεποίκιλται, κάλλιστα μὲν ἡγεῖσθαι καὶ [529d] ἀκριβέστατα τῶν τοιούτων ἔχειν, τῶν δὲ ἀληθινῶν πολὺ ἐνδεῖν, ἃς τὸ ὂν τάχος καὶ ἡ οὖσα βραδυτὴς ἐν τῷ ἀληθινῷ ἀριθμῷ καὶ πᾶσι τοῖς ἀληθέσι σχήμασι φοράς τε πρὸς ἄλληλα φέρεται καὶ τὰ ἐνόντα φέρει, ἃ δὴ λόγῳ μὲν καὶ διανοίᾳ ληπτά, ὄψει δʼ οὔ· ἢ σὺ οἴει;
οὐδαμῶς γε, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν, εἶπον, τῇ περὶ τὸν οὐρανὸν ποικιλίᾳ παραδείγμασι χρηστέον τῆς πρὸς ἐκεῖνα μαθήσεως ἕνεκα, ὁμοίως ὥσπερ ἂν [529e] εἴ τις ἐντύχοι ὑπὸ Δαιδάλου ἤ τινος ἄλλου δημιουργοῦ ἢ γραφέως διαφερόντως γεγραμμένοις καὶ ἐκπεπονημένοις διαγράμμασιν.
ἡγήσαιτο γὰρ ἄν πού τις ἔμπειρος γεωμετρίας, ἰδὼν τὰ τοιαῦτα, κάλλιστα μὲν ἔχειν ἀπεργασίᾳ, γελοῖον μὴν ἐπισκοπεῖν αὐτὰ σπουδῇ ὡς τὴν ἀλήθειαν ἐν αὐτοῖς ληψόμενον

[530a]
ἴσων ἢ διπλασίων ἢ ἄλλης τινὸς συμμετρίας.
τί δʼ οὐ μέλλει γελοῖον εἶναι; ἔφη.
τῷ ὄντι δὴ ἀστρονομικόν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὄντα οὐκ οἴει ταὐτὸν πείσεσθαι εἰς τὰς τῶν ἄστρων φορὰς ἀποβλέποντα; νομιεῖν μὲν ὡς οἷόν τε κάλλιστα τὰ τοιαῦτα ἔργα συστήσασθαι, οὕτω συνεστάναι τῷ τοῦ οὐρανοῦ δημιουργῷ αὐτόν τε καὶ τὰ ἐν αὐτῷ· τὴν δὲ νυκτὸς πρὸς ἡμέραν συμμετρίαν καὶ τούτων πρὸς μῆνα καὶ μηνὸς πρὸς ἐνιαυτὸν καὶ τῶν ἄλλων ἄστρων [530b] πρός τε ταῦτα καὶ πρὸς ἄλληλα, οὐκ ἄτοπον, οἴει, ἡγήσεται τὸν νομίζοντα γίγνεσθαί τε ταῦτα ἀεὶ ὡσαύτως καὶ οὐδαμῇ οὐδὲν παραλλάττειν, σῶμά τε ἔχοντα καὶ ὁρώμενα, καὶ ζητεῖν παντὶ τρόπῳ τὴν ἀλήθειαν αὐτῶν λαβεῖν;
ἐμοὶ γοῦν δοκεῖ, ἔφη, σοῦ νῦν ἀκούοντι.
προβλήμασιν ἄρα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, χρώμενοι ὥσπερ γεωμετρίαν οὕτω καὶ ἀστρονομίαν μέτιμεν, τὰ δʼ ἐν τῷ οὐρανῷ ἐάσομεν, εἰ μέλλομεν ὄντως ἀστρονομίας μεταλαμβάνοντες χρήσιμον [530c] τὸ φύσει φρόνιμον ἐν τῇ ψυχῇ ἐξ ἀχρήστου ποιήσειν.
ἦ πολλαπλάσιον, ἔφη, τὸ ἔργον ἢ ὡς νῦν ἀστρονομεῖται προστάττεις.
οἶμαι δέ γε, εἶπον, καὶ τἆλλα κατὰ τὸν αὐτὸν τρόπον προστάξειν ἡμᾶς, ἐάν τι ἡμῶν ὡς νομοθετῶν ὄφελος ᾖ. ἀλλὰ γάρ τι ἔχεις ὑπομνῆσαι τῶν προσηκόντων μαθημάτων;
οὐκ ἔχω, ἔφη, νῦν γʼ οὑτωσί.
οὐ μὴν ἕν, ἀλλὰ πλείω, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, εἴδη παρέχεται ἡ φορά, [530d] ὡς ἐγᾦμαι. τὰ μὲν οὖν πάντα ἴσως ὅστις σοφὸς ἕξει εἰπεῖν· ἃ δὲ καὶ ἡμῖν προφανῆ, δύο.
ποῖα δή;
πρὸς τούτῳ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἀντίστροφον αὐτοῦ.
τὸ ποῖον;
κινδυνεύει, ἔφην, ὡς πρὸς ἀστρονομίαν ὄμματα πέπηγεν, ὣς πρὸς ἐναρμόνιον φορὰν ὦτα παγῆναι, καὶ αὗται ἀλλήλων ἀδελφαί τινες αἱ ἐπιστῆμαι εἶναι, ὡς οἵ τε Πυθαγόρειοί φασι καὶ ἡμεῖς, ὦ Γλαύκων, συγχωροῦμεν. ἢ πῶς ποιοῦμεν;
οὕτως, ἔφη. [530e]
οὐκοῦν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἐπειδὴ πολὺ τὸ ἔργον, ἐκείνων πευσόμεθα πῶς λέγουσι περὶ αὐτῶν καὶ εἴ τι ἄλλο πρὸς τούτοις· ἡμεῖς δὲ παρὰ πάντα ταῦτα φυλάξομεν τὸ ἡμέτερον.
ποῖον;
μή ποτʼ αὐτῶν τι ἀτελὲς ἐπιχειρῶσιν ἡμῖν μανθάνειν οὓς θρέψομεν, καὶ οὐκ ἐξῆκον ἐκεῖσε ἀεί, οἷ πάντα δεῖ ἀφήκειν, οἷον ἄρτι περὶ τῆς ἀστρονομίας ἐλέγομεν.
ἢ οὐκ οἶσθʼ ὅτι

### Book VII, 531–538

[531a]
καὶ περὶ ἁρμονίας ἕτερον τοιοῦτον ποιοῦσι; τὰς γὰρ ἀκουομένας αὖ συμφωνίας καὶ φθόγγους ἀλλήλοις ἀναμετροῦντες ἀνήνυτα, ὥσπερ οἱ ἀστρονόμοι, πονοῦσιν.
νὴ τοὺς θεούς, ἔφη, καὶ γελοίως γε, πυκνώματʼ ἄττα ὀνομάζοντες καὶ παραβάλλοντες τὰ ὦτα, οἷον ἐκ γειτόνων φωνὴν θηρευόμενοι, οἱ μέν φασιν ἔτι κατακούειν ἐν μέσῳ τινὰ ἠχὴν καὶ σμικρότατον εἶναι τοῦτο διάστημα, ᾧ μετρητέον, οἱ δὲ ἀμφισβητοῦντες ὡς ὅμοιον ἤδη φθεγγομένων, ἀμφότεροι [531b] ὦτα τοῦ νοῦ προστησάμενοι.
σὺ μέν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τοὺς χρηστοὺς λέγεις τοὺς ταῖς χορδαῖς πράγματα παρέχοντας καὶ βασανίζοντας, ἐπὶ τῶν κολλόπων στρεβλοῦντας· ἵνα δὲ μὴ μακροτέρα ἡ εἰκὼν γίγνηται πλήκτρῳ τε πληγῶν γιγνομένων καὶ κατηγορίας πέρι καὶ ἐξαρνήσεως καὶ ἀλαζονείας χορδῶν, παύομαι τῆς εἰκόνος καὶ οὔ φημι τούτους λέγειν, ἀλλʼ ἐκείνους οὓς ἔφαμεν νυνδὴ περὶ ἁρμονίας ἐρήσεσθαι. ταὐτὸν γὰρ ποιοῦσι τοῖς ἐν τῇ [531c] ἀστρονομίᾳ· τοὺς γὰρ ἐν ταύταις ταῖς συμφωνίαις ταῖς ἀκουομέναις ἀριθμοὺς ζητοῦσιν, ἀλλʼ οὐκ εἰς προβλήματα ἀνίασιν, ἐπισκοπεῖν τίνες σύμφωνοι ἀριθμοὶ καὶ τίνες οὔ, καὶ διὰ τί ἑκάτεροι.
δαιμόνιον γάρ, ἔφη, πρᾶγμα λέγεις.
χρήσιμον μὲν οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, πρὸς τὴν τοῦ καλοῦ τε καὶ ἀγαθοῦ ζήτησιν, ἄλλως δὲ μεταδιωκόμενον ἄχρηστον.
εἰκός γʼ, ἔφη.
οἶμαι δέ γε, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καὶ ἡ τούτων πάντων ὧν διεληλύθαμεν [531d] μέθοδος ἐὰν μὲν ἐπὶ τὴν ἀλλήλων κοινωνίαν ἀφίκηται καὶ συγγένειαν, καὶ συλλογισθῇ ταῦτα ᾗ ἐστὶν ἀλλήλοις οἰκεῖα, φέρειν τι αὐτῶν εἰς ἃ βουλόμεθα τὴν πραγματείαν καὶ οὐκ ἀνόνητα πονεῖσθαι, εἰ δὲ μή, ἀνόνητα.
καὶ ἐγώ, ἔφη, οὕτω μαντεύομαι. ἀλλὰ πάμπολυ ἔργον λέγεις, ὦ Σώκρατες.
τοῦ προοιμίου, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἢ τίνος λέγεις; ἢ οὐκ ἴσμεν ὅτι πάντα ταῦτα προοίμιά ἐστιν αὐτοῦ τοῦ νόμου ὃν δεῖ μαθεῖν; οὐ γάρ που δοκοῦσί γέ σοι οἱ ταῦτα δεινοὶ διαλεκτικοὶ [531e] εἶναι.
οὐ μὰ τὸν Δίʼ, ἔφη, εἰ μὴ μάλα γέ τινες ὀλίγοι ὧν ἐγὼ ἐντετύχηκα.
ἀλλὰ δή, εἶπον, μὴ δυνατοὶ οἵτινες δοῦναί τε καὶ ἀποδέξασθαι λόγον εἴσεσθαί ποτέ τι ὧν φαμεν δεῖν εἰδέναι;
οὐδʼ αὖ, ἔφη, τοῦτό γε.

[532a]
οὐκοῦν, εἶπον, ὦ Γλαύκων, οὗτος ἤδη αὐτός ἐστιν ὁ νόμος ὃν τὸ διαλέγεσθαι περαίνει; ὃν καὶ ὄντα νοητὸν μιμοῖτʼ ἂν ἡ τῆς ὄψεως δύναμις, ἣν ἐλέγομεν πρὸς αὐτὰ ἤδη τὰ ζῷα ἐπιχειρεῖν ἀποβλέπειν καὶ πρὸς αὐτὰ τὰ ἄστρα τε καὶ τελευταῖον δὴ πρὸς αὐτὸν τὸν ἥλιον. οὕτω καὶ ὅταν τις τῷ διαλέγεσθαι ἐπιχειρῇ ἄνευ πασῶν τῶν αἰσθήσεων διὰ τοῦ λόγου ἐπʼ αὐτὸ ὃ ἔστιν ἕκαστον ὁρμᾶν, καὶ μὴ ἀποστῇ πρὶν [532b] ἂν αὐτὸ ὃ ἔστιν ἀγαθὸν αὐτῇ νοήσει λάβῃ, ἐπʼ αὐτῷ γίγνεται τῷ τοῦ νοητοῦ τέλει, ὥσπερ ἐκεῖνος τότε ἐπὶ τῷ τοῦ ὁρατοῦ.
παντάπασι μὲν οὖν, ἔφη.
τί οὖν; οὐ διαλεκτικὴν ταύτην τὴν πορείαν καλεῖς;
τί μήν;
ἡ δέ γε, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, λύσις τε ἀπὸ τῶν δεσμῶν καὶ μεταστροφὴ ἀπὸ τῶν σκιῶν ἐπὶ τὰ εἴδωλα καὶ τὸ φῶς καὶ ἐκ τοῦ καταγείου εἰς τὸν ἥλιον ἐπάνοδος, καὶ ἐκεῖ πρὸς μὲν τὰ ζῷά τε καὶ φυτὰ καὶ τὸ τοῦ ἡλίου φῶς ἔτι ἀδυναμία [532c] βλέπειν, πρὸς δὲ τὰ ἐν ὕδασι φαντάσματα θεῖα καὶ σκιὰς τῶν ὄντων, ἀλλʼ οὐκ εἰδώλων σκιὰς διʼ ἑτέρου τοιούτου φωτὸς ὡς πρὸς ἥλιον κρίνειν ἀποσκιαζομένας—πᾶσα αὕτη ἡ πραγματεία τῶν τεχνῶν ἃς διήλθομεν ταύτην ἔχει τὴν δύναμιν καὶ ἐπαναγωγὴν τοῦ βελτίστου ἐν ψυχῇ πρὸς τὴν τοῦ ἀρίστου ἐν τοῖς οὖσι θέαν, ὥσπερ τότε τοῦ σαφεστάτου ἐν σώματι πρὸς τὴν τοῦ φανοτάτου ἐν τῷ σωματοειδεῖ τε καὶ [532d] ὁρατῷ τόπῳ.
ἐγὼ μέν, ἔφη, ἀποδέχομαι οὕτω. καίτοι παντάπασί γέ μοι δοκεῖ χαλεπὰ μὲν ἀποδέχεσθαι εἶναι, ἄλλον δʼ αὖ τρόπον χαλεπὰ μὴ ἀποδέχεσθαι. ὅμως δέ—οὐ γὰρ ἐν τῷ νῦν παρόντι μόνον ἀκουστέα, ἀλλὰ καὶ αὖθις πολλάκις ἐπανιτέον —ταῦτα θέντες ἔχειν ὡς νῦν λέγεται, ἐπʼ αὐτὸν δὴ τὸν νόμον ἴωμεν, καὶ διέλθωμεν οὕτως ὥσπερ τὸ προοίμιον διήλθομεν. λέγε οὖν τίς ὁ τρόπος τῆς τοῦ διαλέγεσθαι δυνάμεως, καὶ [532e] κατὰ ποῖα δὴ εἴδη διέστηκεν, καὶ τίνες αὖ ὁδοί· αὗται γὰρ ἂν ἤδη, ὡς ἔοικεν, αἱ πρὸς αὐτὸ ἄγουσαι εἶεν, οἷ ἀφικομένῳ ὥσπερ ὁδοῦ ἀνάπαυλα ἂν εἴη καὶ τέλος τῆς πορείας.

[533a]
οὐκέτʼ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὦ φίλε Γλαύκων, οἷός τʼ ἔσῃ ἀκολουθεῖν—ἐπεὶ τό γʼ ἐμὸν οὐδὲν ἂν προθυμίας ἀπολίποι—οὐδʼ εἰκόνα ἂν ἔτι οὗ λέγομεν ἴδοις, ἀλλʼ αὐτὸ τὸ ἀληθές, ὅ γε δή μοι φαίνεται—εἰ δʼ ὄντως ἢ μή, οὐκέτʼ ἄξιον τοῦτο διισχυρίζεσθαι· ἀλλʼ ὅτι μὲν δὴ τοιοῦτόν τι ἰδεῖν, ἰσχυριστέον. ἦ γάρ;
τί μήν;
οὐκοῦν καὶ ὅτι ἡ τοῦ διαλέγεσθαι δύναμις μόνη ἂν φήνειεν ἐμπείρῳ ὄντι ὧν νυνδὴ διήλθομεν, ἄλλῃ δὲ οὐδαμῇ δυνατόν;
καὶ τοῦτʼ, ἔφη, ἄξιον διισχυρίζεσθαι. [533b]
τόδε γοῦν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, οὐδεὶς ἡμῖν ἀμφισβητήσει λέγουσιν, ὡς αὐτοῦ γε ἑκάστου πέρι ὃ ἔστιν ἕκαστον ἄλλη τις ἐπιχειρεῖ μέθοδος ὁδῷ περὶ παντὸς λαμβάνειν. ἀλλʼ αἱ μὲν ἄλλαι πᾶσαι τέχναι ἢ πρὸς δόξας ἀνθρώπων καὶ ἐπιθυμίας εἰσὶν ἢ πρὸς γενέσεις τε καὶ συνθέσεις, ἢ πρὸς θεραπείαν τῶν φυομένων τε καὶ συντιθεμένων ἅπασαι τετράφαται· αἱ δὲ λοιπαί, ἃς τοῦ ὄντος τι ἔφαμεν ἐπιλαμβάνεσθαι, γεωμετρίας τε καὶ τὰς ταύτῃ ἑπομένας, ὁρῶμεν ὡς ὀνειρώττουσι μὲν [533c] περὶ τὸ ὄν, ὕπαρ δὲ ἀδύνατον αὐταῖς ἰδεῖν, ἕως ἂν ὑποθέσεσι χρώμεναι ταύτας ἀκινήτους ἐῶσι, μὴ δυνάμεναι λόγον διδόναι αὐτῶν. ᾧ γὰρ ἀρχὴ μὲν ὃ μὴ οἶδε, τελευτὴ δὲ καὶ τὰ μεταξὺ ἐξ οὗ μὴ οἶδεν συμπέπλεκται, τίς μηχανὴ τὴν τοιαύτην ὁμολογίαν ποτὲ ἐπιστήμην γενέσθαι;
οὐδεμία, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
οὐκοῦν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἡ διαλεκτικὴ μέθοδος μόνη ταύτῃ πορεύεται, τὰς ὑποθέσεις ἀναιροῦσα, ἐπʼ αὐτὴν τὴν ἀρχὴν [533d] ἵνα βεβαιώσηται, καὶ τῷ ὄντι ἐν βορβόρῳ βαρβαρικῷ τινι τὸ τῆς ψυχῆς ὄμμα κατορωρυγμένον ἠρέμα ἕλκει καὶ ἀνάγει ἄνω, συνερίθοις καὶ συμπεριαγωγοῖς χρωμένη αἷς διήλθομεν τέχναις· ἃς ἐπιστήμας μὲν πολλάκις προσείπομεν διὰ τὸ ἔθος, δέονται δὲ ὀνόματος ἄλλου, ἐναργεστέρου μὲν ἢ δόξης, ἀμυδροτέρου δὲ ἢ ἐπιστήμης—διάνοιαν δὲ αὐτὴν ἔν γε τῷ πρόσθεν που ὡρισάμεθα—ἔστι δʼ, ὡς ἐμοὶ δοκεῖ, οὐ περὶ [533e] ὀνόματος ἀμφισβήτησις, οἷς τοσούτων πέρι σκέψις ὅσων ἡμῖν πρόκειται.
οὐ γὰρ οὖν, ἔφη.
ἀλλʼ ὃ ἂν μόνον δηλοῖ πως τὴν ἕξιν σαφηνείᾳ λέγειν ἐν ψυχῇ ἀρκέσει;
ναί.
ἀρκέσει οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὥσπερ τὸ πρότερον, τὴν μὲν πρώτην μοῖραν ἐπιστήμην καλεῖν, δευτέραν δὲ διάνοιαν, τρίτην

[534a]
δὲ πίστιν καὶ εἰκασίαν τετάρτην· καὶ συναμφότερα μὲν ταῦτα δόξαν, συναμφότερα δʼ ἐκεῖνα νόησιν· καὶ δόξαν μὲν περὶ γένεσιν, νόησιν δὲ περὶ οὐσίαν· καὶ ὅτι οὐσία πρὸς γένεσιν, νόησιν πρὸς δόξαν, καὶ ὅτι νόησις πρὸς δόξαν, ἐπιστήμην πρὸς πίστιν καὶ διάνοιαν πρὸς εἰκασίαν· τὴν δʼ ἐφʼ οἷς ταῦτα ἀναλογίαν καὶ διαίρεσιν διχῇ ἑκατέρου, δοξαστοῦ τε καὶ νοητοῦ, ἐῶμεν, ὦ Γλαύκων, ἵνα μὴ ἡμᾶς πολλαπλασίων λόγων ἐμπλήσῃ ἢ ὅσων οἱ παρεληλυθότες. [534b]
ἀλλὰ μὴν ἔμοιγʼ, ἔφη, τά γε ἄλλα, καθʼ ὅσον δύναμαι ἕπεσθαι, συνδοκεῖ.
ἦ καὶ διαλεκτικὸν καλεῖς τὸν λόγον ἑκάστου λαμβάνοντα τῆς οὐσίας; καὶ τὸν μὴ ἔχοντα, καθʼ ὅσον ἂν μὴ ἔχῃ λόγον αὑτῷ τε καὶ ἄλλῳ διδόναι, κατὰ τοσοῦτον νοῦν περὶ τούτου οὐ φήσεις ἔχειν;
πῶς γὰρ ἄν, ἦ δʼ ὅς, φαίην;
οὐκοῦν καὶ περὶ τοῦ ἀγαθοῦ ὡσαύτως· ὃς ἂν μὴ ἔχῃ διορίσασθαι τῷ λόγῳ ἀπὸ τῶν ἄλλων πάντων ἀφελὼν τὴν [534c] τοῦ ἀγαθοῦ ἰδέαν, καὶ ὥσπερ ἐν μάχῃ διὰ πάντων ἐλέγχων διεξιών, μὴ κατὰ δόξαν ἀλλὰ κατʼ οὐσίαν προθυμούμενος ἐλέγχειν, ἐν πᾶσι τούτοις ἀπτῶτι τῷ λόγῳ διαπορεύηται, οὔτε αὐτὸ τὸ ἀγαθὸν φήσεις εἰδέναι τὸν οὕτως ἔχοντα οὔτε ἄλλο ἀγαθὸν οὐδέν, ἀλλʼ εἴ πῃ εἰδώλου τινὸς ἐφάπτεται, δόξῃ, οὐκ ἐπιστήμῃ ἐφάπτεσθαι, καὶ τὸν νῦν βίον ὀνειροπολοῦντα καὶ ὑπνώττοντα, πρὶν ἐνθάδʼ ἐξεγρέσθαι, εἰς Ἅιδου [534d] πρότερον ἀφικόμενον τελέως ἐπικαταδαρθεῖν;
νὴ τὸν Δία, ἦ δʼ ὅς, σφόδρα γε πάντα ταῦτα φήσω.
ἀλλὰ μὴν τούς γε σαυτοῦ παῖδας, οὓς τῷ λόγῳ τρέφεις τε καὶ παιδεύεις, εἴ ποτε ἔργῳ τρέφοις, οὐκ ἂν ἐάσαις, ὡς ἐγᾦμαι, ἀλόγους ὄντας ὥσπερ γραμμάς, ἄρχοντας ἐν τῇ πόλει κυρίους τῶν μεγίστων εἶναι.
οὐ γὰρ οὖν, ἔφη.
νομοθετήσεις δὴ αὐτοῖς ταύτης μάλιστα τῆς παιδείας ἀντιλαμβάνεσθαι, ἐξ ἧς ἐρωτᾶν τε καὶ ἀποκρίνεσθαι ἐπιστημονέστατα οἷοί τʼ ἔσονται; [534e]
νομοθετήσω, ἔφη, μετά γε σοῦ.
ἆρʼ οὖν δοκεῖ σοι, ἔφην ἐγώ, ὥσπερ θριγκὸς τοῖς μαθήμασιν ἡ διαλεκτικὴ ἡμῖν ἐπάνω κεῖσθαι, καὶ οὐκέτʼ ἄλλο τούτου μάθημα ἀνωτέρω ὀρθῶς ἂν ἐπιτίθεσθαι, ἀλλʼ ἔχειν

[535a]
ἤδη τέλος τὰ τῶν μαθημάτων;
ἔμοιγʼ, ἔφη.
διανομὴ τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τὸ λοιπόν σοι, τίσιν ταῦτα τὰ μαθήματα δώσομεν καὶ τίνα τρόπον.
δῆλον, ἔφη.
μέμνησαι οὖν τὴν προτέραν ἐκλογὴν τῶν ἀρχόντων, οἵους ἐξελέξαμεν;
πῶς γάρ, ἦ δʼ ὅς, οὔ;
τὰ μὲν ἄλλα τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἐκείνας τὰς φύσεις οἴου δεῖν ἐκλεκτέας εἶναι· τούς τε γὰρ βεβαιοτάτους καὶ τοὺς ἀνδρειοτάτους προαιρετέον, καὶ κατὰ δύναμιν τοὺς εὐειδεστάτους· [535b] πρὸς δὲ τούτοις ζητητέον μὴ μόνον γενναίους τε καὶ βλοσυροὺς τὰ ἤθη, ἀλλὰ καὶ ἃ τῇδε τῇ παιδείᾳ τῆς φύσεως πρόσφορα ἑκτέον αὐτοῖς.
ποῖα δὴ διαστέλλῃ;
δριμύτητα, ὦ μακάριε, ἔφην, δεῖ αὐτοῖς πρὸς τὰ μαθήματα ὑπάρχειν, καὶ μὴ χαλεπῶς μανθάνειν. πολὺ γάρ τοι μᾶλλον ἀποδειλιῶσι ψυχαὶ ἐν ἰσχυροῖς μαθήμασιν ἢ ἐν γυμνασίοις· οἰκειότερος γὰρ αὐταῖς ὁ πόνος, ἴδιος ἀλλʼ οὐ κοινὸς ὢν μετὰ τοῦ σώματος.
ἀληθῆ, ἔφη. [535c]
καὶ μνήμονα δὴ καὶ ἄρρατον καὶ πάντῃ φιλόπονον ζητητέον. ἢ τίνι τρόπῳ οἴει τά τε τοῦ σώματος ἐθελήσειν τινὰ διαπονεῖν καὶ τοσαύτην μάθησίν τε καὶ μελέτην ἐπιτελεῖν;
οὐδένα, ἦ δʼ ὅς, ἐὰν μὴ παντάπασί γʼ ᾖ εὐφυής.
τὸ γοῦν νῦν ἁμάρτημα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καὶ ἡ ἀτιμία φιλοσοφίᾳ διὰ ταῦτα προσπέπτωκεν, ὃ καὶ πρότερον εἴπομεν, ὅτι οὐ κατʼ ἀξίαν αὐτῆς ἅπτονται· οὐ γὰρ νόθους ἔδει ἅπτεσθαι, ἀλλὰ γνησίους.
πῶς; ἔφη. [535d]
πρῶτον μέν, εἶπον, φιλοπονίᾳ οὐ χωλὸν δεῖ εἶναι τὸν ἁψόμενον, τὰ μὲν ἡμίσεα φιλόπονον ὄντα, τὰ δʼ ἡμίσεα ἄπονον. ἔστι δὲ τοῦτο, ὅταν τις φιλογυμναστὴς μὲν καὶ φιλόθηρος ᾖ καὶ πάντα τὰ διὰ τοῦ σώματος φιλοπονῇ, φιλομαθὴς δὲ μή, μηδὲ φιλήκοος μηδὲ ζητητικός, ἀλλʼ ἐν πᾶσι τούτοις μισοπονῇ· χωλὸς δὲ καὶ ὁ τἀναντία τούτου μεταβεβληκὼς τὴν φιλοπονίαν.
ἀληθέστατα, ἔφη, λέγεις.
οὐκοῦν καὶ πρὸς ἀλήθειαν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ταὐτὸν τοῦτο ἀνάπηρον [535e] ψυχὴν θήσομεν, ἣ ἂν τὸ μὲν ἑκούσιον ψεῦδος μισῇ καὶ χαλεπῶς φέρῃ αὐτή τε καὶ ἑτέρων ψευδομένων ὑπεραγανακτῇ, τὸ δʼ ἀκούσιον εὐκόλως προσδέχηται καὶ ἀμαθαίνουσά που ἁλισκομένη μὴ ἀγανακτῇ, ἀλλʼ εὐχερῶς ὥσπερ θηρίον ὕειον ἐν ἀμαθίᾳ μολύνηται;

[536a]
παντάπασι μὲν οὖν, ἔφη.
καὶ πρὸς σωφροσύνην, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καὶ ἀνδρείαν καὶ μεγαλοπρέπειαν καὶ πάντα τὰ τῆς ἀρετῆς μέρη οὐχ ἥκιστα δεῖ φυλάττειν τὸν νόθον τε καὶ τὸν γνήσιον. ὅταν γάρ τις μὴ ἐπίστηται πάντῃ τὰ τοιαῦτα σκοπεῖν καὶ ἰδιώτης καὶ πόλις, λανθάνουσι χωλοῖς τε καὶ νόθοις χρώμενοι πρὸς ὅτι ἂν τύχωσι τούτων, οἱ μὲν φίλοις, οἱ δὲ ἄρχουσι.
καὶ μάλα, ἔφη, οὕτως ἔχει.
ἡμῖν δή, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, πάντα τὰ τοιαῦτα διευλαβητέον· [536b] ὡς ἐὰν μὲν ἀρτιμελεῖς τε καὶ ἀρτίφρονας ἐπὶ τοσαύτην μάθησιν καὶ τοσαύτην ἄσκησιν κομίσαντες παιδεύωμεν, ἥ τε δίκη ἡμῖν οὐ μέμψεται αὐτή, τήν τε πόλιν καὶ πολιτείαν σώσομεν, ἀλλοίους δὲ ἄγοντες ἐπὶ ταῦτα τἀναντία πάντα καὶ πράξομεν καὶ φιλοσοφίας ἔτι πλείω γέλωτα καταντλήσομεν.
αἰσχρὸν μεντἂν εἴη, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
πάνυ μὲν οὖν, εἶπον· γελοῖον δʼ ἔγωγε καὶ ἐν τῷ παρόντι τι ἔοικα παθεῖν.
τὸ ποῖον; ἔφη. [536c]
ἐπελαθόμην, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὅτι ἐπαίζομεν, καὶ μᾶλλον ἐντεινάμενος εἶπον. λέγων γὰρ ἅμα ἔβλεψα πρὸς φιλοσοφίαν, καὶ ἰδὼν προπεπηλακισμένην ἀναξίως ἀγανακτήσας μοι δοκῶ καὶ ὥσπερ θυμωθεὶς τοῖς αἰτίοις σπουδαιότερον εἰπεῖν ἃ εἶπον.
οὐ μὰ τὸν Δίʼ, ἔφη, οὔκουν ὥς γʼ ἐμοὶ ἀκροατῇ.
ἀλλʼ ὡς ἐμοί, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ῥήτορι. τόδε δὲ μὴ ἐπιλανθανώμεθα, ὅτι ἐν μὲν τῇ προτέρᾳ ἐκλογῇ πρεσβύτας ἐξελέγομεν, [536d] ἐν δὲ ταύτῃ οὐκ ἐγχωρήσει· Σόλωνι γὰρ οὐ πειστέον ὡς γηράσκων τις πολλὰ δυνατὸς μανθάνειν, ἀλλʼ ἧττον ἢ τρέχειν, νέων δὲ πάντες οἱ μεγάλοι καὶ οἱ πολλοὶ πόνοι.
ἀνάγκη, ἔφη.
τὰ μὲν τοίνυν λογισμῶν τε καὶ γεωμετριῶν καὶ πάσης τῆς προπαιδείας, ἣν τῆς διαλεκτικῆς δεῖ προπαιδευθῆναι, παισὶν οὖσι χρὴ προβάλλειν, οὐχ ὡς ἐπάναγκες μαθεῖν τὸ σχῆμα τῆς διδαχῆς ποιουμένους.
τί δή; [536e]
ὅτι, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, οὐδὲν μάθημα μετὰ δουλείας τὸν ἐλεύθερον χρὴ μανθάνειν. οἱ μὲν γὰρ τοῦ σώματος πόνοι βίᾳ πονούμενοι χεῖρον οὐδὲν τὸ σῶμα ἀπεργάζονται, ψυχῇ δὲ βίαιον οὐδὲν ἔμμονον μάθημα.
ἀληθῆ, ἔφη.
μὴ τοίνυν βίᾳ, εἶπον, ὦ ἄριστε, τοὺς παῖδας ἐν τοῖς

[537a]
μαθήμασιν ἀλλὰ παίζοντας τρέφε, ἵνα καὶ μᾶλλον οἷός τʼ ᾖς καθορᾶν ἐφʼ ὃ ἕκαστος πέφυκεν.
ἔχει ὃ λέγεις, ἔφη, λόγον.
οὐκοῦν μνημονεύεις, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὅτι καὶ εἰς τὸν πόλεμον ἔφαμεν τοὺς παῖδας εἶναι ἀκτέον ἐπὶ τῶν ἵππων θεωρούς, καὶ ἐάν που ἀσφαλὲς ᾖ, προσακτέον ἐγγὺς καὶ γευστέον αἵματος, ὥσπερ τοὺς σκύλακας;
μέμνημαι, ἔφη.
ἐν πᾶσι δὴ τούτοις, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τοῖς τε πόνοις καὶ μαθήμασι καὶ φόβοις ὃς ἂν ἐντρεχέστατος ἀεὶ φαίνηται, εἰς ἀριθμόν τινα ἐγκριτέον. [537b]
ἐν τίνι, ἔφη, ἡλικίᾳ;
ἡνίκα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τῶν ἀναγκαίων γυμνασίων μεθίενται· οὗτος γὰρ ὁ χρόνος, ἐάντε δύο ἐάντε τρία ἔτη γίγνηται, ἀδύνατός τι ἄλλο πρᾶξαι· κόποι γὰρ καὶ ὕπνοι μαθήμασι πολέμιοι. καὶ ἅμα μία καὶ αὕτη τῶν βασάνων οὐκ ἐλαχίστη, τίς ἕκαστος ἐν τοῖς γυμνασίοις φανεῖται.
πῶς γὰρ οὔκ; ἔφη.
μετὰ δὴ τοῦτον τὸν χρόνον, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἐκ τῶν εἰκοσιετῶν οἱ προκριθέντες τιμάς τε μείζους τῶν ἄλλων οἴσονται, [537c] τά τε χύδην μαθήματα παισὶν ἐν τῇ παιδείᾳ γενόμενα τούτοις συνακτέον εἰς σύνοψιν οἰκειότητός τε ἀλλήλων τῶν μαθημάτων καὶ τῆς τοῦ ὄντος φύσεως.
μόνη γοῦν, εἶπεν, ἡ τοιαύτη μάθησις βέβαιος, ἐν οἷς ἂν ἐγγένηται.
καὶ μεγίστη γε, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, πεῖρα διαλεκτικῆς φύσεως καὶ μή· ὁ μὲν γὰρ συνοπτικὸς διαλεκτικός, ὁ δὲ μὴ οὔ.
συνοίομαι, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
ταῦτα τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, δεήσει σε ἐπισκοποῦντα οἳ ἂν [537d] μάλιστα τοιοῦτοι ἐν αὐτοῖς ὦσι καὶ μόνιμοι μὲν ἐν μαθήμασι, μόνιμοι δʼ ἐν πολέμῳ καὶ τοῖς ἄλλοις νομίμοις, τούτους αὖ, ἐπειδὰν τὰ τριάκοντα ἔτη ἐκβαίνωσιν, ἐκ τῶν προκρίτων προκρινάμενον εἰς μείζους τε τιμὰς καθιστάναι καὶ σκοπεῖν, τῇ τοῦ διαλέγεσθαι δυνάμει βασανίζοντα τίς ὀμμάτων καὶ τῆς ἄλλης αἰσθήσεως δυνατὸς μεθιέμενος ἐπʼ αὐτὸ τὸ ὂν μετʼ ἀληθείας ἰέναι. καὶ ἐνταῦθα δὴ πολλῆς φυλακῆς ἔργον, ὦ ἑταῖρε.
τί μάλιστα; ἦ δʼ ὅς. [537e]
οὐκ ἐννοεῖς, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τὸ νῦν περὶ τὸ διαλέγεσθαι κακὸν γιγνόμενον ὅσον γίγνεται;
τὸ ποῖον; ἔφη.
παρανομίας που, ἔφην ἐγώ, ἐμπίμπλανται.
καὶ μάλα, ἔφη.
θαυμαστὸν οὖν τι οἴει, εἶπον, πάσχειν αὐτούς, καὶ οὐ συγγιγνώσκεις;
πῇ μάλιστα; ἔφη.
οἷον, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, εἴ τις ὑποβολιμαῖος τραφείη ἐν πολλοῖς

[538a]
μὲν χρήμασι, πολλῷ δὲ καὶ μεγάλῳ γένει καὶ κόλαξι πολλοῖς, ἀνὴρ δὲ γενόμενος αἴσθοιτο ὅτι οὐ τούτων ἐστὶ τῶν φασκόντων γονέων, τοὺς δὲ τῷ ὄντι γεννήσαντας μὴ εὕροι, τοῦτον ἔχεις μαντεύσασθαι πῶς ἂν διατεθείη πρός τε τοὺς κόλακας καὶ πρὸς τοὺς ὑποβαλομένους ἐν ἐκείνῳ τε τῷ χρόνῳ ᾧ οὐκ ᾔδει τὰ περὶ τῆς ὑποβολῆς, καὶ ἐν ᾧ αὖ ᾔδει; ἢ βούλει ἐμοῦ μαντευομένου ἀκοῦσαι;
βούλομαι, ἔφη.
μαντεύομαι τοίνυν, εἶπον, μᾶλλον αὐτὸν τιμᾶν ἂν τὸν [538b] πατέρα καὶ τὴν μητέρα καὶ τοὺς ἄλλους οἰκείους δοκοῦντας ἢ τοὺς κολακεύοντας, καὶ ἧττον μὲν ἂν περιιδεῖν ἐνδεεῖς τινος, ἧττον δὲ παράνομόν τι δρᾶσαι ἢ εἰπεῖν εἰς αὐτούς, ἧττον δὲ ἀπειθεῖν τὰ μεγάλα ἐκείνοις ἢ τοῖς κόλαξιν, ἐν ᾧ χρόνῳ τὸ ἀληθὲς μὴ εἰδείη.
εἰκός, ἔφη.
αἰσθόμενον τοίνυν τὸ ὂν μαντεύομαι αὖ περὶ μὲν τούτους ἀνεῖναι ἂν τὸ τιμᾶν τε καὶ σπουδάζειν, περὶ δὲ τοὺς κόλακας ἐπιτεῖναι, καὶ πείθεσθαί τε αὐτοῖς διαφερόντως ἢ πρότερον [538c] καὶ ζῆν ἂν ἤδη κατʼ ἐκείνους, συνόντα αὐτοῖς ἀπαρακαλύπτως, πατρὸς δὲ ἐκείνου καὶ τῶν ἄλλων ποιουμένων οἰκείων, εἰ μὴ πάνυ εἴη φύσει ἐπιεικής, μέλειν τὸ μηδέν.
πάντʼ, ἔφη, λέγεις οἷά περ ἂν γένοιτο. ἀλλὰ πῇ πρὸς τοὺς ἁπτομένους τῶν λόγων αὕτη φέρει ἡ εἰκών;
τῇδε. ἔστι που ἡμῖν δόγματα ἐκ παίδων περὶ δικαίων καὶ καλῶν, ἐν οἷς ἐκτεθράμμεθα ὥσπερ ὑπὸ γονεῦσι, πειθαρχοῦντές τε καὶ τιμῶντες αὐτά.
ἔστι γάρ. [538d]
οὐκοῦν καὶ ἄλλα ἐναντία τούτων ἐπιτηδεύματα ἡδονὰς ἔχοντα, ἃ κολακεύει μὲν ἡμῶν τὴν ψυχὴν καὶ ἕλκει ἐφʼ αὑτά, πείθει δʼ οὒ τοὺς καὶ ὁπῃοῦν μετρίους· ἀλλʼ ἐκεῖνα τιμῶσι τὰ πάτρια καὶ ἐκείνοις πειθαρχοῦσιν.
ἔστι ταῦτα.
τί οὖν; ἦν δʼ ἐγώ· ὅταν τὸν οὕτως ἔχοντα ἐλθὸν ἐρώτημα ἔρηται· τί ἐστι τὸ καλόν, καὶ ἀποκριναμένου ὃ τοῦ νομοθέτου ἤκουεν ἐξελέγχῃ ὁ λόγος, καὶ πολλάκις καὶ πολλαχῇ ἐλέγχων εἰς δόξαν καταβάλῃ ὡς τοῦτο οὐδὲν μᾶλλον [538e] καλὸν ἢ αἰσχρόν, καὶ περὶ δικαίου ὡσαύτως καὶ ἀγαθοῦ καὶ ἃ μάλιστα ἦγεν ἐν τιμῇ, μετὰ τοῦτο τί οἴει ποιήσειν αὐτὸν πρὸς αὐτὰ τιμῆς τε πέρι καὶ πειθαρχίας;
ἀνάγκη, ἔφη, μήτε τιμᾶν ἔτι ὁμοίως μήτε πείθεσθαι.
ὅταν οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, μήτε ταῦτα ἡγῆται τίμια καὶ οἰκεῖα ὥσπερ πρὸ τοῦ, τά τε ἀληθῆ μὴ εὑρίσκῃ, ἔστι πρὸς ὁποῖον

### Book VII, 539–541

[539a]
βίον ἄλλον ἢ τὸν κολακεύοντα εἰκότως προσχωρήσεται;
οὐκ ἔστιν, ἔφη.
παράνομος δὴ οἶμαι δόξει γεγονέναι ἐκ νομίμου.
ἀνάγκη.
οὐκοῦν, ἔφην, εἰκὸς τὸ πάθος τῶν οὕτω λόγων ἁπτομένων καί, ὃ ἄρτι ἔλεγον, πολλῆς συγγνώμης ἄξιον;
καὶ ἐλέου γʼ, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν ἵνα μὴ γίγνηται ὁ ἔλεος οὗτος περὶ τοὺς τριακοντούτας σοι, εὐλαβουμένῳ παντὶ τρόπῳ τῶν λόγων ἁπτέον;
καὶ μάλʼ, ἦ δʼ ὅς. [539b]
ἆρʼ οὖν οὐ μία μὲν εὐλάβεια αὕτη συχνή, τὸ μὴ νέους ὄντας αὐτῶν γεύεσθαι; οἶμαι γάρ σε οὐ λεληθέναι ὅτι οἱ μειρακίσκοι, ὅταν τὸ πρῶτον λόγων γεύωνται, ὡς παιδιᾷ αὐτοῖς καταχρῶνται, ἀεὶ εἰς ἀντιλογίαν χρώμενοι, καὶ μιμούμενοι τοὺς ἐξελέγχοντας αὐτοὶ ἄλλους ἐλέγχουσι, χαίροντες ὥσπερ σκυλάκια τῷ ἕλκειν τε καὶ σπαράττειν τῷ λόγῳ τοὺς πλησίον ἀεί.
ὑπερφυῶς μὲν οὖν, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν ὅταν δὴ πολλοὺς μὲν αὐτοὶ ἐλέγξωσιν, ὑπὸ πολλῶν [539c] δὲ ἐλεγχθῶσι, σφόδρα καὶ ταχὺ ἐμπίπτουσιν εἰς τὸ μηδὲν ἡγεῖσθαι ὧνπερ πρότερον· καὶ ἐκ τούτων δὴ αὐτοί τε καὶ τὸ ὅλον φιλοσοφίας πέρι εἰς τοὺς ἄλλους διαβέβληνται.
ἀληθέστατα, ἔφη.
ὁ δὲ δὴ πρεσβύτερος, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τῆς μὲν τοιαύτης μανίας οὐκ ἂν ἐθέλοι μετέχειν, τὸν δὲ διαλέγεσθαι ἐθέλοντα καὶ σκοπεῖν τἀληθὲς μᾶλλον μιμήσεται ἢ τὸν παιδιᾶς χάριν παίζοντα καὶ ἀντιλέγοντα, καὶ αὐτός τε μετριώτερος ἔσται [539d] καὶ τὸ ἐπιτήδευμα τιμιώτερον ἀντὶ ἀτιμοτέρου ποιήσει.
ὀρθῶς, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν καὶ τὰ προειρημένα τούτου ἐπʼ εὐλαβείᾳ πάντα προείρηται, τὸ τὰς φύσεις κοσμίους εἶναι καὶ στασίμους οἷς τις μεταδώσει τῶν λόγων, καὶ μὴ ὡς νῦν ὁ τυχὼν καὶ οὐδὲν προσήκων ἔρχεται ἐπʼ αὐτό;
πάνυ μὲν οὖν, ἔφη.
ἀρκεῖ δὴ ἐπὶ λόγων μεταλήψει μεῖναι ἐνδελεχῶς καὶ συντόνως μηδὲν ἄλλο πράττοντι, ἀλλʼ ἀντιστρόφως γυμναζομένῳ τοῖς περὶ τὸ σῶμα γυμνασίοις, ἔτη διπλάσια ἢ τότε; [539e]
ἕξ, ἔφη, ἢ τέτταρα λέγεις;
ἀμέλει, εἶπον, πέντε θές. μετὰ γὰρ τοῦτο καταβιβαστέοι ἔσονταί σοι εἰς τὸ σπήλαιον πάλιν ἐκεῖνο, καὶ ἀναγκαστέοι ἄρχειν τά τε περὶ τὸν πόλεμον καὶ ὅσαι νέων ἀρχαί, ἵνα μηδʼ ἐμπειρίᾳ ὑστερῶσι τῶν ἄλλων· καὶ ἔτι καὶ ἐν τούτοις

[540a]
βασανιστέοι εἰ ἐμμενοῦσιν ἑλκόμενοι πανταχόσε ἤ τι καὶ παρακινήσουσι.
χρόνον δέ, ἦ δʼ ὅς, πόσον τοῦτον τιθεῖς;
πεντεκαίδεκα ἔτη, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ. γενομένων δὲ πεντηκοντουτῶν τοὺς διασωθέντας καὶ ἀριστεύσαντας πάντα πάντῃ ἐν ἔργοις τε καὶ ἐπιστήμαις πρὸς τέλος ἤδη ἀκτέον, καὶ ἀναγκαστέον ἀνακλίναντας τὴν τῆς ψυχῆς αὐγὴν εἰς αὐτὸ ἀποβλέψαι τὸ πᾶσι φῶς παρέχον, καὶ ἰδόντας τὸ ἀγαθὸν αὐτό, παραδείγματι χρωμένους ἐκείνῳ, καὶ πόλιν καὶ ἰδιώτας [540b] καὶ ἑαυτοὺς κοσμεῖν τὸν ἐπίλοιπον βίον ἐν μέρει ἑκάστους, τὸ μὲν πολὺ πρὸς φιλοσοφίᾳ διατρίβοντας, ὅταν δὲ τὸ μέρος ἥκῃ, πρὸς πολιτικοῖς ἐπιταλαιπωροῦντας καὶ ἄρχοντας ἑκάστους τῆς πόλεως ἕνεκα, οὐχ ὡς καλόν τι ἀλλʼ ὡς ἀναγκαῖον πράττοντας, καὶ οὕτως ἄλλους ἀεὶ παιδεύσαντας τοιούτους, ἀντικαταλιπόντας τῆς πόλεως φύλακας, εἰς μακάρων νήσους ἀπιόντας οἰκεῖν· μνημεῖα δʼ αὐτοῖς καὶ θυσίας [540c] τὴν πόλιν δημοσίᾳ ποιεῖν, ἐὰν καὶ ἡ Πυθία συναναιρῇ, ὡς δαίμοσιν, εἰ δὲ μή, ὡς εὐδαίμοσί τε καὶ θείοις.
παγκάλους, ἔφη, τοὺς ἄρχοντας, ὦ Σώκρατες, ὥσπερ ἀνδριαντοποιὸς ἀπείργασαι.
καὶ τὰς ἀρχούσας γε, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὦ Γλαύκων· μηδὲν γάρ τι οἴου με περὶ ἀνδρῶν εἰρηκέναι μᾶλλον ἃ εἴρηκα ἢ περὶ γυναικῶν, ὅσαι ἂν αὐτῶν ἱκαναὶ τὰς φύσεις ἐγγίγνωνται.
ὀρθῶς, ἔφη, εἴπερ ἴσα γε πάντα τοῖς ἀνδράσι κοινωνήσουσιν, ὡς διήλθομεν. [540d]
τί οὖν; ἔφην· συγχωρεῖτε περὶ τῆς πόλεώς τε καὶ πολιτείας μὴ παντάπασιν ἡμᾶς εὐχὰς εἰρηκέναι, ἀλλὰ χαλεπὰ μέν, δυνατὰ δέ πῃ, καὶ οὐκ ἄλλῃ ἢ εἴρηται, ὅταν οἱ ὡς ἀληθῶς φιλόσοφοι δυνάσται, ἢ πλείους ἢ εἷς, ἐν πόλει γενόμενοι τῶν μὲν νῦν τιμῶν καταφρονήσωσιν, ἡγησάμενοι ἀνελευθέρους εἶναι καὶ οὐδενὸς ἀξίας, τὸ δὲ ὀρθὸν περὶ [540e] πλείστου ποιησάμενοι καὶ τὰς ἀπὸ τούτου τιμάς, μέγιστον δὲ καὶ ἀναγκαιότατον τὸ δίκαιον, καὶ τούτῳ δὴ ὑπηρετοῦντές τε καὶ αὔξοντες αὐτὸ διασκευωρήσωνται τὴν ἑαυτῶν πόλιν;
πῶς; ἔφη.
ὅσοι μὲν ἄν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, πρεσβύτεροι τυγχάνωσι δεκετῶν

[541a]
ἐν τῇ πόλει, πάντας ἐκπέμψωσιν εἰς τοὺς ἀγρούς, τοὺς δὲ παῖδας αὐτῶν παραλαβόντες ἐκτὸς τῶν νῦν ἠθῶν, ἃ καὶ οἱ γονῆς ἔχουσι, θρέψωνται ἐν τοῖς σφετέροις τρόποισι καὶ νόμοις, οὖσιν οἵοις διεληλύθαμεν τότε· καὶ οὕτω τάχιστά τε καὶ ῥᾷστα πόλιν τε καὶ πολιτείαν, ἣν ἐλέγομεν, καταστᾶσαν αὐτήν τε εὐδαιμονήσειν καὶ τὸ ἔθνος ἐν ᾧ ἂν ἐγγένηται πλεῖστα ὀνήσειν;
πολύ γʼ, ἔφη· καὶ ὡς ἂν γένοιτο, εἴπερ ποτὲ γίγνοιτο, [541b] δοκεῖς μοι, ὦ Σώκρατες, εὖ εἰρηκέναι.
οὐκοῦν ἅδην ἤδη, εἶπον ἐγώ, ἔχουσιν ἡμῖν οἱ λόγοι περί τε τῆς πόλεως ταύτης καὶ τοῦ ὁμοίου ταύτῃ ἀνδρός; δῆλος γάρ που καὶ οὗτος οἷον φήσομεν δεῖν αὐτὸν εἶναι.
δῆλος, ἔφη· καὶ ὅπερ ἐρωτᾷς, δοκεῖ μοι τέλος ἔχειν.

### Book VIII, 543–551

[543a]
εἶεν· ταῦτα μὲν δὴ ὡμολόγηται, ὦ Γλαύκων, τῇ μελλούσῃ ἄκρως οἰκεῖν πόλει κοινὰς μὲν γυναῖκας, κοινοὺς δὲ παῖδας εἶναι καὶ πᾶσαν παιδείαν, ὡσαύτως δὲ τὰ ἐπιτηδεύματα κοινὰ ἐν πολέμῳ τε καὶ εἰρήνῃ, βασιλέας δὲ αὐτῶν εἶναι τοὺς ἐν φιλοσοφίᾳ τε καὶ πρὸς τὸν πόλεμον γεγονότας ἀρίστους.
ὡμολόγηται, ἔφη. [543b]
καὶ μὴν καὶ τάδε συνεχωρήσαμεν, ὡς, ὅταν δὴ καταστῶσιν οἱ ἄρχοντες, ἄγοντες τοὺς στρατιώτας κατοικιοῦσιν εἰς οἰκήσεις οἵας προείπομεν, ἴδιον μὲν οὐδὲν οὐδενὶ ἐχούσας, κοινὰς δὲ πᾶσι· πρὸς δὲ ταῖς τοιαύταις οἰκήσεσι, καὶ τὰς κτήσεις, εἰ μνημονεύεις, διωμολογησάμεθά που οἷαι ἔσονται αὐτοῖς.
ἀλλὰ μνημονεύω, ἔφη, ὅτι γε οὐδὲν οὐδένα ᾠόμεθα δεῖν κεκτῆσθαι ὧν νῦν οἱ ἄλλοι, ὥσπερ δὲ ἀθλητάς τε πολέμου [543c] καὶ φύλακας, μισθὸν τῆς φυλακῆς δεχομένους εἰς ἐνιαυτὸν τὴν εἰς ταῦτα τροφὴν παρὰ τῶν ἄλλων, αὑτῶν τε δεῖν καὶ τῆς ἄλλης πόλεως ἐπιμελεῖσθαι.
ὀρθῶς, ἔφην, λέγεις. ἀλλʼ ἄγʼ, ἐπειδὴ τοῦτʼ ἀπετελέσαμεν, ἀναμνησθῶμεν πόθεν δεῦρο ἐξετραπόμεθα, ἵνα πάλιν τὴν αὐτὴν ἴωμεν.
οὐ χαλεπόν, ἔφη. σχεδὸν γάρ, καθάπερ νῦν, ὡς διεληλυθὼς περὶ τῆς πόλεως τοὺς λόγους ἐποιοῦ, λέγων ὡς ἀγαθὴν μὲν τὴν τοιαύτην, οἵαν τότε διῆλθες, τιθείης πόλιν, [543d] καὶ ἄνδρα τὸν ἐκείνῃ ὅμοιον, καὶ ταῦτα, ὡς ἔοικας, καλλίω

[544a]
ἔτι ἔχων εἰπεῖν πόλιν τε καὶ ἄνδρα.
ἀλλʼ οὖν δὴ τὰς ἄλλας ἡμαρτημένας ἔλεγες, εἰ αὕτη ὀρθή. τῶν δὲ λοιπῶν πολιτειῶν ἔφησθα, ὡς μνημονεύω, τέτταρα εἴδη εἶναι, ὧν καὶ πέρι λόγον ἄξιον εἴη ἔχειν καὶ ἰδεῖν αὐτῶν τὰ ἁμαρτήματα καὶ τοὺς ἐκείναις αὖ ὁμοίους, ἵνα πάντας αὐτοὺς ἰδόντες, καὶ ὁμολογησάμενοι τὸν ἄριστον καὶ τὸν κάκιστον ἄνδρα, ἐπισκεψαίμεθα εἰ ὁ ἄριστος εὐδαιμονέστατος καὶ ὁ κάκιστος ἀθλιώτατος, ἢ ἄλλως ἔχοι· καὶ ἐμοῦ ἐρομένου τίνας λέγοις [544b] τὰς τέτταρας πολιτείας, ἐν τούτῳ ὑπέλαβε Πολέμαρχός τε καὶ Ἀδείμαντος, καὶ οὕτω δὴ σὺ ἀναλαβὼν τὸν λόγον δεῦρʼ ἀφῖξαι.
ὀρθότατα, εἶπον, ἐμνημόνευσας.
πάλιν τοίνυν, ὥσπερ παλαιστής, τὴν αὐτὴν λαβὴν πάρεχε, καὶ τὸ αὐτὸ ἐμοῦ ἐρομένου πειρῶ εἰπεῖν ἅπερ τότε ἔμελλες λέγειν.
ἐάνπερ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, δύνωμαι.
καὶ μήν, ἦ δʼ ὅς, ἐπιθυμῶ γε καὶ αὐτὸς ἀκοῦσαι τίνας ἔλεγες τὰς τέτταρας πολιτείας. [544c]
οὐ χαλεπῶς, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἀκούσῃ. εἰσὶ γὰρ ἃς λέγω, αἵπερ καὶ ὀνόματα ἔχουσιν, ἥ τε ὑπὸ τῶν πολλῶν ἐπαινουμένη, ἡ Κρητική τε καὶ Λακωνικὴ αὕτη· καὶ δευτέρα καὶ δευτέρως ἐπαινουμένη, καλουμένη δʼ ὀλιγαρχία, συχνῶν γέμουσα κακῶν πολιτεία· ἥ τε ταύτῃ διάφορος καὶ ἐφεξῆς γιγνομένη δημοκρατία, καὶ ἡ γενναία δὴ τυραννὶς καὶ πασῶν τούτων διαφέρουσα, τέταρτόν τε καὶ ἔσχατον πόλεως νόσημα. ἤ τινα ἄλλην ἔχεις ἰδέαν πολιτείας, ἥτις καὶ ἐν εἴδει διαφανεῖ [544d] τινι κεῖται; δυναστεῖαι γὰρ καὶ ὠνηταὶ βασιλεῖαι καὶ τοιαῦταί τινες πολιτεῖαι μεταξύ τι τούτων πού εἰσιν, εὕροι δʼ ἄν τις αὐτὰς οὐκ ἐλάττους περὶ τοὺς βαρβάρους ἢ τοὺς Ἕλληνας.
πολλαὶ γοῦν καὶ ἄτοποι, ἔφη, λέγονται.
οἶσθʼ οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὅτι καὶ ἀνθρώπων εἴδη τοσαῦτα ἀνάγκη τρόπων εἶναι, ὅσαπερ καὶ πολιτειῶν; ἢ οἴει ἐκ δρυός ποθεν ἢ ἐκ πέτρας τὰς πολιτείας γίγνεσθαι, ἀλλʼ [544e] οὐχὶ ἐκ τῶν ἠθῶν τῶν ἐν ταῖς πόλεσιν, ἃ ἂν ὥσπερ ῥέψαντα τἆλλα ἐφελκύσηται;
οὐδαμῶς ἔγωγʼ, ἔφη, ἄλλοθεν ἢ ἐντεῦθεν.
οὐκοῦν εἰ τὰ τῶν πόλεων πέντε, καὶ αἱ τῶν ἰδιωτῶν κατασκευαὶ τῆς ψυχῆς πέντε ἂν εἶεν.
τί μήν;
τὸν μὲν δὴ τῇ ἀριστοκρατίᾳ ὅμοιον διεληλύθαμεν ἤδη, ὃν ἀγαθόν τε καὶ δίκαιον ὀρθῶς φαμεν εἶναι.

[545a]
διεληλύθαμεν.
ἆρʼ οὖν τὸ μετὰ τοῦτο διιτέον τοὺς χείρους, τὸν φιλόνικόν τε καὶ φιλότιμον, κατὰ τὴν Λακωνικὴν ἑστῶτα πολιτείαν, καὶ ὀλιγαρχικὸν αὖ καὶ δημοκρατικὸν καὶ τὸν τυραννικόν, ἵνα τὸν ἀδικώτατον ἰδόντες ἀντιθῶμεν τῷ δικαιοτάτῳ καὶ ἡμῖν τελέα ἡ σκέψις ᾖ, πῶς ποτε ἡ ἄκρατος δικαιοσύνη πρὸς ἀδικίαν τὴν ἄκρατον ἔχει εὐδαιμονίας τε πέρι τοῦ ἔχοντος καὶ ἀθλιότητος, ἵνα ἢ Θρασυμάχῳ πειθόμενοι [545b] διώκωμεν ἀδικίαν ἢ τῷ νῦν προφαινομένῳ λόγῳ δικαιοσύνην;
παντάπασι μὲν οὖν, ἔφη, οὕτω ποιητέον.
ἆρʼ οὖν, ὥσπερ ἠρξάμεθα ἐν ταῖς πολιτείαις πρότερον σκοπεῖν τὰ ἤθη ἢ ἐν τοῖς ἰδιώταις, ὡς ἐναργέστερον ὄν, καὶ νῦν οὕτω πρῶτον μὲν τὴν φιλότιμον σκεπτέον πολιτείαν —ὄνομα γὰρ οὐκ ἔχω λεγόμενον ἄλλο· ἢ τιμοκρατίαν ἢ τιμαρχίαν αὐτὴν κλητέον—πρὸς δὲ ταύτην τὸν τοιοῦτον [545c] ἄνδρα σκεψόμεθα, ἔπειτα ὀλιγαρχίαν καὶ ἄνδρα ὀλιγαρχικόν, αὖθις δὲ εἰς δημοκρατίαν ἀποβλέψαντες θεασόμεθα ἄνδρα δημοκρατικόν, τὸ δὲ τέταρτον εἰς τυραννουμένην πόλιν ἐλθόντες καὶ ἰδόντες, πάλιν εἰς τυραννικὴν ψυχὴν βλέποντες, πειρασόμεθα περὶ ὧν προυθέμεθα ἱκανοὶ κριταὶ γενέσθαι;
κατὰ λόγον γέ τοι ἄν, ἔφη, οὕτω γίγνοιτο ἥ τε θέα καὶ ἡ κρίσις.
φέρε τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, πειρώμεθα λέγειν τίνα τρόπον τιμοκρατία γένοιτʼ ἂν ἐξ ἀριστοκρατίας. ἢ τόδε μὲν ἁπλοῦν, [545d] ὅτι πᾶσα πολιτεία μεταβάλλει ἐξ αὐτοῦ τοῦ ἔχοντος τὰς ἀρχάς, ὅταν ἐν αὐτῷ τούτῳ στάσις ἐγγένηται· ὁμονοοῦντος δέ, κἂν πάνυ ὀλίγον ᾖ, ἀδύνατον κινηθῆναι;
ἔστι γὰρ οὕτω.
πῶς οὖν δή, εἶπον, ὦ Γλαύκων, ἡ πόλις ἡμῖν κινηθήσεται, καὶ πῇ στασιάσουσιν οἱ ἐπίκουροι καὶ οἱ ἄρχοντες πρὸς ἀλλήλους τε καὶ πρὸς ἑαυτούς; ἢ βούλει, ὥσπερ Ὅμηρος, εὐχώμεθα ταῖς Μούσαις εἰπεῖν ἡμῖν ὅπως δὴ [545e] πρῶτον στάσις ἔμπεσε, καὶ φῶμεν αὐτὰς τραγικῶς ὡς πρὸς παῖδας ἡμᾶς παιζούσας καὶ ἐρεσχηλούσας, ὡς δὴ σπουδῇ λεγούσας, ὑψηλολογουμένας λέγειν;
πῶς;

[546a]
ὧδέ πως. χαλεπὸν μὲν κινηθῆναι πόλιν οὕτω συστᾶσαν· ἀλλʼ ἐπεὶ γενομένῳ παντὶ φθορά ἐστιν, οὐδʼ ἡ τοιαύτη σύστασις τὸν ἅπαντα μενεῖ χρόνον, ἀλλὰ λυθήσεται. λύσις δὲ ἥδε· οὐ μόνον φυτοῖς ἐγγείοις, ἀλλὰ καὶ ἐν ἐπιγείοις ζῴοις φορὰ καὶ ἀφορία ψυχῆς τε καὶ σωμάτων γίγνονται, ὅταν περιτροπαὶ ἑκάστοις κύκλων περιφορὰς συνάπτωσι, βραχυβίοις μὲν βραχυπόρους, ἐναντίοις δὲ ἐναντίας. γένους δὲ ὑμετέρου εὐγονίας τε καὶ ἀφορίας, καίπερ ὄντες σοφοί, [546b] οὓς ἡγεμόνας πόλεως ἐπαιδεύσασθε, οὐδὲν μᾶλλον λογισμῷ μετʼ αἰσθήσεως τεύξονται, ἀλλὰ πάρεισιν αὐτοὺς καὶ γεννήσουσι παῖδάς ποτε οὐ δέον. ἔστι δὲ θείῳ μὲν γεννητῷ περίοδος ἣν ἀριθμὸς περιλαμβάνει τέλειος, ἀνθρωπείῳ δὲ ἐν ᾧ πρώτῳ αὐξήσεις δυνάμεναί τε καὶ δυναστευόμεναι, τρεῖς ἀποστάσεις, τέτταρας δὲ ὅρους λαβοῦσαι ὁμοιούντων τε καὶ ἀνομοιούντων καὶ αὐξόντων καὶ φθινόντων, πάντα προσήγορα [546c] καὶ ῥητὰ πρὸς ἄλληλα ἀπέφηναν· ὧν ἐπίτριτος πυθμὴν πεμπάδι συζυγεὶς δύο ἁρμονίας παρέχεται τρὶς αὐξηθείς, τὴν μὲν ἴσην ἰσάκις, ἑκατὸν τοσαυτάκις, τὴν δὲ ἰσομήκη μὲν τῇ, προμήκη δέ, ἑκατὸν μὲν ἀριθμῶν ἀπὸ διαμέτρων ῥητῶν πεμπάδος, δεομένων ἑνὸς ἑκάστων, ἀρρήτων δὲ δυοῖν, ἑκατὸν δὲ κύβων τριάδος. σύμπας δὲ οὗτος ἀριθμὸς γεωμετρικός, τοιούτου κύριος, ἀμεινόνων τε καὶ χειρόνων γενέσεων, [546d] ἃς ὅταν ἀγνοήσαντες ὑμῖν οἱ φύλακες συνοικίζωσιν νύμφας νυμφίοις παρὰ καιρόν, οὐκ εὐφυεῖς οὐδʼ εὐτυχεῖς παῖδες ἔσονται· ὧν καταστήσουσι μὲν τοὺς ἀρίστους οἱ πρότεροι, ὅμως δὲ ὄντες ἀνάξιοι, εἰς τὰς τῶν πατέρων αὖ δυνάμεις ἐλθόντες, ἡμῶν πρῶτον ἄρξονται ἀμελεῖν φύλακες ὄντες, παρʼ ἔλαττον τοῦ δέοντος ἡγησάμενοι τὰ μουσικῆς, δεύτερον δὲ τὰ γυμναστικῆς, ὅθεν ἀμουσότεροι γενήσονται ὑμῖν οἱ νέοι. ἐκ δὲ τούτων ἄρχοντες οὐ πάνυ φυλακικοὶ [546e] καταστήσονται πρὸς τὸ δοκιμάζειν τὰ Ἡσιόδου τε καὶ τὰ παρʼ

[547a]
ὑμῖν γένη, χρυσοῦν τε καὶ ἀργυροῦν καὶ χαλκοῦν καὶ σιδηροῦν·
ὁμοῦ δὲ μιγέντος σιδηροῦ ἀργυρῷ καὶ χαλκοῦ χρυσῷ ἀνομοιότης ἐγγενήσεται καὶ ἀνωμαλία ἀνάρμοστος, ἃ γενόμενα, οὗ ἂν ἐγγένηται, ἀεὶ τίκτει πόλεμον καὶ ἔχθραν. ταύτης τοι γενεῆς χρὴ φάναι εἶναι στάσιν, ὅπου ἂν γίγνηται ἀεί.
καὶ ὀρθῶς γʼ, ἔφη, αὐτὰς ἀποκρίνεσθαι φήσομεν.
καὶ γάρ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἀνάγκη μούσας γε οὔσας. [547b]
τί οὖν, ἦ δʼ ὅς, τὸ μετὰ τοῦτο λέγουσιν αἱ Μοῦσαι;
στάσεως, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, γενομένης εἱλκέτην ἄρα ἑκατέρω τὼ γένει, τὸ μὲν σιδηροῦν καὶ χαλκοῦν ἐπὶ χρηματισμὸν καὶ γῆς κτῆσιν καὶ οἰκίας χρυσίου τε καὶ ἀργύρου, τὼ δʼ αὖ, τὸ χρυσοῦν τε καὶ ἀργυροῦν, ἅτε οὐ πενομένω ἀλλὰ φύσει ὄντε πλουσίω, τὰς ψυχὰς ἐπὶ τὴν ἀρετὴν καὶ τὴν ἀρχαίαν κατάστασιν ἠγέτην· βιαζομένων δὲ καὶ ἀντιτεινόντων ἀλλήλοις, εἰς μέσον ὡμολόγησαν γῆν μὲν καὶ οἰκίας κατανειμαμένους [547c] ἰδιώσασθαι, τοὺς δὲ πρὶν φυλαττομένους ὑπʼ αὐτῶν ὡς ἐλευθέρους φίλους τε καὶ τροφέας, δουλωσάμενοι τότε περιοίκους τε καὶ οἰκέτας ἔχοντες, αὐτοὶ πολέμου τε καὶ φυλακῆς αὐτῶν ἐπιμελεῖσθαι.
δοκεῖ μοι, ἔφη, αὕτη ἡ μετάβασις ἐντεῦθεν γίγνεσθαι.
οὐκοῦν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἐν μέσῳ τις ἂν εἴη ἀριστοκρατίας τε καὶ ὀλιγαρχίας αὕτη ἡ πολιτεία;
πάνυ μὲν οὖν.
μεταβήσεται μὲν δὴ οὕτω· μεταβᾶσα δὲ πῶς οἰκήσει; ἢ [547d] φανερὸν ὅτι τὰ μὲν μιμήσεται τὴν προτέραν πολιτείαν, τὰ δὲ τὴν ὀλιγαρχίαν, ἅτʼ ἐν μέσῳ οὖσα, τὸ δέ τι καὶ αὑτῆς ἕξει ἴδιον;
οὕτως, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν τῷ μὲν τιμᾶν τοὺς ἄρχοντας καὶ γεωργιῶν ἀπέχεσθαι τὸ προπολεμοῦν αὐτῆς καὶ χειροτεχνιῶν καὶ τοῦ ἄλλου χρηματισμοῦ, συσσίτια δὲ κατεσκευάσθαι καὶ γυμναστικῆς τε καὶ τῆς τοῦ πολέμου ἀγωνίας ἐπιμελεῖσθαι, πᾶσι τοῖς τοιούτοις τὴν προτέραν μιμήσεται;
ναί. [547e]
τῷ δέ γε φοβεῖσθαι τοὺς σοφοὺς ἐπὶ τὰς ἀρχὰς ἄγειν, ἅτε οὐκέτι κεκτημένην ἁπλοῦς τε καὶ ἀτενεῖς τοὺς τοιούτους ἄνδρας ἀλλὰ μεικτούς, ἐπὶ δὲ θυμοειδεῖς τε καὶ ἁπλουστέρους ἀποκλίνειν, τοὺς πρὸς πόλεμον μᾶλλον πεφυκότας ἢ πρὸς

[548a]
εἰρήνην, καὶ τοὺς περὶ ταῦτα δόλους τε καὶ μηχανὰς ἐντίμως ἔχειν, καὶ πολεμοῦσα τὸν ἀεὶ χρόνον διάγειν, αὐτὴ ἑαυτῆς αὖ τὰ πολλὰ τῶν τοιούτων ἴδια ἕξει;
ναί.
ἐπιθυμηταὶ δέ γε, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, χρημάτων οἱ τοιοῦτοι ἔσονται, ὥσπερ οἱ ἐν ταῖς ὀλιγαρχίαις, καὶ τιμῶντες ἀγρίως ὑπὸ σκότου χρυσόν τε καὶ ἄργυρον, ἅτε κεκτημένοι ταμιεῖα καὶ οἰκείους θησαυρούς, οἷ θέμενοι ἂν αὐτὰ κρύψειαν, καὶ αὖ περιβόλους οἰκήσεων, ἀτεχνῶς νεοττιὰς ἰδίας, ἐν αἷς [548b] ἀναλίσκοντες γυναιξί τε καὶ οἷς ἐθέλοιεν ἄλλοις πολλὰ ἂν δαπανῷντο.
ἀληθέστατα, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν καὶ φειδωλοὶ χρημάτων, ἅτε τιμῶντες καὶ οὐ φανερῶς κτώμενοι, φιλαναλωταὶ δὲ ἀλλοτρίων διʼ ἐπιθυμίαν, καὶ λάθρᾳ τὰς ἡδονὰς καρπούμενοι, ὥσπερ παῖδες πατέρα τὸν νόμον ἀποδιδράσκοντες, οὐχ ὑπὸ πειθοῦς ἀλλʼ ὑπὸ βίας πεπαιδευμένοι διὰ τὸ τῆς ἀληθινῆς Μούσης τῆς μετὰ λόγων [548c] τε καὶ φιλοσοφίας ἠμεληκέναι καὶ πρεσβυτέρως γυμναστικὴν μουσικῆς τετιμηκέναι.
παντάπασιν, ἔφη, λέγεις μεμειγμένην πολιτείαν ἐκ κακοῦ τε καὶ ἀγαθοῦ.
μέμεικται γάρ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ· διαφανέστατον δʼ ἐν αὐτῇ ἐστὶν ἕν τι μόνον ὑπὸ τοῦ θυμοειδοῦς κρατοῦντος, φιλονικίαι καὶ φιλοτιμίαι.
σφόδρα γε, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
οὐκοῦν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, αὕτη μὲν ἡ πολιτεία οὕτω γεγονυῖα καὶ τοιαύτη ἄν τις εἴη, ὡς λόγῳ σχῆμα πολιτείας ὑπογράψαντα [548d] μὴ ἀκριβῶς ἀπεργάσασθαι διὰ τὸ ἐξαρκεῖν μὲν ἰδεῖν καὶ ἐκ τῆς ὑπογραφῆς τόν τε δικαιότατον καὶ τὸν ἀδικώτατον, ἀμήχανον δὲ μήκει ἔργον εἶναι πάσας μὲν πολιτείας, πάντα δὲ ἤθη μηδὲν παραλιπόντα διελθεῖν.
καὶ ὀρθῶς, ἔφη.
τίς οὖν ὁ κατὰ ταύτην τὴν πολιτείαν ἀνήρ; πῶς τε γενόμενος ποῖός τέ τις ὤν;
οἶμαι μέν, ἔφη ὁ Ἀδείμαντος, ἐγγύς τι αὐτὸν Γλαύκωνος τουτουὶ τείνειν ἕνεκά γε φιλονικίας. [548e]
ἴσως, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τοῦτό γε· ἀλλά μοι δοκεῖ τάδε οὐ κατὰ τοῦτον πεφυκέναι.
τὰ ποῖα;
αὐθαδέστερόν τε δεῖ αὐτόν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, εἶναι καὶ ὑποαμουσότερον, φιλόμουσον δέ, καὶ φιλήκοον μέν, ῥητορικὸν δʼ

[549a]
οὐδαμῶς. καὶ δούλοις μέν τις ἂν ἄγριος εἴη ὁ τοιοῦτος, οὐ καταφρονῶν δούλων, ὥσπερ ὁ ἱκανῶς πεπαιδευμένος, ἐλευθέροις δὲ ἥμερος, ἀρχόντων δὲ σφόδρα ὑπήκοος, φίλαρχος δὲ καὶ φιλότιμος, οὐκ ἀπὸ τοῦ λέγειν ἀξιῶν ἄρχειν οὐδʼ ἀπὸ τοιούτου οὐδενός, ἀλλʼ ἀπὸ ἔργων τῶν τε πολεμικῶν καὶ τῶν περὶ τὰ πολεμικά, φιλογυμναστής τέ τις ὢν καὶ φιλόθηρος.
ἔστι γάρ, ἔφη, τοῦτο τὸ ἦθος ἐκείνης τῆς πολιτείας.
οὐκοῦν καὶ χρημάτων, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὁ τοιοῦτος νέος μὲν ὢν [549b] καταφρονοῖ ἄν, ὅσῳ δὲ πρεσβύτερος γίγνοιτο, μᾶλλον ἀεὶ ἀσπάζοιτο ἂν τῷ τε μετέχειν τῆς τοῦ φιλοχρημάτου φύσεως καὶ μὴ εἶναι εἰλικρινὴς πρὸς ἀρετὴν διὰ τὸ ἀπολειφθῆναι τοῦ ἀρίστου φύλακος;
τίνος; ἦ δʼ ὃς ὁ Ἀδείμαντος.
λόγου, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, μουσικῇ κεκραμένου· ὃς μόνος ἐγγενόμενος σωτὴρ ἀρετῆς διὰ βίου ἐνοικεῖ τῷ ἔχοντι.
καλῶς, ἔφη, λέγεις.
καὶ ἔστι μέν γʼ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τοιοῦτος ὁ τιμοκρατικὸς νεανίας, τῇ τοιαύτῃ πόλει ἐοικώς. [549c]
πάνυ μὲν οὖν.
γίγνεται δέ γʼ, εἶπον, οὗτος ὧδέ πως· ἐνίοτε πατρὸς ἀγαθοῦ ὢν νέος ὑὸς ἐν πόλει οἰκοῦντος οὐκ εὖ πολιτευομένῃ, φεύγοντος τάς τε τιμὰς καὶ ἀρχὰς καὶ δίκας καὶ τὴν τοιαύτην πᾶσαν φιλοπραγμοσύνην καὶ ἐθέλοντος ἐλαττοῦσθαι ὥστε πράγματα μὴ ἔχειν—
πῇ δή, ἔφη, γίγνεται;
ὅταν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, πρῶτον μὲν τῆς μητρὸς ἀκούῃ ἀχθομένης ὅτι οὐ τῶν ἀρχόντων αὐτῇ ὁ ἀνήρ ἐστιν, καὶ ἐλαττουμένης διὰ [549d] ταῦτα ἐν ταῖς ἄλλαις γυναιξίν, ἔπειτα ὁρώσης μὴ σφόδρα περὶ χρήματα σπουδάζοντα μηδὲ μαχόμενον καὶ λοιδορούμενον ἰδίᾳ τε ἐν δικαστηρίοις καὶ δημοσίᾳ, ἀλλὰ ῥᾳθύμως πάντα τὰ τοιαῦτα φέροντα, καὶ ἑαυτῷ μὲν τὸν νοῦν προσέχοντα ἀεὶ αἰσθάνηται, ἑαυτὴν δὲ μήτε πάνυ τιμῶντα μήτε ἀτιμάζοντα, ἐξ ἁπάντων τούτων ἀχθομένης τε καὶ λεγούσης ὡς ἄνανδρός τε αὐτῷ ὁ πατὴρ καὶ λίαν ἀνειμένος, καὶ ἄλλα δὴ ὅσα καὶ [549e] οἷα φιλοῦσιν αἱ γυναῖκες περὶ τῶν τοιούτων ὑμνεῖν.
καὶ μάλʼ, ἔφη ὁ Ἀδείμαντος, πολλά τε καὶ ὅμοια ἑαυταῖς.
οἶσθα οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὅτι καὶ οἱ οἰκέται τῶν τοιούτων ἐνίοτε λάθρᾳ πρὸς τοὺς ὑεῖς τοιαῦτα λέγουσιν, οἱ δοκοῦντες εὖνοι εἶναι, καὶ ἐάν τινα ἴδωσιν ἢ ὀφείλοντα χρήματα, ᾧ μὴ ἐπεξέρχεται ὁ πατήρ, ἤ τι ἄλλο ἀδικοῦντα, διακελεύονται ὅπως, ἐπειδὰν ἀνὴρ γένηται, τιμωρήσεται πάντας τοὺς τοιούτους

[550a]
καὶ ἀνὴρ μᾶλλον ἔσται τοῦ πατρός. καὶ ἐξιὼν ἕτερα τοιαῦτα ἀκούει καὶ ὁρᾷ, τοὺς μὲν τὰ αὑτῶν πράττοντας ἐν τῇ πόλει ἠλιθίους τε καλουμένους καὶ ἐν σμικρῷ λόγῳ ὄντας, τοὺς δὲ μὴ τὰ αὑτῶν τιμωμένους τε καὶ ἐπαινουμένους. τότε δὴ ὁ νέος πάντα τὰ τοιαῦτα ἀκούων τε καὶ ὁρῶν, καὶ αὖ τοὺς τοῦ πατρὸς λόγους ἀκούων τε καὶ ὁρῶν τὰ ἐπιτηδεύματα αὐτοῦ ἐγγύθεν παρὰ τὰ τῶν ἄλλων, ἑλκόμενος ὑπʼ ἀμφοτέρων [550b] τούτων, τοῦ μὲν πατρὸς αὐτοῦ τὸ λογιστικὸν ἐν τῇ ψυχῇ ἄρδοντός τε καὶ αὔξοντος, τῶν δὲ ἄλλων τό τε ἐπιθυμητικὸν καὶ τὸ θυμοειδές, διὰ τὸ μὴ κακοῦ ἀνδρὸς εἶναι τὴν φύσιν, ὁμιλίαις δὲ ταῖς τῶν ἄλλων κακαῖς κεχρῆσθαι, εἰς τὸ μέσον ἑλκόμενος ὑπʼ ἀμφοτέρων τούτων ἦλθε, καὶ τὴν ἐν ἑαυτῷ ἀρχὴν παρέδωκε τῷ μέσῳ τε καὶ φιλονίκῳ καὶ θυμοειδεῖ, καὶ ἐγένετο ὑψηλόφρων τε καὶ φιλότιμος ἀνήρ.
κομιδῇ μοι, ἔφη, δοκεῖς τὴν τούτου γένεσιν διεληλυθέναι. [550c]
ἔχομεν ἄρα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τήν τε δευτέραν πολιτείαν καὶ τὸν δεύτερον ἄνδρα.
ἔχομεν, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν μετὰ τοῦτο, τὸ τοῦ Αἰσχύλου, λέγωμεν, ἄλλον ἄλλῃ πρὸς πόλει τεταγμένον, μᾶλλον δὲ κατὰ τὴν ὑπόθεσιν προτέραν τὴν πόλιν;
πάνυ μὲν οὖν, ἔφη.
εἴη δέ γʼ ἄν, ὡς ἐγᾦμαι, ὀλιγαρχία ἡ μετὰ τὴν τοιαύτην πολιτείαν.
λέγεις δέ, ἦ δʼ ὅς, τὴν ποίαν κατάστασιν ὀλιγαρχίαν;
τὴν ἀπὸ τιμημάτων, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, πολιτείαν, ἐν ᾗ οἱ μὲν [550d] πλούσιοι ἄρχουσιν, πένητι δὲ οὐ μέτεστιν ἀρχῆς.
μανθάνω, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
οὐκοῦν ὡς μεταβαίνει πρῶτον ἐκ τῆς τιμαρχίας εἰς τὴν ὀλιγαρχίαν, ῥητέον;
ναί.
καὶ μήν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καὶ τυφλῷ γε δῆλον ὡς μεταβαίνει.
πῶς;
τὸ ταμιεῖον, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἐκεῖνο ἑκάστῳ χρυσίου πληρούμενον ἀπόλλυσι τὴν τοιαύτην πολιτείαν. πρῶτον μὲν γὰρ δαπάνας αὑτοῖς ἐξευρίσκουσιν, καὶ τοὺς νόμους ἐπὶ τοῦτο παράγουσιν, ἀπειθοῦντες αὐτοί τε καὶ γυναῖκες αὐτῶν.
εἰκός, ἔφη. [550e]
ἔπειτά γε οἶμαι ἄλλος ἄλλον ὁρῶν καὶ εἰς ζῆλον ἰὼν τὸ πλῆθος τοιοῦτον αὑτῶν ἀπηργάσαντο.
εἰκός.
τοὐντεῦθεν τοίνυν, εἶπον, προϊόντες εἰς τὸ πρόσθεν τοῦ χρηματίζεσθαι, ὅσῳ ἂν τοῦτο τιμιώτερον ἡγῶνται, τοσούτῳ ἀρετὴν ἀτιμοτέραν. ἢ οὐχ οὕτω πλούτου ἀρετὴ διέστηκεν, ὥσπερ ἐν πλάστιγγι ζυγοῦ κειμένου ἑκατέρου, ἀεὶ τοὐναντίον ῥέποντε;
καὶ μάλʼ, ἔφη.

[551a]
τιμωμένου δὴ πλούτου ἐν πόλει καὶ τῶν πλουσίων ἀτιμοτέρα ἀρετή τε καὶ οἱ ἀγαθοί.
δῆλον.
ἀσκεῖται δὴ τὸ ἀεὶ τιμώμενον, ἀμελεῖται δὲ τὸ ἀτιμαζόμενον.
οὕτω.
ἀντὶ δὴ φιλονίκων καὶ φιλοτίμων ἀνδρῶν φιλοχρηματισταὶ καὶ φιλοχρήματοι τελευτῶντες ἐγένοντο, καὶ τὸν μὲν πλούσιον ἐπαινοῦσίν τε καὶ θαυμάζουσι καὶ εἰς τὰς ἀρχὰς ἄγουσι, τὸν δὲ πένητα ἀτιμάζουσι.
πάνυ γε.
οὐκοῦν τότε δὴ νόμον τίθενται ὅρον πολιτείας ὀλιγαρχικῆς [551b] ταξάμενοι πλῆθος χρημάτων, οὗ μὲν μᾶλλον ὀλιγαρχία, πλέον, οὗ δʼ ἧττον, ἔλαττον, προειπόντες ἀρχῶν μὴ μετέχειν ᾧ ἂν μὴ ᾖ οὐσία εἰς τὸ ταχθὲν τίμημα, ταῦτα δὲ ἢ βίᾳ μεθʼ ὅπλων διαπράττονται, ἢ καὶ πρὸ τούτου φοβήσαντες κατεστήσαντο τὴν τοιαύτην πολιτείαν. ἢ οὐχ οὕτως;
οὕτω μὲν οὖν.
ἡ μὲν δὴ κατάστασις ὡς ἔπος εἰπεῖν αὕτη.
ναί, ἔφη· ἀλλὰ τίς δὴ ὁ τρόπος τῆς πολιτείας; καὶ ποῖά [551c] ἐστιν ἃ ἔφαμεν αὐτὴν ἁμαρτήματα ἔχειν;
πρῶτον μέν, ἔφην, τοῦτο αὐτό, ὅρος αὐτῆς οἷός ἐστιν. ἄθρει γάρ, εἰ νεῶν οὕτω τις ποιοῖτο κυβερνήτας, ἀπὸ τιμημάτων, τῷ δὲ πένητι, εἰ καὶ κυβερνητικώτερος εἴη, μὴ ἐπιτρέποι—
πονηράν, ἦ δʼ ὅς, τὴν ναυτιλίαν αὐτοὺς ναυτίλλεσθαι.
οὐκοῦν καὶ περὶ ἄλλου οὕτως ὁτουοῦν [ἤ τινος] ἀρχῆς;
οἶμαι ἔγωγε.
πλὴν πόλεως; ἦν δʼ ἐγώ· ἢ καὶ πόλεως πέρι;
πολύ γʼ, ἔφη, μάλιστα, ὅσῳ χαλεπωτάτη καὶ μεγίστη ἡ ἀρχή. [551d]
ἓν μὲν δὴ τοῦτο τοσοῦτον ὀλιγαρχία ἂν ἔχοι ἁμάρτημα.
φαίνεται.
τί δέ; τόδε ἆρά τι τούτου ἔλαττον;
τὸ ποῖον;
τὸ μὴ μίαν ἀλλὰ δύο ἀνάγκῃ εἶναι τὴν τοιαύτην πόλιν, τὴν μὲν πενήτων, τὴν δὲ πλουσίων, οἰκοῦντας ἐν τῷ αὐτῷ, ἀεὶ ἐπιβουλεύοντας ἀλλήλοις.
οὐδὲν μὰ Δίʼ, ἔφη, ἔλαττον.
ἀλλὰ μὴν οὐδὲ τόδε καλόν, τὸ ἀδυνάτους εἶναι ἴσως πόλεμόν τινα πολεμεῖν διὰ τὸ ἀναγκάζεσθαι ἢ χρωμένους [551e] τῷ πλήθει ὡπλισμένῳ δεδιέναι μᾶλλον ἢ τοὺς πολεμίους, ἢ μὴ χρωμένους ὡς ἀληθῶς ὀλιγαρχικοὺς φανῆναι ἐν αὐτῷ τῷ μάχεσθαι, καὶ ἅμα χρήματα μὴ ἐθέλειν εἰσφέρειν, ἅτε φιλοχρημάτους.
οὐ καλόν.
τί δέ; ὃ πάλαι ἐλοιδοροῦμεν, τὸ πολυπραγμονεῖν γεωργοῦντας

### Book VIII, 552–559

[552a]
καὶ χρηματιζομένους καὶ πολεμοῦντας ἅμα τοὺς αὐτοὺς ἐν τῇ τοιαύτῃ πολιτείᾳ, ἦ δοκεῖ ὀρθῶς ἔχειν;
οὐδʼ ὁπωστιοῦν.
ὅρα δή, τούτων πάντων τῶν κακῶν εἰ τόδε μέγιστον αὕτη πρώτη παραδέχεται.
τὸ ποῖον;
τὸ ἐξεῖναι πάντα τὰ αὑτοῦ ἀποδόσθαι, καὶ ἄλλῳ κτήσασθαι τὰ τούτου, καὶ ἀποδόμενον οἰκεῖν ἐν τῇ πόλει μηδὲν ὄντα τῶν τῆς πόλεως μερῶν, μήτε χρηματιστὴν μήτε δημιουργὸν μήτε ἱππέα μήτε ὁπλίτην, ἀλλὰ πένητα καὶ ἄπορον κεκλημένον. [552b]
πρώτη, ἔφη.
οὔκουν διακωλύεταί γε ἐν ταῖς ὀλιγαρχουμέναις τὸ τοιοῦτον· οὐ γὰρ ἂν οἱ μὲν ὑπέρπλουτοι ἦσαν, οἱ δὲ παντάπασι πένητες.
ὀρθῶς.
τόδε δὲ ἄθρει· ἆρα ὅτε πλούσιος ὢν ἀνήλισκεν ὁ τοιοῦτος, μᾶλλόν τι τότʼ ἦν ὄφελος τῇ πόλει εἰς ἃ νυνδὴ ἐλέγομεν; ἢ ἐδόκει μὲν τῶν ἀρχόντων εἶναι, τῇ δὲ ἀληθείᾳ οὔτε ἄρχων οὔτε ὑπηρέτης ἦν αὐτῆς, ἀλλὰ τῶν ἑτοίμων ἀναλωτής; [552c]
οὕτως, ἔφη· ἐδόκει, ἦν δὲ οὐδὲν ἄλλο ἢ ἀναλωτής.
βούλει οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, φῶμεν αὐτόν, ὡς ἐν κηρίῳ κηφὴν ἐγγίγνεται, σμήνους νόσημα, οὕτω καὶ τὸν τοιοῦτον ἐν οἰκίᾳ κηφῆνα ἐγγίγνεσθαι, νόσημα πόλεως;
πάνυ μὲν οὖν, ἔφη, ὦ Σώκρατες.
οὐκοῦν, ὦ Ἀδείμαντε, τοὺς μὲν πτηνοὺς κηφῆνας πάντας ἀκέντρους ὁ θεὸς πεποίηκεν, τοὺς δὲ πεζοὺς τούτους ἐνίους μὲν αὐτῶν ἀκέντρους, ἐνίους δὲ δεινὰ κέντρα ἔχοντας; καὶ ἐκ μὲν τῶν ἀκέντρων πτωχοὶ πρὸς τὸ γῆρας τελευτῶσιν, ἐκ δὲ [552d] τῶν κεκεντρωμένων πάντες ὅσοι κέκληνται κακοῦργοι;
ἀληθέστατα, ἔφη.
δῆλον ἄρα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἐν πόλει οὗ ἂν ἴδῃς πτωχούς, ὅτι εἰσί που ἐν τούτῳ τῷ τόπῳ ἀποκεκρυμμένοι κλέπται τε καὶ βαλλαντιατόμοι καὶ ἱερόσυλοι καὶ πάντων τῶν τοιούτων κακῶν δημιουργοί.
δῆλον, ἔφη.
τί οὖν; ἐν ταῖς ὀλιγαρχουμέναις πόλεσι πτωχοὺς οὐχ ὁρᾷς ἐνόντας;
ὀλίγου γʼ, ἔφη, πάντας τοὺς ἐκτὸς τῶν ἀρχόντων. [552e]
μὴ οὖν οἰόμεθα, ἔφην ἐγώ, καὶ κακούργους πολλοὺς ἐν αὐταῖς εἶναι κέντρα ἔχοντας, οὓς ἐπιμελείᾳ βίᾳ κατέχουσιν αἱ ἀρχαί;
οἰόμεθα μὲν οὖν, ἔφη.
ἆρʼ οὖν οὐ διʼ ἀπαιδευσίαν καὶ κακὴν τροφὴν καὶ κατάστασιν τῆς πολιτείας φήσομεν τοὺς τοιούτους αὐτόθι ἐγγίγνεσθαι;
φήσομεν.
ἀλλʼ οὖν δὴ τοιαύτη γέ τις ἂν εἴη ἡ ὀλιγαρχουμένη πόλις καὶ τοσαῦτα κακὰ ἔχουσα, ἴσως δὲ καὶ πλείω.
σχεδόν τι, ἔφη.

[553a]
ἀπειργάσθω δὴ ἡμῖν καὶ αὕτη, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἡ πολιτεία, ἣν ὀλιγαρχίαν καλοῦσιν, ἐκ τιμημάτων ἔχουσα τοὺς ἄρχοντας· τὸν δὲ ταύτῃ ὅμοιον μετὰ ταῦτα σκοπῶμεν, ὥς τε γίγνεται οἷός τε γενόμενός ἐστιν.
πάνυ μὲν οὖν, ἔφη.
ἆρʼ οὖν ὧδε μάλιστα εἰς ὀλιγαρχικὸν ἐκ τοῦ τιμοκρατικοῦ ἐκείνου μεταβάλλει;
πῶς;
ὅταν αὐτοῦ παῖς γενόμενος τὸ μὲν πρῶτον ζηλοῖ τε τὸν πατέρα καὶ τὰ ἐκείνου ἴχνη διώκῃ, ἔπειτα αὐτὸν ἴδῃ ἐξαίφνης [553b] πταίσαντα ὥσπερ πρὸς ἕρματι πρὸς τῇ πόλει, καὶ ἐκχέαντα τά τε αὑτοῦ καὶ ἑαυτόν, ἢ στρατηγήσαντα ἤ τινʼ ἄλλην μεγάλην ἀρχὴν ἄρξαντα, εἶτα εἰς δικαστήριον ἐμπεσόντα [βλαπτόμενον] ὑπὸ συκοφαντῶν ἢ ἀποθανόντα ἢ ἐκπεσόντα ἢ ἀτιμωθέντα καὶ τὴν οὐσίαν ἅπασαν ἀποβαλόντα.
εἰκός γʼ, ἔφη.
ἰδὼν δέ γε, ὦ φίλε, ταῦτα καὶ παθὼν καὶ ἀπολέσας τὰ ὄντα, δείσας οἶμαι εὐθὺς ἐπὶ κεφαλὴν ὠθεῖ ἐκ τοῦ θρόνου [553c] τοῦ ἐν τῇ ἑαυτοῦ ψυχῇ φιλοτιμίαν τε καὶ τὸ θυμοειδὲς ἐκεῖνο, καὶ ταπεινωθεὶς ὑπὸ πενίας πρὸς χρηματισμὸν τραπόμενος γλίσχρως καὶ κατὰ σμικρὸν φειδόμενος καὶ ἐργαζόμενος χρήματα συλλέγεται. ἆρʼ οὐκ οἴει τὸν τοιοῦτον τότε εἰς μὲν τὸν θρόνον ἐκεῖνον τὸ ἐπιθυμητικόν τε καὶ φιλοχρήματον ἐγκαθίζειν καὶ μέγαν βασιλέα ποιεῖν ἐν ἑαυτῷ, τιάρας τε καὶ στρεπτοὺς καὶ ἀκινάκας παραζωννύντα;
ἔγωγʼ, ἔφη. [553d]
τὸ δέ γε οἶμαι λογιστικόν τε καὶ θυμοειδὲς χαμαὶ ἔνθεν καὶ ἔνθεν παρακαθίσας ὑπʼ ἐκείνῳ καὶ καταδουλωσάμενος, τὸ μὲν οὐδὲν ἄλλο ἐᾷ λογίζεσθαι οὐδὲ σκοπεῖν ἀλλʼ ἢ ὁπόθεν ἐξ ἐλαττόνων χρημάτων πλείω ἔσται, τὸ δὲ αὖ θαυμάζειν καὶ τιμᾶν μηδὲν ἄλλο ἢ πλοῦτόν τε καὶ πλουσίους, καὶ φιλοτιμεῖσθαι μηδʼ ἐφʼ ἑνὶ ἄλλῳ ἢ ἐπὶ χρημάτων κτήσει καὶ ἐάν τι ἄλλο εἰς τοῦτο φέρῃ.
οὐκ ἔστʼ ἄλλη, ἔφη, μεταβολὴ οὕτω ταχεῖά τε καὶ ἰσχυρὰ ἐκ φιλοτίμου νέου εἰς φιλοχρήματον. [553e]
ἆρʼ οὖν οὗτος, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὀλιγαρχικός ἐστιν;
ἡ γοῦν μεταβολὴ αὐτοῦ ἐξ ὁμοίου ἀνδρός ἐστι τῇ πολιτείᾳ, ἐξ ἧς ἡ ὀλιγαρχία μετέστη.
σκοπῶμεν δὴ εἰ ὅμοιος ἂν εἴη.

[554a]
σκοπῶμεν.
οὐκοῦν πρῶτον μὲν τῷ χρήματα περὶ πλείστου ποιεῖσθαι ὅμοιος ἂν εἴη;
πῶς δʼ οὔ;
καὶ μὴν τῷ γε φειδωλὸς εἶναι καὶ ἐργάτης, τὰς ἀναγκαίους ἐπιθυμίας μόνον τῶν παρʼ αὑτῷ ἀποπιμπλάς, τὰ δὲ ἄλλα ἀναλώματα μὴ παρεχόμενος, ἀλλὰ δουλούμενος τὰς ἄλλας ἐπιθυμίας ὡς ματαίους.
πάνυ μὲν οὖν.
αὐχμηρός γέ τις, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὢν καὶ ἀπὸ παντὸς περιουσίαν ποιούμενος, θησαυροποιὸς ἀνήρ—οὓς δὴ καὶ ἐπαινεῖ τὸ πλῆθος [554b] —ἢ οὐχ οὗτος ἂν εἴη ὁ τῇ τοιαύτῃ πολιτείᾳ ὅμοιος;
ἐμοὶ γοῦν, ἔφη, δοκεῖ· χρήματα γοῦν μάλιστα ἔντιμα τῇ τε πόλει καὶ παρὰ τῷ τοιούτῳ.
οὐ γὰρ οἶμαι, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, παιδείᾳ ὁ τοιοῦτος προσέσχηκεν.
οὐ δοκῶ, ἔφη· οὐ γὰρ ἂν τυφλὸν ἡγεμόνα τοῦ χοροῦ ἐστήσατο καὶ ἐτίμα μάλιστα.
εὖ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ. τόδε δὲ σκόπει· κηφηνώδεις ἐπιθυμίας ἐν αὐτῷ διὰ τὴν ἀπαιδευσίαν μὴ φῶμεν ἐγγίγνεσθαι, τὰς μὲν [554c] πτωχικάς, τὰς δὲ κακούργους, κατεχομένας βίᾳ ὑπὸ τῆς ἄλλης ἐπιμελείας;
καὶ μάλʼ, ἔφη.
οἶσθʼ οὖν, εἶπον, οἷ ἀποβλέψας κατόψει αὐτῶν τὰς κακουργίας;
ποῖ; ἔφη.
εἰς τὰς τῶν ὀρφανῶν ἐπιτροπεύσεις, καὶ εἴ πού τι αὐτοῖς τοιοῦτον συμβαίνει, ὥστε πολλῆς ἐξουσίας λαβέσθαι τοῦ ἀδικεῖν.
ἀληθῆ.
ἆρʼ οὖν οὐ τούτῳ δῆλον ὅτι ἐν τοῖς ἄλλοις συμβολαίοις ὁ τοιοῦτος, ἐν οἷς εὐδοκιμεῖ δοκῶν δίκαιος εἶναι, ἐπιεικεῖ [554d] τινὶ ἑαυτοῦ βίᾳ κατέχει ἄλλας κακὰς ἐπιθυμίας ἐνούσας, οὐ πείθων ὅτι οὐκ ἄμεινον, οὐδʼ ἡμερῶν λόγῳ, ἀλλʼ ἀνάγκῃ καὶ φόβῳ, περὶ τῆς ἄλλης οὐσίας τρέμων;
καὶ πάνυ γʼ, ἔφη.
καὶ νὴ Δία, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὦ φίλε, τοῖς πολλοῖς γε αὐτῶν ἐνευρήσεις, ὅταν δέῃ τἀλλότρια ἀναλίσκειν, τὰς τοῦ κηφῆνος συγγενεῖς ἐνούσας ἐπιθυμίας.
καὶ μάλα, ἦ δʼ ὅς, σφόδρα.
οὐκ ἄρʼ ἂν εἴη ἀστασίαστος ὁ τοιοῦτος ἐν ἑαυτῷ, οὐδὲ εἷς ἀλλὰ διπλοῦς τις, ἐπιθυμίας δὲ ἐπιθυμιῶν ὡς τὸ πολὺ [554e] κρατούσας ἂν ἔχοι βελτίους χειρόνων.
ἔστιν οὕτω.
διὰ ταῦτα δὴ οἶμαι εὐσχημονέστερος ἂν πολλῶν ὁ τοιοῦτος εἴη· ὁμονοητικῆς δὲ καὶ ἡρμοσμένης τῆς ψυχῆς ἀληθὴς ἀρετὴ πόρρω ποι ἐκφεύγοι ἂν αὐτόν.
δοκεῖ μοι.
καὶ μὴν ἀνταγωνιστής γε ἰδίᾳ ἐν πόλει ὁ φειδωλὸς

[555a]
φαῦλος ἤ τινος νίκης ἢ ἄλλης φιλοτιμίας τῶν καλῶν, χρήματά τε οὐκ ἐθέλων εὐδοξίας ἕνεκα καὶ τῶν τοιούτων ἀγώνων ἀναλίσκειν, δεδιὼς τὰς ἐπιθυμίας τὰς ἀναλωτικὰς ἐγείρειν καὶ συμπαρακαλεῖν ἐπὶ συμμαχίαν τε καὶ φιλονικίαν, ὀλίγοις τισὶν ἑαυτοῦ πολεμῶν ὀλιγαρχικῶς τὰ πολλὰ ἡττᾶται καὶ πλουτεῖ.
καὶ μάλα, ἔφη.
ἔτι οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἀπιστοῦμεν μὴ κατὰ τὴν ὀλιγαρχουμένην πόλιν ὁμοιότητι τὸν φειδωλόν τε καὶ χρηματιστὴν [555b] τετάχθαι;
οὐδαμῶς, ἔφη.
δημοκρατίαν δή, ὡς ἔοικε, μετὰ τοῦτο σκεπτέον, τίνα τε γίγνεται τρόπον, γενομένη τε ποῖόν τινα ἔχει, ἵνʼ αὖ τὸν τοῦ τοιούτου ἀνδρὸς τρόπον γνόντες παραστησώμεθʼ αὐτὸν εἰς κρίσιν.
ὁμοίως γοῦν ἄν, ἔφη, ἡμῖν αὐτοῖς πορευοίμεθα.
οὐκοῦν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, μεταβάλλει μὲν τρόπον τινὰ τοιόνδε ἐξ ὀλιγαρχίας εἰς δημοκρατίαν, διʼ ἀπληστίαν τοῦ προκειμένου ἀγαθοῦ, τοῦ ὡς πλουσιώτατον δεῖν γίγνεσθαι;
πῶς δή; [555c]
ἅτε οἶμαι ἄρχοντες ἐν αὐτῇ οἱ ἄρχοντες διὰ τὸ πολλὰ κεκτῆσθαι, οὐκ ἐθέλουσιν εἴργειν νόμῳ τῶν νέων ὅσοι ἂν ἀκόλαστοι γίγνωνται, μὴ ἐξεῖναι αὐτοῖς ἀναλίσκειν τε καὶ ἀπολλύναι τὰ αὑτῶν, ἵνα ὠνούμενοι τὰ τῶν τοιούτων καὶ εἰσδανείζοντες ἔτι πλουσιώτεροι καὶ ἐντιμότεροι γίγνωνται.
παντός γε μᾶλλον.
οὐκοῦν δῆλον ἤδη τοῦτο ἐν πόλει, ὅτι πλοῦτον τιμᾶν καὶ σωφροσύνην ἅμα ἱκανῶς κτᾶσθαι ἐν τοῖς πολίταις [555d] ἀδύνατον, ἀλλʼ ἀνάγκη ἢ τοῦ ἑτέρου ἀμελεῖν ἢ τοῦ ἑτέρου;
ἐπιεικῶς, ἔφη, δῆλον.
παραμελοῦντες δὴ ἐν ταῖς ὀλιγαρχίαις καὶ ἐφιέντες ἀκολασταίνειν οὐκ ἀγεννεῖς ἐνίοτε ἀνθρώπους πένητας ἠνάγκασαν γενέσθαι.
μάλα γε.
κάθηνται δὴ οἶμαι οὗτοι ἐν τῇ πόλει κεκεντρωμένοι τε καὶ ἐξωπλισμένοι, οἱ μὲν ὀφείλοντες χρέα, οἱ δὲ ἄτιμοι γεγονότες, οἱ δὲ ἀμφότερα, μισοῦντές τε καὶ ἐπιβουλεύοντες τοῖς κτησαμένοις τὰ αὑτῶν καὶ τοῖς ἄλλοις, νεωτερισμοῦ [555e] ἐρῶντες.
ἔστι ταῦτα.
οἱ δὲ δὴ χρηματισταὶ ἐγκύψαντες, οὐδὲ δοκοῦντες τούτους ὁρᾶν, τῶν λοιπῶν τὸν ἀεὶ ὑπείκοντα ἐνιέντες ἀργύριον τιτρώσκοντες, καὶ τοῦ πατρὸς ἐκγόνους τόκους πολλαπλασίους

[556a]
κομιζόμενοι, πολὺν τὸν κηφῆνα καὶ πτωχὸν ἐμποιοῦσι τῇ πόλει.
πῶς γάρ, ἔφη, οὐ πολύν;
καὶ οὔτε γʼ ἐκείνῃ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τὸ τοιοῦτον κακὸν ἐκκαόμενον ἐθέλουσιν ἀποσβεννύναι, εἴργοντες τὰ αὑτοῦ ὅπῃ τις βούλεται τρέπειν, οὔτε τῇδε, ᾗ αὖ κατὰ ἕτερον νόμον τὰ τοιαῦτα λύεται.
κατὰ δὴ τίνα;
ὃς μετʼ ἐκεῖνόν ἐστι δεύτερος καὶ ἀναγκάζων ἀρετῆς ἐπιμελεῖσθαι τοὺς πολίτας. ἐὰν γὰρ ἐπὶ τῷ αὑτοῦ κινδύνῳ [556b] τὰ πολλά τις τῶν ἑκουσίων συμβολαίων προστάττῃ συμβάλλειν, χρηματίζοιντο μὲν ἂν ἧττον ἀναιδῶς ἐν τῇ πόλει, ἐλάττω δʼ ἐν αὐτῇ φύοιτο τῶν τοιούτων κακῶν οἵων νυνδὴ εἴπομεν.
καὶ πολύ γε, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
νῦν δέ γʼ, ἔφην ἐγώ, διὰ πάντα τὰ τοιαῦτα τοὺς μὲν δὴ ἀρχομένους οὕτω διατιθέασιν ἐν τῇ πόλει οἱ ἄρχοντες· σφᾶς δὲ αὐτοὺς καὶ τοὺς αὑτῶν—ἆρʼ οὐ τρυφῶντας μὲν τοὺς νέους καὶ ἀπόνους καὶ πρὸς τὰ τοῦ σώματος καὶ πρὸς [556c] τὰ τῆς ψυχῆς, μαλακοὺς δὲ καρτερεῖν πρὸς ἡδονάς τε καὶ λύπας καὶ ἀργούς;
τί μήν;
αὑτοὺς δὲ πλὴν χρηματισμοῦ τῶν ἄλλων ἠμεληκότας, καὶ οὐδὲν πλείω ἐπιμέλειαν πεποιημένους ἀρετῆς ἢ τοὺς πένητας;
οὐ γὰρ οὖν.
οὕτω δὴ παρεσκευασμένοι ὅταν παραβάλλωσιν ἀλλήλοις οἵ τε ἄρχοντες καὶ οἱ ἀρχόμενοι ἢ ἐν ὁδῶν πορείαις ἢ ἐν ἄλλαις τισὶ κοινωνίαις, ἢ κατὰ θεωρίας ἢ κατὰ στρατείας, ἢ σύμπλοι γιγνόμενοι ἢ συστρατιῶται, ἢ καὶ ἐν αὐτοῖς τοῖς [556d] κινδύνοις ἀλλήλους θεώμενοι μηδαμῇ ταύτῃ καταφρονῶνται οἱ πένητες ὑπὸ τῶν πλουσίων, ἀλλὰ πολλάκις ἰσχνὸς ἀνὴρ πένης, ἡλιωμένος, παραταχθεὶς ἐν μάχῃ πλουσίῳ ἐσκιατροφηκότι, πολλὰς ἔχοντι σάρκας ἀλλοτρίας, ἴδῃ ἄσθματός τε καὶ ἀπορίας μεστόν, ἆρʼ οἴει αὐτὸν οὐχ ἡγεῖσθαι κακίᾳ τῇ σφετέρᾳ πλουτεῖν τοὺς τοιούτους, καὶ ἄλλον ἄλλῳ παραγγέλλειν, ὅταν ἰδίᾳ συγγίγνωνται, ὅτι ἇνδρες ἡμέτεροι· [556e] εἰσὶ γὰρ οὐδέν;
εὖ οἶδα μὲν οὖν, ἔφη, ἔγωγε, ὅτι οὕτω ποιοῦσιν.
οὐκοῦν ὥσπερ σῶμα νοσῶδες μικρᾶς ῥοπῆς ἔξωθεν δεῖται προσλαβέσθαι πρὸς τὸ κάμνειν, ἐνίοτε δὲ καὶ ἄνευ τῶν ἔξω στασιάζει αὐτὸ αὑτῷ, οὕτω δὴ καὶ ἡ κατὰ ταὐτὰ ἐκείνῳ διακειμένη πόλις ἀπὸ σμικρᾶς προφάσεως, ἔξωθεν ἐπαγομένων ἢ τῶν ἑτέρων ἐξ ὀλιγαρχουμένης πόλεως συμμαχίαν ἢ τῶν ἑτέρων ἐκ δημοκρατουμένης, νοσεῖ τε καὶ αὐτὴ αὑτῇ μάχεται, ἐνίοτε δὲ καὶ ἄνευ τῶν ἔξω στασιάζει;

[557a]
καὶ σφόδρα γε.
δημοκρατία δὴ οἶμαι γίγνεται ὅταν οἱ πένητες νικήσαντες τοὺς μὲν ἀποκτείνωσι τῶν ἑτέρων, τοὺς δὲ ἐκβάλωσι, τοῖς δὲ λοιποῖς ἐξ ἴσου μεταδῶσι πολιτείας τε καὶ ἀρχῶν, καὶ ὡς τὸ πολὺ ἀπὸ κλήρων αἱ ἀρχαὶ ἐν αὐτῇ γίγνονται.
ἔστι γάρ, ἔφη, αὕτη ἡ κατάστασις δημοκρατίας, ἐάντε καὶ διʼ ὅπλων γένηται ἐάντε καὶ διὰ φόβον ὑπεξελθόντων τῶν ἑτέρων.
τίνα δὴ οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, οὗτοι τρόπον οἰκοῦσι; καὶ ποία [557b] τις ἡ τοιαύτη αὖ πολιτεία; δῆλον γὰρ ὅτι ὁ τοιοῦτος ἀνὴρ δημοκρατικός τις ἀναφανήσεται.
δῆλον, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν πρῶτον μὲν δὴ ἐλεύθεροι, καὶ ἐλευθερίας ἡ πόλις μεστὴ καὶ παρρησίας γίγνεται, καὶ ἐξουσία ἐν αὐτῇ ποιεῖν ὅτι τις βούλεται;
λέγεταί γε δή, ἔφη.
ὅπου δέ γε ἐξουσία, δῆλον ὅτι ἰδίαν ἕκαστος ἂν κατασκευὴν τοῦ αὑτοῦ βίου κατασκευάζοιτο ἐν αὐτῇ, ἥτις ἕκαστον ἀρέσκοι.
δῆλον. [557c]
παντοδαποὶ δὴ ἂν οἶμαι ἐν ταύτῃ τῇ πολιτείᾳ μάλιστʼ ἐγγίγνοιντο ἄνθρωποι.
πῶς γὰρ οὔ;
κινδυνεύει, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καλλίστη αὕτη τῶν πολιτειῶν εἶναι· ὥσπερ ἱμάτιον ποικίλον πᾶσιν ἄνθεσι πεποικιλμένον, οὕτω καὶ αὕτη πᾶσιν ἤθεσιν πεποικιλμένη καλλίστη ἂν φαίνοιτο. καὶ ἴσως μέν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καὶ ταύτην, ὥσπερ οἱ παῖδές τε καὶ αἱ γυναῖκες τὰ ποικίλα θεώμενοι, καλλίστην ἂν πολλοὶ κρίνειαν.
καὶ μάλʼ, ἔφη. [557d]
καὶ ἔστιν γε, ὦ μακάριε, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἐπιτήδειον ζητεῖν ἐν αὐτῇ πολιτείαν.
τί δή;
ὅτι πάντα γένη πολιτειῶν ἔχει διὰ τὴν ἐξουσίαν, καὶ κινδυνεύει τῷ βουλομένῳ πόλιν κατασκευάζειν, ὃ νυνδὴ ἡμεῖς ἐποιοῦμεν, ἀναγκαῖον εἶναι εἰς δημοκρατουμένην ἐλθόντι πόλιν, ὃς ἂν αὐτὸν ἀρέσκῃ τρόπος, τοῦτον ἐκλέξασθαι, ὥσπερ εἰς παντοπώλιον ἀφικομένῳ πολιτειῶν, καὶ ἐκλεξαμένῳ οὕτω κατοικίζειν. [557e]
ἴσως γοῦν, ἔφη, οὐκ ἂν ἀποροῖ παραδειγμάτων.
τὸ δὲ μηδεμίαν ἀνάγκην, εἶπον, εἶναι ἄρχειν ἐν ταύτῃ τῇ πόλει, μηδʼ ἂν ᾖς ἱκανὸς ἄρχειν, μηδὲ αὖ ἄρχεσθαι, ἐὰν μὴ βούλῃ, μηδὲ πολεμεῖν πολεμούντων, μηδὲ εἰρήνην ἄγειν τῶν ἄλλων ἀγόντων, ἐὰν μὴ ἐπιθυμῇς εἰρήνης, μηδὲ αὖ, ἐάν τις ἄρχειν νόμος σε διακωλύῃ ἢ δικάζειν, μηδὲν ἧττον καὶ

[558a]
ἄρχειν καὶ δικάζειν, ἐὰν αὐτῷ σοι ἐπίῃ, ἆρʼ οὐ θεσπεσία καὶ ἡδεῖα ἡ τοιαύτη διαγωγὴ ἐν τῷ παραυτίκα;
ἴσως, ἔφη, ἔν γε τούτῳ.
τί δέ; ἡ πρᾳότης ἐνίων τῶν δικασθέντων οὐ κομψή; ἢ οὔπω εἶδες, ἐν τοιαύτῃ πολιτείᾳ [ἀνθρώπων] καταψηφισθέντων θανάτου ἢ φυγῆς, οὐδὲν ἧττον αὐτῶν μενόντων τε καὶ ἀναστρεφομένων ἐν μέσῳ, [καὶ] ὡς οὔτε φροντίζοντος οὔτε ὁρῶντος οὐδενὸς περινοστεῖ ὥσπερ ἥρως;
καὶ πολλούς γʼ, ἔφη. [558b]
ἡ δὲ συγγνώμη καὶ οὐδʼ ὁπωστιοῦν σμικρολογία αὐτῆς, ἀλλὰ καταφρόνησις ὧν ἡμεῖς ἐλέγομεν σεμνύνοντες, ὅτε τὴν πόλιν ᾠκίζομεν, ὡς εἰ μή τις ὑπερβεβλημένην φύσιν ἔχοι, οὔποτʼ ἂν γένοιτο ἀνὴρ ἀγαθός, εἰ μὴ παῖς ὢν εὐθὺς παίζοι ἐν καλοῖς καὶ ἐπιτηδεύοι τὰ τοιαῦτα πάντα, ὡς μεγαλοπρεπῶς καταπατήσασʼ ἅπαντʼ αὐτὰ οὐδὲν φροντίζει ἐξ ὁποίων ἄν τις ἐπιτηδευμάτων ἐπὶ τὰ πολιτικὰ ἰὼν πράττῃ, ἀλλὰ τιμᾷ, [558c] ἐὰν φῇ μόνον εὔνους εἶναι τῷ πλήθει;
πάνυ γʼ, ἔφη, γενναία.
ταῦτά τε δή, ἔφην, ἔχοι ἂν καὶ τούτων ἄλλα ἀδελφὰ δημοκρατία, καὶ εἴη, ὡς ἔοικεν, ἡδεῖα πολιτεία καὶ ἄναρχος καὶ ποικίλη, ἰσότητά τινα ὁμοίως ἴσοις τε καὶ ἀνίσοις διανέμουσα.
καὶ μάλʼ, ἔφη, γνώριμα λέγεις.
ἄθρει δή, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τίς ὁ τοιοῦτος ἰδίᾳ. ἢ πρῶτον σκεπτέον, ὥσπερ τὴν πολιτείαν ἐσκεψάμεθα, τίνα τρόπον γίγνεται;
ναί, ἔφη.
ἆρʼ οὖν οὐχ ὧδε; τοῦ φειδωλοῦ ἐκείνου καὶ ὀλιγαρχικοῦ [558d] γένοιτʼ ἂν οἶμαι ὑὸς ὑπὸ τῷ πατρὶ τεθραμμένος ἐν τοῖς ἐκείνου ἤθεσι;
τί γὰρ οὔ;
βίᾳ δὴ καὶ οὗτος ἄρχων τῶν ἐν αὑτῷ ἡδονῶν, ὅσαι ἀναλωτικαὶ μέν, χρηματιστικαὶ δὲ μή· αἳ δὴ οὐκ ἀναγκαῖαι κέκληνται—
δῆλον, ἔφη.
βούλει οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἵνα μὴ σκοτεινῶς διαλεγώμεθα, πρῶτον ὁρισώμεθα τάς τε ἀναγκαίους ἐπιθυμίας καὶ τὰς μή;
βούλομαι, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
οὐκοῦν ἅς τε οὐκ ἂν οἷοί τʼ εἶμεν ἀποτρέψαι, δικαίως [558e] ἂν ἀναγκαῖαι καλοῖντο, καὶ ὅσαι ἀποτελούμεναι ὠφελοῦσιν ἡμᾶς; τούτων γὰρ ἀμφοτέρων ἐφίεσθαι ἡμῶν τῇ φύσει ἀνάγκη. ἢ οὔ;
καὶ μάλα.

[559a]
δικαίως δὴ τοῦτο ἐπʼ αὐταῖς ἐροῦμεν, τὸ ἀναγκαῖον.
δικαίως.
τί δέ; ἅς γέ τις ἀπαλλάξειεν ἄν, εἰ μελετῷ ἐκ νέου, καὶ πρὸς οὐδὲν ἀγαθὸν ἐνοῦσαι δρῶσιν, αἱ δὲ καὶ τοὐναντίον, πάσας ταύτας εἰ μὴ ἀναγκαίους φαῖμεν εἶναι, ἆρʼ οὐ καλῶς ἂν λέγοιμεν;
καλῶς μὲν οὖν.
προελώμεθα δή τι παράδειγμα ἑκατέρων αἵ εἰσιν, ἵνα τύπῳ λάβωμεν αὐτάς;
οὐκοῦν χρή.
ἆρʼ οὖν οὐχ ἡ τοῦ φαγεῖν μέχρι ὑγιείας τε καὶ εὐεξίας [559b] καὶ αὐτοῦ σίτου τε καὶ ὄψου ἀναγκαῖος ἂν εἴη;
οἶμαι.
ἡ μέν γέ που τοῦ σίτου κατʼ ἀμφότερα ἀναγκαία, ᾗ τε ὠφέλιμος ᾗ τε μὴ παῦσαι ζῶντα δυνατή.
ναί.
ἡ δὲ ὄψου, εἴ πῄ τινα ὠφελίαν πρὸς εὐεξίαν παρέχεται,
πάνυ μὲν οὖν.
τί δὲ ἡ πέρα τούτων καὶ ἀλλοίων ἐδεσμάτων ἢ τοιούτων ἐπιθυμία, δυνατὴ δὲ κολαζομένη ἐκ νέων καὶ παιδευομένη ἐκ τῶν πολλῶν ἀπαλλάττεσθαι, καὶ βλαβερὰ μὲν σώματι, βλαβερὰ δὲ ψυχῇ πρός τε φρόνησιν καὶ τὸ σωφρονεῖν; ἆρά [559c] γε ὀρθῶς οὐκ ἀναγκαία ἂν καλοῖτο;
ὀρθότατα μὲν οὖν.
οὐκοῦν καὶ ἀναλωτικὰς φῶμεν εἶναι ταύτας, ἐκείνας δὲ χρηματιστικὰς διὰ τὸ χρησίμους πρὸς τὰ ἔργα εἶναι;
τί μήν;
οὕτω δὴ καὶ περὶ ἀφροδισίων καὶ τῶν ἄλλων φήσομεν;
οὕτω.
ἆρʼ οὖν καὶ ὃν νυνδὴ κηφῆνα ὠνομάζομεν, τοῦτον ἐλέγομεν τὸν τῶν τοιούτων ἡδονῶν καὶ ἐπιθυμιῶν γέμοντα καὶ [559d] ἀρχόμενον ὑπὸ τῶν μὴ ἀναγκαίων, τὸν δὲ ὑπὸ τῶν ἀναγκαίων φειδωλόν τε καὶ ὀλιγαρχικόν;
ἀλλὰ τί μήν;
πάλιν τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, λέγωμεν ὡς ἐξ ὀλιγαρχικοῦ δημοκρατικὸς γίγνεται. φαίνεται δέ μοι τά γε πολλὰ ὧδε γίγνεσθαι.
πῶς;
ὅταν νέος, τεθραμμένος ὡς νυνδὴ ἐλέγομεν, ἀπαιδεύτως τε καὶ φειδωλῶς, γεύσηται κηφήνων μέλιτος, καὶ συγγένηται αἴθωσι θηρσὶ καὶ δεινοῖς, παντοδαπὰς ἡδονὰς καὶ ποικίλας καὶ παντοίως ἐχούσας δυναμένοις σκευάζειν, ἐνταῦθά που [559e] οἴου εἶναι ἀρχὴν αὐτῷ μεταβολῆς ὀλιγαρχικῆς τῆς ἑαυτῷ εἰς δημοκρατικήν.
πολλὴ ἀνάγκη, ἔφη.
ἆρʼ οὖν, ὥσπερ ἡ πόλις μετέβαλλε βοηθησάσης τῷ ἑτέρῳ μέρει συμμαχίας ἔξωθεν, ὁμοίας ὁμοίῳ, οὕτω καὶ ὁ νεανίας μεταβάλλει βοηθοῦντος αὖ εἴδους ἐπιθυμιῶν ἔξωθεν τῷ ἑτέρῳ τῶν παρʼ ἐκείνῳ, συγγενοῦς τε καὶ ὁμοίου;
παντάπασιν μὲν οὖν.
καὶ ἐὰν μέν γε οἶμαι ἀντιβοηθήσῃ τις τῷ ἐν ἑαυτῷ ὀλιγαρχικῷ συμμαχία, ἤ ποθεν παρὰ τοῦ πατρὸς ἢ καὶ τῶν

### Book VIII, 560–567

[560a]
ἄλλων οἰκείων νουθετούντων τε καὶ κακιζόντων, στάσις δὴ καὶ ἀντίστασις καὶ μάχη ἐν αὐτῷ πρὸς αὑτὸν τότε γίγνεται.
τί μήν;
καὶ ποτὲ μὲν οἶμαι τὸ δημοκρατικὸν ὑπεχώρησε τῷ ὀλιγαρχικῷ, καί τινες τῶν ἐπιθυμιῶν αἱ μὲν διεφθάρησαν, αἱ δὲ καὶ ἐξέπεσον, αἰδοῦς τινος ἐγγενομένης ἐν τῇ τοῦ νέου ψυχῇ, καὶ κατεκοσμήθη πάλιν.
γίγνεται γὰρ ἐνίοτε, ἔφη.
αὖθις δὲ οἶμαι τῶν ἐκπεσουσῶν ἐπιθυμιῶν ἄλλαι ὑποτρεφόμεναι [560b] συγγενεῖς διʼ ἀνεπιστημοσύνην τροφῆς πατρὸς πολλαί τε καὶ ἰσχυραὶ ἐγένοντο.
φιλεῖ γοῦν, ἔφη, οὕτω γίγνεσθαι.
οὐκοῦν εἵλκυσάν τε πρὸς τὰς αὐτὰς ὁμιλίας, καὶ λάθρᾳ συγγιγνόμεναι πλῆθος ἐνέτεκον.
τί μήν;
τελευτῶσαι δὴ οἶμαι κατέλαβον τὴν τοῦ νέου τῆς ψυχῆς ἀκρόπολιν, αἰσθόμεναι κενὴν μαθημάτων τε καὶ ἐπιτηδευμάτων καλῶν καὶ λόγων ἀληθῶν, οἳ δὴ ἄριστοι φρουροί τε καὶ φύλακες ἐν ἀνδρῶν θεοφιλῶν εἰσι διανοίαις. [560c]
καὶ πολύ γʼ, ἔφη.
ψευδεῖς δὴ καὶ ἀλαζόνες οἶμαι λόγοι τε καὶ δόξαι ἀντʼ ἐκείνων ἀναδραμόντες κατέσχον τὸν αὐτὸν τόπον τοῦ τοιούτου.
σφόδρα γʼ, ἔφη.
ἆρʼ οὖν οὐ πάλιν τε εἰς ἐκείνους τοὺς Λωτοφάγους ἐλθὼν φανερῶς κατοικεῖ, καὶ ἐὰν παρʼ οἰκείων τις βοήθεια τῷ φειδωλῷ αὐτοῦ τῆς ψυχῆς ἀφικνῆται, κλῄσαντες οἱ ἀλαζόνες λόγοι ἐκεῖνοι τὰς τοῦ βασιλικοῦ τείχους ἐν αὐτῷ πύλας οὔτε αὐτὴν τὴν συμμαχίαν παριᾶσιν, οὔτε πρέσβεις πρεσβυτέρων [560d] λόγους ἰδιωτῶν εἰσδέχονται, αὐτοί τε κρατοῦσι μαχόμενοι, καὶ τὴν μὲν αἰδῶ ἠλιθιότητα ὀνομάζοντες ὠθοῦσιν ἔξω ἀτίμως φυγάδα, σωφροσύνην δὲ ἀνανδρίαν καλοῦντές τε καὶ προπηλακίζοντες ἐκβάλλουσι, μετριότητα δὲ καὶ κοσμίαν δαπάνην ὡς ἀγροικίαν καὶ ἀνελευθερίαν οὖσαν πείθοντες ὑπερορίζουσι μετὰ πολλῶν καὶ ἀνωφελῶν ἐπιθυμιῶν;
σφόδρα γε.
τούτων δέ γέ που κενώσαντες καὶ καθήραντες τὴν τοῦ [560e] κατεχομένου τε ὑπʼ αὐτῶν καὶ τελουμένου ψυχὴν μεγάλοισι τέλεσι, τὸ μετὰ τοῦτο ἤδη ὕβριν καὶ ἀναρχίαν καὶ ἀσωτίαν καὶ ἀναίδειαν λαμπρὰς μετὰ πολλοῦ χοροῦ κατάγουσιν ἐστεφανωμένας, ἐγκωμιάζοντες καὶ ὑποκοριζόμενοι, ὕβριν μὲν εὐπαιδευσίαν καλοῦντες, ἀναρχίαν δὲ ἐλευθερίαν, ἀσωτίαν

[561a] δὲ μεγαλοπρέπειαν, ἀναίδειαν δὲ ἀνδρείαν.
ἆρʼ οὐχ οὕτω πως, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, νέος ὢν μεταβάλλει ἐκ τοῦ ἐν ἀναγκαίοις ἐπιθυμίαις τρεφομένου τὴν τῶν μὴ ἀναγκαίων καὶ ἀνωφελῶν ἡδονῶν ἐλευθέρωσίν τε καὶ ἄνεσιν;
καὶ μάλα γʼ, ἦ δʼ ὅς, ἐναργῶς.
Ζῇ δὴ οἶμαι μετὰ ταῦτα ὁ τοιοῦτος οὐδὲν μᾶλλον εἰς ἀναγκαίους ἢ μὴ ἀναγκαίους ἡδονὰς ἀναλίσκων καὶ χρήματα καὶ πόνους καὶ διατριβάς· ἀλλʼ ἐὰν εὐτυχὴς ᾖ καὶ μὴ πέρα ἐκβακχευθῇ, ἀλλά τι καὶ πρεσβύτερος γενόμενος τοῦ πολλοῦ [561b] θορύβου παρελθόντος μέρη τε καταδέξηται τῶν ἐκπεσόντων καὶ τοῖς ἐπεισελθοῦσι μὴ ὅλον ἑαυτὸν ἐνδῷ, εἰς ἴσον δή τι καταστήσας τὰς ἡδονὰς διάγει, τῇ παραπιπτούσῃ ἀεὶ ὥσπερ λαχούσῃ τὴν ἑαυτοῦ ἀρχὴν παραδιδοὺς ἕως ἂν πληρωθῇ, καὶ αὖθις ἄλλῃ, οὐδεμίαν ἀτιμάζων ἀλλʼ ἐξ ἴσου τρέφων.
πάνυ μὲν οὖν.
καὶ λόγον γε, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἀληθῆ οὐ προσδεχόμενος οὐδὲ παριεὶς εἰς τὸ φρούριον, ἐάν τις λέγῃ ὡς αἱ μέν εἰσι τῶν [561c] καλῶν τε καὶ ἀγαθῶν ἐπιθυμιῶν ἡδοναί, αἱ δὲ τῶν πονηρῶν, καὶ τὰς μὲν χρὴ ἐπιτηδεύειν καὶ τιμᾶν, τὰς δὲ κολάζειν τε καὶ δουλοῦσθαι· ἀλλʼ ἐν πᾶσι τούτοις ἀνανεύει τε καὶ ὁμοίας φησὶν ἁπάσας εἶναι καὶ τιμητέας ἐξ ἴσου.
σφόδρα γάρ, ἔφη, οὕτω διακείμενος τοῦτο δρᾷ.
οὐκοῦν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καὶ διαζῇ τὸ καθʼ ἡμέραν οὕτω χαριζόμενος τῇ προσπιπτούσῃ ἐπιθυμίᾳ, τοτὲ μὲν μεθύων καὶ καταυλούμενος, αὖθις δὲ ὑδροποτῶν καὶ κατισχναινόμενος, [561d] τοτὲ δʼ αὖ γυμναζόμενος, ἔστιν δʼ ὅτε ἀργῶν καὶ πάντων ἀμελῶν, τοτὲ δʼ ὡς ἐν φιλοσοφίᾳ διατρίβων. πολλάκις δὲ πολιτεύεται, καὶ ἀναπηδῶν ὅτι ἂν τύχῃ λέγει τε καὶ πράττει· κἄν ποτέ τινας πολεμικοὺς ζηλώσῃ, ταύτῃ φέρεται, ἢ χρηματιστικούς, ἐπὶ τοῦτʼ αὖ. καὶ οὔτε τις τάξις οὔτε ἀνάγκη ἔπεστιν αὐτοῦ τῷ βίῳ, ἀλλʼ ἡδύν τε δὴ καὶ ἐλευθέριον καὶ μακάριον καλῶν τὸν βίον τοῦτον χρῆται αὐτῷ διὰ παντός. [561e]
παντάπασιν, ἦ δʼ ὅς, διελήλυθας βίον ἰσονομικοῦ τινος ἀνδρός.
οἶμαι δέ γε, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καὶ παντοδαπόν τε καὶ πλείστων ἠθῶν μεστόν, καὶ τὸν καλόν τε καὶ ποικίλον, ὥσπερ ἐκείνην τὴν πόλιν, τοῦτον τὸν ἄνδρα εἶναι· ὃν πολλοὶ ἂν καὶ πολλαὶ ζηλώσειαν τοῦ βίου, παραδείγματα πολιτειῶν τε καὶ τρόπων πλεῖστα ἐν αὐτῷ ἔχοντα.
οὗτος γάρ, ἔφη, ἔστιν.

[562a]
τί οὖν; τετάχθω ἡμῖν κατὰ δημοκρατίαν ὁ τοιοῦτος ἀνήρ, ὡς δημοκρατικὸς ὀρθῶς ἂν προσαγορευόμενος;
τετάχθω, ἔφη.
ἡ καλλίστη δή, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, πολιτεία τε καὶ ὁ κάλλιστος ἀνὴρ λοιπὰ ἂν ἡμῖν εἴη διελθεῖν, τυραννίς τε καὶ τύραννος.
κομιδῇ γʼ, ἔφη.
φέρε δή, τίς τρόπος τυραννίδος, ὦ φίλε ἑταῖρε, γίγνεται; ὅτι μὲν γὰρ ἐκ δημοκρατίας μεταβάλλει σχεδὸν δῆλον.
δῆλον.
ἆρʼ οὖν τρόπον τινὰ τὸν αὐτὸν ἔκ τε ὀλιγαρχίας δημοκρατία [562b] γίγνεται καὶ ἐκ δημοκρατίας τυραννίς;
πῶς;
ὃ προύθεντο, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἀγαθόν, καὶ διʼ ὃ ἡ ὀλιγαρχία καθίστατο—τοῦτο δʼ ἦν [ὑπερ]πλοῦτος· ἦ γάρ; —
ναί.
ἡ πλούτου τοίνυν ἀπληστία καὶ ἡ τῶν ἄλλων ἀμέλεια διὰ χρηματισμὸν αὐτὴν ἀπώλλυ.
ἀληθῆ, ἔφη.
ἆρʼ οὖν καὶ ὃ δημοκρατία ὁρίζεται ἀγαθόν, ἡ τούτου ἀπληστία καὶ ταύτην καταλύει;
λέγεις δʼ αὐτὴν τί ὁρίζεσθαι;
τὴν ἐλευθερίαν, εἶπον. τοῦτο γάρ που ἐν δημοκρατουμένῃ [562c] πόλει ἀκούσαις ἂν ὡς ἔχει τε κάλλιστον καὶ διὰ ταῦτα ἐν μόνῃ ταύτῃ ἄξιον οἰκεῖν ὅστις φύσει ἐλεύθερος.
λέγεται γὰρ δή, ἔφη, καὶ πολὺ τοῦτο τὸ ῥῆμα.
ἆρʼ οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὅπερ ᾖα νυνδὴ ἐρῶν, ἡ τοῦ τοιούτου ἀπληστία καὶ ἡ τῶν ἄλλων ἀμέλεια καὶ ταύτην τὴν πολιτείαν μεθίστησίν τε καὶ παρασκευάζει τυραννίδος δεηθῆναι;
πῶς; ἔφη.
ὅταν οἶμαι δημοκρατουμένη πόλις ἐλευθερίας διψήσασα [562d] κακῶν οἰνοχόων προστατούντων τύχῃ, καὶ πορρωτέρω τοῦ δέοντος ἀκράτου αὐτῆς μεθυσθῇ, τοὺς ἄρχοντας δή, ἂν μὴ πάνυ πρᾷοι ὦσι καὶ πολλὴν παρέχωσι τὴν ἐλευθερίαν, κολάζει αἰτιωμένη ὡς μιαρούς τε καὶ ὀλιγαρχικούς.
δρῶσιν γάρ, ἔφη, τοῦτο.
τοὺς δέ γε, εἶπον, τῶν ἀρχόντων κατηκόους προπηλακίζει ὡς ἐθελοδούλους τε καὶ οὐδὲν ὄντας, τοὺς δὲ ἄρχοντας μὲν ἀρχομένοις, ἀρχομένους δὲ ἄρχουσιν ὁμοίους ἰδίᾳ τε καὶ δημοσίᾳ ἐπαινεῖ τε καὶ τιμᾷ. ἆρʼ οὐκ ἀνάγκη ἐν τοιαύτῃ [562e] πόλει ἐπὶ πᾶν τὸ τῆς ἐλευθερίας ἰέναι;
πῶς γὰρ οὔ;
καὶ καταδύεσθαί γε, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὦ φίλε, εἴς τε τὰς ἰδίας οἰκίας καὶ τελευτᾶν μέχρι τῶν θηρίων τὴν ἀναρχίαν ἐμφυομένην.
πῶς, ἦ δʼ ὅς, τὸ τοιοῦτον λέγομεν;
οἷον, ἔφην, πατέρα μὲν ἐθίζεσθαι παιδὶ ὅμοιον γίγνεσθαι καὶ φοβεῖσθαι τοὺς ὑεῖς, ὑὸν δὲ πατρί, καὶ μήτε αἰσχύνεσθαι μήτε δεδιέναι τοὺς γονέας, ἵνα δὴ ἐλεύθερος ᾖ· μέτοικον δὲ

[563a]
ἀστῷ καὶ ἀστὸν μετοίκῳ ἐξισοῦσθαι, καὶ ξένον ὡσαύτως.
γίγνεται γὰρ οὕτως, ἔφη.
ταῦτά τε, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καὶ σμικρὰ τοιάδε ἄλλα γίγνεται· διδάσκαλός τε ἐν τῷ τοιούτῳ φοιτητὰς φοβεῖται καὶ θωπεύει, φοιτηταί τε διδασκάλων ὀλιγωροῦσιν, οὕτω δὲ καὶ παιδαγωγῶν· καὶ ὅλως οἱ μὲν νέοι πρεσβυτέροις ἀπεικάζονται καὶ διαμιλλῶνται καὶ ἐν λόγοις καὶ ἐν ἔργοις, οἱ δὲ γέροντες συγκαθιέντες τοῖς νέοις εὐτραπελίας τε καὶ χαριεντισμοῦ [563b] ἐμπίμπλανται, μιμούμενοι τοὺς νέους, ἵνα δὴ μὴ δοκῶσιν ἀηδεῖς εἶναι μηδὲ δεσποτικοί.
πάνυ μὲν οὖν, ἔφη.
τὸ δέ γε, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἔσχατον, ὦ φίλε, τῆς ἐλευθερίας τοῦ πλήθους, ὅσον γίγνεται ἐν τῇ τοιαύτῃ πόλει, ὅταν δὴ οἱ ἐωνημένοι καὶ αἱ ἐωνημέναι μηδὲν ἧττον ἐλεύθεροι ὦσι τῶν πριαμένων. ἐν γυναιξὶ δὲ πρὸς ἄνδρας καὶ ἀνδράσι πρὸς γυναῖκας ὅση ἡ ἰσονομία καὶ ἐλευθερία γίγνεται, ὀλίγου ἐπελαθόμεθʼ εἰπεῖν. [563c]
οὐκοῦν κατʼ Αἰσχύλον, ἔφη, ἐροῦμεν ὅτι νῦν ἦλθʼ ἐπὶ στόμα;
πάνυ γε, εἶπον· καὶ ἔγωγε οὕτω λέγω· τὸ μὲν γὰρ τῶν θηρίων τῶν ὑπὸ τοῖς ἀνθρώποις ὅσῳ ἐλευθερώτερά ἐστιν ἐνταῦθα ἢ ἐν ἄλλῃ, οὐκ ἄν τις πείθοιτο ἄπειρος. ἀτεχνῶς γὰρ αἵ τε κύνες κατὰ τὴν παροιμίαν οἷαίπερ αἱ δέσποιναι γίγνονταί τε δὴ καὶ ἵπποι καὶ ὄνοι, πάνυ ἐλευθέρως καὶ σεμνῶς εἰθισμένοι πορεύεσθαι, κατὰ τὰς ὁδοὺς ἐμβάλλοντες τῷ ἀεὶ ἀπαντῶντι, ἐὰν μὴ ἐξίστηται, καὶ τἆλλα πάντα οὕτω [563d] μεστὰ ἐλευθερίας γίγνεται.
τὸ ἐμόν γʼ, ἔφη, ἐμοὶ λέγεις ὄναρ· αὐτὸς γὰρ εἰς ἀγρὸν πορευόμενος θαμὰ αὐτὸ πάσχω.
τὸ δὲ δὴ κεφάλαιον, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, πάντων τούτων συνηθροισμένων, ἐννοεῖς ὡς ἁπαλὴν τὴν ψυχὴν τῶν πολιτῶν ποιεῖ, ὥστε κἂν ὁτιοῦν δουλείας τις προσφέρηται, ἀγανακτεῖν καὶ μὴ ἀνέχεσθαι; τελευτῶντες γάρ που οἶσθʼ ὅτι οὐδὲ τῶν νόμων φροντίζουσιν γεγραμμένων ἢ ἀγράφων, ἵνα δὴ μηδαμῇ [563e] μηδεὶς αὐτοῖς ᾖ δεσπότης.
καὶ μάλʼ, ἔφη, οἶδα.
αὕτη μὲν τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὦ φίλε, ἡ ἀρχὴ οὑτωσὶ καλὴ καὶ νεανική, ὅθεν τυραννὶς φύεται, ὡς ἐμοὶ δοκεῖ.
νεανικὴ δῆτα, ἔφη· ἀλλὰ τί τὸ μετὰ τοῦτο;
ταὐτόν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὅπερ ἐν τῇ ὀλιγαρχίᾳ νόσημα ἐγγενόμενον ἀπώλεσεν αὐτήν, τοῦτο καὶ ἐν ταύτῃ πλέον τε καὶ ἰσχυρότερον ἐκ τῆς ἐξουσίας ἐγγενόμενον καταδουλοῦται δημοκρατίαν. καὶ τῷ ὄντι τὸ ἄγαν τι ποιεῖν μεγάλην φιλεῖ εἰς τοὐναντίον μεταβολὴν ἀνταποδιδόναι, ἐν ὥραις τε καὶ ἐν

[564a]
φυτοῖς καὶ ἐν σώμασιν, καὶ δὴ καὶ ἐν πολιτείαις οὐχ ἥκιστα.
εἰκός, ἔφη.
ἡ γὰρ ἄγαν ἐλευθερία ἔοικεν οὐκ εἰς ἄλλο τι ἢ εἰς ἄγαν δουλείαν μεταβάλλειν καὶ ἰδιώτῃ καὶ πόλει.
εἰκὸς γάρ.
εἰκότως τοίνυν, εἶπον, οὐκ ἐξ ἄλλης πολιτείας τυραννὶς καθίσταται ἢ ἐκ δημοκρατίας, ἐξ οἶμαι τῆς ἀκροτάτης ἐλευθερίας δουλεία πλείστη τε καὶ ἀγριωτάτη.
ἔχει γάρ, ἔφη, λόγον.
ἀλλʼ οὐ τοῦτʼ οἶμαι, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἠρώτας, ἀλλὰ ποῖον [564b] νόσημα ἐν ὀλιγαρχίᾳ τε φυόμενον ταὐτὸν καὶ ἐν δημοκρατίᾳ δουλοῦται αὐτήν.
ἀληθῆ, ἔφη, λέγεις.
ἐκεῖνο τοίνυν, ἔφην, ἔλεγον τὸ τῶν ἀργῶν τε καὶ δαπανηρῶν ἀνδρῶν γένος, τὸ μὲν ἀνδρειότατον ἡγούμενον αὐτῶν, τὸ δʼ ἀνανδρότερον ἑπόμενον· οὓς δὴ ἀφομοιοῦμεν κηφῆσι, τοὺς μὲν κέντρα ἔχουσι, τοὺς δὲ ἀκέντροις.
καὶ ὀρθῶς γʼ, ἔφη.
τούτω τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ταράττετον ἐν πάσῃ πολιτείᾳ ἐγγιγνομένω, οἷον περὶ σῶμα φλέγμα τε καὶ χολή· ὣ δὴ καὶ [564c] δεῖ τὸν ἀγαθὸν ἰατρόν τε καὶ νομοθέτην πόλεως μὴ ἧττον ἢ σοφὸν μελιττουργὸν πόρρωθεν εὐλαβεῖσθαι, μάλιστα μὲν ὅπως μὴ ἐγγενήσεσθον, ἂν δὲ ἐγγένησθον, ὅπως ὅτι τάχιστα σὺν αὐτοῖσι τοῖς κηρίοις ἐκτετμήσεσθον.
ναὶ μὰ Δία, ἦ δʼ ὅς, παντάπασί γε.
ὧδε τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, λάβωμεν, ἵνʼ εὐκρινέστερον ἴδωμεν ὃ βουλόμεθα.
πῶς;
τριχῇ διαστησώμεθα τῷ λόγῳ δημοκρατουμένην πόλιν, [564d] ὥσπερ οὖν καὶ ἔχει. ἓν μὲν γάρ που τὸ τοιοῦτον γένος ἐν αὐτῇ ἐμφύεται διʼ ἐξουσίαν οὐκ ἔλαττον ἢ ἐν τῇ ὀλιγαρχουμένῃ.
ἔστιν οὕτω.
πολὺ δέ γε δριμύτερον ἐν ταύτῃ ἢ ἐν ἐκείνῃ.
πῶς;
ἐκεῖ μὲν διὰ τὸ μὴ ἔντιμον εἶναι, ἀλλʼ ἀπελαύνεσθαι τῶν ἀρχῶν, ἀγύμναστον καὶ οὐκ ἐρρωμένον γίγνεται· ἐν δημοκρατίᾳ δὲ τοῦτό που τὸ προεστὸς αὐτῆς, ἐκτὸς ὀλίγων, καὶ τὸ μὲν δριμύτατον αὐτοῦ λέγει τε καὶ πράττει, τὸ δʼ ἄλλο περὶ τὰ βήματα προσίζον βομβεῖ τε καὶ οὐκ ἀνέχεται τοῦ [564e] ἄλλα λέγοντος, ὥστε πάντα ὑπὸ τοῦ τοιούτου διοικεῖται ἐν τῇ τοιαύτῃ πολιτείᾳ χωρίς τινων ὀλίγων.
μάλα γε, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
ἄλλο τοίνυν τοιόνδε ἀεὶ ἀποκρίνεται ἐκ τοῦ πλήθους.
τὸ ποῖον;
χρηματιζομένων που πάντων, οἱ κοσμιώτατοι φύσει ὡς τὸ πολὺ πλουσιώτατοι γίγνονται.
εἰκός.
πλεῖστον δὴ οἶμαι τοῖς κηφῆσι μέλι καὶ εὐπορώτατον ἐντεῦθεν βλίττει.
πῶς γὰρ ἄν, ἔφη, παρά γε τῶν σμικρὰ ἐχόντων τις βλίσειεν;
πλούσιοι δὴ οἶμαι οἱ τοιοῦτοι καλοῦνται κηφήνων βοτάνη.
σχεδόν τι, ἔφη.

[565a]
δῆμος δʼ ἂν εἴη τρίτον γένος, ὅσοι αὐτουργοί τε καὶ ἀπράγμονες, οὐ πάνυ πολλὰ κεκτημένοι· ὃ δὴ πλεῖστόν τε καὶ κυριώτατον ἐν δημοκρατίᾳ ὅτανπερ ἁθροισθῇ.
ἔστιν γάρ, ἔφη· ἀλλʼ οὐ θαμὰ ἐθέλει ποιεῖν τοῦτο, ἐὰν μὴ μέλιτός τι μεταλαμβάνῃ.
οὐκοῦν μεταλαμβάνει, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἀεί, καθʼ ὅσον δύνανται οἱ προεστῶτες, τοὺς ἔχοντας τὴν οὐσίαν ἀφαιρούμενοι, διανέμοντες τῷ δήμῳ, τὸ πλεῖστον αὐτοὶ ἔχειν. [565b]
μεταλαμβάνει γὰρ οὖν, ἦ δʼ ὅς, οὕτως.
ἀναγκάζονται δὴ οἶμαι ἀμύνεσθαι, λέγοντές τε ἐν τῷ δήμῳ καὶ πράττοντες ὅπῃ δύνανται, οὗτοι ὧν ἀφαιροῦνται.
πῶς γὰρ οὔ;
αἰτίαν δὴ ἔσχον ὑπὸ τῶν ἑτέρων, κἂν μὴ ἐπιθυμῶσι νεωτερίζειν, ὡς ἐπιβουλεύουσι τῷ δήμῳ καί εἰσιν ὀλιγαρχικοί.
τί μήν;
οὐκοῦν καὶ τελευτῶντες, ἐπειδὰν ὁρῶσι τὸν δῆμον, οὐχ ἑκόντα ἀλλʼ ἀγνοήσαντά τε καὶ ἐξαπατηθέντα ὑπὸ τῶν [565c] διαβαλλόντων, ἐπιχειροῦντα σφᾶς ἀδικεῖν, τότʼ ἤδη, εἴτε βούλονται εἴτε μή, ὡς ἀληθῶς ὀλιγαρχικοὶ γίγνονται, οὐχ ἑκόντες, ἀλλὰ καὶ τοῦτο τὸ κακὸν ἐκεῖνος ὁ κηφὴν ἐντίκτει κεντῶν αὐτούς.
κομιδῇ μὲν οὖν.
εἰσαγγελίαι δὴ καὶ κρίσεις καὶ ἀγῶνες περὶ ἀλλήλων γίγνονται.
καὶ μάλα.
οὐκοῦν ἕνα τινὰ ἀεὶ δῆμος εἴωθεν διαφερόντως προΐστασθαι ἑαυτοῦ, καὶ τοῦτον τρέφειν τε καὶ αὔξειν μέγαν;
εἴωθε γάρ. [565d]
τοῦτο μὲν ἄρα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, δῆλον, ὅτι, ὅτανπερ φύηται τύραννος, ἐκ προστατικῆς ῥίζης καὶ οὐκ ἄλλοθεν ἐκβλαστάνει.
καὶ μάλα δῆλον.
τίς ἀρχὴ οὖν μεταβολῆς ἐκ προστάτου ἐπὶ τύραννον; ἢ δῆλον ὅτι ἐπειδὰν ταὐτὸν ἄρξηται δρᾶν ὁ προστάτης τῷ ἐν τῷ μύθῳ ὃς περὶ τὸ ἐν Ἀρκαδίᾳ τὸ τοῦ Διὸς τοῦ Λυκαίου ἱερὸν λέγεται;
τίς; ἔφη.
ὡς ἄρα ὁ γευσάμενος τοῦ ἀνθρωπίνου σπλάγχνου, ἐν ἄλλοις ἄλλων ἱερείων ἑνὸς ἐγκατατετμημένου, ἀνάγκη δὴ [565e] τούτῳ λύκῳ γενέσθαι. ἢ οὐκ ἀκήκοας τὸν λόγον;
ἔγωγε.
ἆρʼ οὖν οὕτω καὶ ὃς ἂν δήμου προεστώς, λαβὼν σφόδρα πειθόμενον ὄχλον, μὴ ἀπόσχηται ἐμφυλίου αἵματος, ἀλλʼ ἀδίκως ἐπαιτιώμενος, οἷα δὴ φιλοῦσιν, εἰς δικαστήρια ἄγων μιαιφονῇ, βίον ἀνδρὸς ἀφανίζων, γλώττῃ τε καὶ στόματι ἀνοσίῳ γευόμενος φόνου συγγενοῦς, καὶ ἀνδρηλατῇ καὶ

[566a]
ἀποκτεινύῃ καὶ ὑποσημαίνῃ χρεῶν τε ἀποκοπὰς καὶ γῆς ἀναδασμόν, ἆρα τῷ τοιούτῳ ἀνάγκη δὴ τὸ μετὰ τοῦτο καὶ εἵμαρται ἢ ἀπολωλέναι ὑπὸ τῶν ἐχθρῶν ἢ τυραννεῖν καὶ λύκῳ ἐξ ἀνθρώπου γενέσθαι;
πολλὴ ἀνάγκη, ἔφη.
οὗτος δή, ἔφην, ὁ στασιάζων γίγνεται πρὸς τοὺς ἔχοντας τὰς οὐσίας.
οὗτος.
ἆρʼ οὖν ἐκπεσὼν μὲν καὶ κατελθὼν βίᾳ τῶν ἐχθρῶν τύραννος ἀπειργασμένος κατέρχεται;
δῆλον. [566b]
ἐὰν δὲ ἀδύνατοι ἐκβάλλειν αὐτὸν ὦσιν ἢ ἀποκτεῖναι διαβάλλοντες τῇ πόλει, βιαίῳ δὴ θανάτῳ ἐπιβουλεύουσιν ἀποκτεινύναι λάθρᾳ.
φιλεῖ γοῦν, ἦ δʼ ὅς, οὕτω γίγνεσθαι.
τὸ δὴ τυραννικὸν αἴτημα τὸ πολυθρύλητον ἐπὶ τούτῳ πάντες οἱ εἰς τοῦτο προβεβηκότες ἐξευρίσκουσιν, αἰτεῖν τὸν δῆμον φύλακάς τινας τοῦ σώματος, ἵνα σῶς αὐτοῖς ᾖ ὁ τοῦ δήμου βοηθός.
καὶ μάλʼ, ἔφη.
διδόασι δὴ οἶμαι δείσαντες μὲν ὑπὲρ ἐκείνου, θαρρήσαντες δὲ ὑπὲρ ἑαυτῶν. [566c]
καὶ μάλα.
οὐκοῦν τοῦτο ὅταν ἴδῃ ἀνὴρ χρήματα ἔχων καὶ μετὰ τῶν χρημάτων αἰτίαν μισόδημος εἶναι, τότε δὴ οὗτος, ὦ ἑταῖρε, κατὰ τὸν Κροίσῳ γενόμενον χρησμὸν—
πολυψήφιδα παρʼ Ἕρμον
φεύγει, οὐδὲ μένει, οὐδʼ αἰδεῖται κακὸς εἶναι.
οὐ γὰρ ἄν, ἔφη, δεύτερον αὖθις αἰδεσθείη.
ὁ δέ γε οἶμαι, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καταληφθεὶς θανάτῳ δίδοται.
ἀνάγκη.
ὁ δὲ δὴ προστάτης ἐκεῖνος αὐτὸς δῆλον δὴ ὅτι μέγας [566d] μεγαλωστὶ οὐ κεῖται, ἀλλὰ καταβαλὼν ἄλλους πολλοὺς ἕστηκεν ἐν τῷ δίφρῳ τῆς πόλεως, τύραννος ἀντὶ προστάτου ἀποτετελεσμένος.
τί δʼ οὐ μέλλει; ἔφη.
διέλθωμεν δὴ τὴν εὐδαιμονίαν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τοῦ τε ἀνδρὸς καὶ τῆς πόλεως, ἐν ᾗ ἂν ὁ τοιοῦτος βροτὸς ἐγγένηται;
πάνυ μὲν οὖν, ἔφη, διέλθωμεν.
ἆρʼ οὖν, εἶπον, οὐ ταῖς μὲν πρώταις ἡμέραις τε καὶ χρόνῳ προσγελᾷ τε καὶ ἀσπάζεται πάντας, ᾧ ἂν περιτυγχάνῃ, καὶ [566e] οὔτε τύραννός φησιν εἶναι ὑπισχνεῖταί τε πολλὰ καὶ ἰδίᾳ καὶ δημοσίᾳ, χρεῶν τε ἠλευθέρωσε καὶ γῆν διένειμε δήμῳ τε καὶ τοῖς περὶ ἑαυτὸν καὶ πᾶσιν ἵλεώς τε καὶ πρᾷος εἶναι προσποιεῖται;
ἀνάγκη, ἔφη.
ὅταν δέ γε οἶμαι πρὸς τοὺς ἔξω ἐχθροὺς τοῖς μὲν καταλλαγῇ, τοὺς δὲ καὶ διαφθείρῃ, καὶ ἡσυχία ἐκείνων γένηται, πρῶτον μὲν πολέμους τινὰς ἀεὶ κινεῖ, ἵνʼ ἐν χρείᾳ ἡγεμόνος ὁ δῆμος ᾖ.
εἰκός γε.

[567a]
οὐκοῦν καὶ ἵνα χρήματα εἰσφέροντες πένητες γιγνόμενοι πρὸς τῷ καθʼ ἡμέραν ἀναγκάζωνται εἶναι καὶ ἧττον αὐτῷ ἐπιβουλεύωσι;
δῆλον.
καὶ ἄν γέ τινας οἶμαι ὑποπτεύῃ ἐλεύθερα φρονήματα ἔχοντας μὴ ἐπιτρέψειν αὐτῷ ἄρχειν, ὅπως ἂν τούτους μετὰ προφάσεως ἀπολλύῃ ἐνδοὺς τοῖς πολεμίοις; τούτων πάντων ἕνεκα τυράννῳ ἀεὶ ἀνάγκη πόλεμον ταράττειν;
ἀνάγκη.
ταῦτα δὴ ποιοῦντα ἕτοιμον μᾶλλον ἀπεχθάνεσθαι τοῖς [567b] πολίταις;
πῶς γὰρ οὔ;
οὐκοῦν καί τινας τῶν συγκαταστησάντων καὶ ἐν δυνάμει ὄντων παρρησιάζεσθαι καὶ πρὸς αὐτὸν καὶ πρὸς ἀλλήλους, ἐπιπλήττοντας τοῖς γιγνομένοις, οἳ ἂν τυγχάνωσιν ἀνδρικώτατοι ὄντες;
εἰκός γε.
ὑπεξαιρεῖν δὴ τούτους πάντας δεῖ τὸν τύραννον, εἰ μέλλει ἄρξειν, ἕως ἂν μήτε φίλων μήτʼ ἐχθρῶν λίπῃ μηδένα ὅτου τι ὄφελος.
δῆλον.
ὀξέως ἄρα δεῖ ὁρᾶν αὐτὸν τίς ἀνδρεῖος, τίς μεγαλόφρων, [567c] τίς φρόνιμος, τίς πλούσιος· καὶ οὕτως εὐδαίμων ἐστίν, ὥστε τούτοις ἅπασιν ἀνάγκη αὐτῷ, εἴτε βούλεται εἴτε μή, πολεμίῳ εἶναι καὶ ἐπιβουλεύειν, ἕως ἂν καθήρῃ τὴν πόλιν.
καλόν γε, ἔφη, καθαρμόν.
ναί, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τὸν ἐναντίον ἢ οἱ ἰατροὶ τὰ σώματα· οἱ μὲν γὰρ τὸ χείριστον ἀφαιροῦντες λείπουσι τὸ βέλτιστον, ὁ δὲ τοὐναντίον.
ὡς ἔοικε γάρ, αὐτῷ, ἔφη, ἀνάγκη, εἴπερ ἄρξει. [567d]
ἐν μακαρίᾳ ἄρα, εἶπον ἐγώ, ἀνάγκῃ δέδεται, ἣ προστάττει αὐτῷ ἢ μετὰ φαύλων τῶν πολλῶν οἰκεῖν, καὶ ὑπὸ τούτων μισούμενον, ἢ μὴ ζῆν.
ἐν τοιαύτῃ, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
ἆρʼ οὖν οὐχὶ ὅσῳ ἂν μᾶλλον τοῖς πολίταις ἀπεχθάνηται ταῦτα δρῶν, τοσούτῳ πλειόνων καὶ πιστοτέρων δορυφόρων δεήσεται;
πῶς γὰρ οὔ;
τίνες οὖν οἱ πιστοί; καὶ πόθεν αὐτοὺς μεταπέμψεται;
αὐτόματοι, ἔφη, πολλοὶ ἥξουσι πετόμενοι, ἐὰν τὸν μισθὸν διδῷ.
κηφῆνας, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, νὴ τὸν κύνα, δοκεῖς αὖ τινάς μοι [567e] λέγειν ξενικούς τε καὶ παντοδαπούς.
ἀληθῆ γάρ, ἔφη, δοκῶ σοι.
τίς δὲ αὐτόθεν; ἆρʼ οὐκ ἂν ἐθελήσειεν—
πῶς;
τοὺς δούλους ἀφελόμενος τοὺς πολίτας, ἐλευθερώσας, τῶν περὶ ἑαυτὸν δορυφόρων ποιήσασθαι.
σφόδρα γʼ, ἔφη· ἐπεί τοι καὶ πιστότατοι αὐτῷ οὗτοί εἰσιν.
ἦ μακάριον, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, λέγεις τυράννου χρῆμα, εἰ τοιούτοις

### Book VIII, 568–569

[568a]
φίλοις τε καὶ πιστοῖς ἀνδράσι χρῆται, τοὺς προτέρους ἐκείνους ἀπολέσας.
ἀλλὰ μήν, ἔφη, τοιούτοις γε χρῆται.
καὶ θαυμάζουσι δή, εἶπον, οὗτοι οἱ ἑταῖροι αὐτὸν καὶ σύνεισιν οἱ νέοι πολῖται, οἱ δʼ ἐπιεικεῖς μισοῦσί τε καὶ φεύγουσι;
τί δʼ οὐ μέλλουσιν;
οὐκ ἐτός, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἥ τε τραγῳδία ὅλως σοφὸν δοκεῖ εἶναι καὶ ὁ Εὐριπίδης διαφέρων ἐν αὐτῇ.
τί δή;
ὅτι καὶ τοῦτο πυκνῆς διανοίας ἐχόμενον ἐφθέγξατο, ὡς [568b] ἄρα σοφοὶ τύραννοί εἰσι τῶν σοφῶν συνουσίᾳ. καὶ ἔλεγε δῆλον ὅτι τούτους εἶναι τοὺς σοφοὺς οἷς σύνεστιν.
καὶ ὡς ἰσόθεόν γʼ, ἔφη, τὴν τυραννίδα ἐγκωμιάζει, καὶ ἕτερα πολλά, καὶ οὗτος καὶ οἱ ἄλλοι ποιηταί.
τοιγάρτοι, ἔφην, ἅτε σοφοὶ ὄντες οἱ τῆς τραγῳδίας ποιηταὶ συγγιγνώσκουσιν ἡμῖν τε καὶ ἐκείνοις ὅσοι ἡμῶν ἐγγὺς πολιτεύονται, ὅτι αὐτοὺς εἰς τὴν πολιτείαν οὐ παραδεξόμεθα ἅτε τυραννίδος ὑμνητάς.
οἶμαι ἔγωγʼ, ἔφη, συγγιγνώσκουσιν ὅσοιπέρ γε αὐτῶν [568c] κομψοί.
εἰς δέ γε οἶμαι τὰς ἄλλας περιιόντες πόλεις, συλλέγοντες τοὺς ὄχλους, καλὰς φωνὰς καὶ μεγάλας καὶ πιθανὰς μισθωσάμενοι, εἰς τυραννίδας τε καὶ δημοκρατίας ἕλκουσι τὰς πολιτείας.
μάλα γε.
οὐκοῦν καὶ προσέτι τούτων μισθοὺς λαμβάνουσι καὶ τιμῶνται, μάλιστα μέν, ὥσπερ τὸ εἰκός, ὑπὸ τυράννων, δεύτερον δὲ ὑπὸ δημοκρατίας· ὅσῳ δʼ ἂν ἀνωτέρω ἴωσιν πρὸς [568d] τὸ ἄναντες τῶν πολιτειῶν, μᾶλλον ἀπαγορεύει αὐτῶν ἡ τιμή, ὥσπερ ὑπὸ ἄσθματος ἀδυνατοῦσα πορεύεσθαι.
πάνυ μὲν οὖν.
ἀλλὰ δή, εἶπον, ἐνταῦθα μὲν ἐξέβημεν· λέγωμεν δὲ πάλιν ἐκεῖνο τὸ τοῦ τυράννου στρατόπεδον, τὸ καλόν τε καὶ πολὺ καὶ ποικίλον καὶ οὐδέποτε ταὐτόν, πόθεν θρέψεται.
δῆλον, ἔφη, ὅτι, ἐάν τε ἱερὰ χρήματα ᾖ ἐν τῇ πόλει, ταῦτα ἀναλώσει, ὅποι ποτὲ ἂν ἀεὶ ἐξαρκῇ τὰ τῶν ἀποδομένων, ἐλάττους εἰσφορὰς ἀναγκάζων τὸν δῆμον εἰσφέρειν. [568e]
τί δʼ ὅταν δὴ ταῦτα ἐπιλίπῃ;
δῆλον, ἔφη, ὅτι ἐκ τῶν πατρῴων θρέψεται αὐτός τε καὶ οἱ συμπόται τε καὶ ἑταῖροι καὶ ἑταῖραι.
μανθάνω, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ· ὅτι ὁ δῆμος ὁ γεννήσας τὸν τύραννον θρέψει αὐτόν τε καὶ ἑταίρους.
πολλὴ αὐτῷ, ἔφη, ἀνάγκη.
πῶς [δὲ] λέγεις; εἶπον· ἐὰν δὲ ἀγανακτῇ τε καὶ λέγῃ ὁ δῆμος ὅτι οὔτε δίκαιον τρέφεσθαι ὑπὸ πατρὸς ὑὸν ἡβῶντα, ἀλλὰ τοὐναντίον ὑπὸ ὑέος πατέρα, οὔτε τούτου αὐτὸν ἕνεκα

[569a]
ἐγέννησέν τε καὶ κατέστησεν, ἵνα, ἐπειδὴ μέγας γένοιτο, τότε αὐτὸς δουλεύων τοῖς αὑτοῦ δούλοις τρέφοι ἐκεῖνόν τε καὶ τοὺς δούλους μετὰ συγκλύδων ἄλλων, ἀλλʼ ἵνα ἀπὸ τῶν πλουσίων τε καὶ καλῶν κἀγαθῶν λεγομένων ἐν τῇ πόλει ἐλευθερωθείη ἐκείνου προστάντος, καὶ νῦν κελεύει ἀπιέναι ἐκ τῆς πόλεως αὐτόν τε καὶ τοὺς ἑταίρους, ὥσπερ πατὴρ ὑὸν ἐξ οἰκίας μετὰ ὀχληρῶν συμποτῶν ἐξελαύνων;
γνώσεταί γε, νὴ Δία, ἦ δʼ ὅς, τότʼ ἤδη ὁ δῆμος οἷος οἷον [569b] θρέμμα γεννῶν ἠσπάζετό τε καὶ ηὖξεν, καὶ ὅτι ἀσθενέστερος ὢν ἰσχυροτέρους ἐξελαύνει.
πῶς, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, λέγεις; τολμήσει τὸν πατέρα βιάζεσθαι, κἂν μὴ πείθηται, τύπτειν ὁ τύραννος;
ναί, ἔφη, ἀφελόμενός γε τὰ ὅπλα.
πατραλοίαν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, λέγεις τύραννον καὶ χαλεπὸν γηροτρόφον, καὶ ὡς ἔοικε τοῦτο δὴ ὁμολογουμένη ἂν ἤδη τυραννὶς εἴη, καί, τὸ λεγόμενον, ὁ δῆμος φεύγων ἂν καπνὸν [569c] δουλείας ἐλευθέρων εἰς πῦρ δούλων δεσποτείας ἂν ἐμπεπτωκὼς εἴη, ἀντὶ τῆς πολλῆς ἐκείνης καὶ ἀκαίρου ἐλευθερίας τὴν χαλεπωτάτην τε καὶ πικροτάτην δούλων δουλείαν μεταμπισχόμενος.
καὶ μάλα, ἔφη, ταῦτα οὕτω γίγνεται.
τί οὖν; εἶπον· οὐκ ἐμμελῶς ἡμῖν εἰρήσεται, ἐὰν φῶμεν ἱκανῶς διεληλυθέναι ὡς μεταβαίνει τυραννὶς ἐκ δημοκρατίας, γενομένη τε οἵα ἐστίν;
πάνυ μὲν οὖν ἱκανῶς, ἔφη.

### Book IX, 571–578

[571a]
αὐτὸς δὴ λοιπός, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὁ τυραννικὸς ἀνὴρ σκέψασθαι, πῶς τε μεθίσταται ἐκ δημοκρατικοῦ, γενόμενός τε ποῖός τίς ἐστιν καὶ τίνα τρόπον ζῇ, ἄθλιον ἢ μακάριον.
λοιπὸς γὰρ οὖν ἔτι οὗτος, ἔφη.
οἶσθʼ οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὃ ποθῶ ἔτι;
τὸ ποῖον;
τὸ τῶν ἐπιθυμιῶν, οἷαί τε καὶ ὅσαι εἰσίν, οὔ μοι δοκοῦμεν ἱκανῶς διῃρῆσθαι. τούτου δὴ ἐνδεῶς ἔχοντος, ἀσαφεστέρα [571b] ἔσται ἡ ζήτησις οὗ ζητοῦμεν.
οὐκοῦν, ἦ δʼ ὅς, ἔτʼ ἐν καλῷ;
πάνυ μὲν οὖν· καὶ σκόπει γε ὃ ἐν αὐταῖς βούλομαι ἰδεῖν. ἔστιν δὲ τόδε. τῶν μὴ ἀναγκαίων ἡδονῶν τε καὶ ἐπιθυμιῶν δοκοῦσί τινές μοι εἶναι παράνομοι, αἳ κινδυνεύουσι μὲν ἐγγίγνεσθαι παντί, κολαζόμεναι δὲ ὑπό τε τῶν νόμων καὶ τῶν βελτιόνων ἐπιθυμιῶν μετὰ λόγου ἐνίων μὲν ἀνθρώπων ἢ παντάπασιν ἀπαλλάττεσθαι ἢ ὀλίγαι λείπεσθαι καὶ ἀσθενεῖς, [571c] τῶν δὲ ἰσχυρότεραι καὶ πλείους.
λέγεις δὲ καὶ τίνας, ἔφη, ταύτας;
τὰς περὶ τὸν ὕπνον, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἐγειρομένας, ὅταν τὸ μὲν ἄλλο τῆς ψυχῆς εὕδῃ, ὅσον λογιστικὸν καὶ ἥμερον καὶ ἄρχον ἐκείνου, τὸ δὲ θηριῶδές τε καὶ ἄγριον, ἢ σίτων ἢ μέθης πλησθέν, σκιρτᾷ τε καὶ ἀπωσάμενον τὸν ὕπνον ζητῇ ἰέναι καὶ ἀποπιμπλάναι τὰ αὑτοῦ ἤθη· οἶσθʼ ὅτι πάντα ἐν τῷ τοιούτῳ τολμᾷ ποιεῖν, ὡς ἀπὸ πάσης λελυμένον τε καὶ ἀπηλλαγμένον αἰσχύνης καὶ φρονήσεως. μητρί τε γὰρ ἐπιχειρεῖν [571d] μείγνυσθαι, ὡς οἴεται, οὐδὲν ὀκνεῖ, ἄλλῳ τε ὁτῳοῦν ἀνθρώπων καὶ θεῶν καὶ θηρίων, μιαιφονεῖν τε ὁτιοῦν, βρώματός τε ἀπέχεσθαι μηδενός· καὶ ἑνὶ λόγῳ οὔτε ἀνοίας οὐδὲν ἐλλείπει οὔτʼ ἀναισχυντίας.
ἀληθέστατα, ἔφη, λέγεις.
ὅταν δέ γε οἶμαι ὑγιεινῶς τις ἔχῃ αὐτὸς αὑτοῦ καὶ σωφρόνως, καὶ εἰς τὸν ὕπνον ἴῃ τὸ λογιστικὸν μὲν ἐγείρας ἑαυτοῦ καὶ ἑστιάσας λόγων καλῶν καὶ σκέψεων, εἰς σύννοιαν [571e] αὐτὸς αὑτῷ ἀφικόμενος, τὸ ἐπιθυμητικὸν δὲ μήτε ἐνδείᾳ δοὺς μήτε πλησμονῇ, ὅπως ἂν κοιμηθῇ καὶ μὴ παρέχῃ θόρυβον

[572a]
τῷ βελτίστῳ χαῖρον ἢ λυπούμενον, ἀλλʼ ἐᾷ αὐτὸ καθʼ αὑτὸ μόνον καθαρὸν σκοπεῖν καὶ ὀρέγεσθαί του αἰσθάνεσθαι ὃ μὴ οἶδεν, ἤ τι τῶν γεγονότων ἢ ὄντων ἢ καὶ μελλόντων,
ὡσαύτως δὲ καὶ τὸ θυμοειδὲς πραΰνας καὶ μή τισιν εἰς ὀργὰς ἐλθὼν κεκινημένῳ τῷ θυμῷ καθεύδῃ, ἀλλʼ ἡσυχάσας μὲν τὼ δύο εἴδη, τὸ τρίτον δὲ κινήσας ἐν ᾧ τὸ φρονεῖν ἐγγίγνεται, οὕτως ἀναπαύηται, οἶσθʼ ὅτι τῆς τʼ ἀληθείας ἐν τῷ τοιούτῳ μάλιστα ἅπτεται καὶ ἥκιστα παράνομοι τότε αἱ ὄψεις [572b] φαντάζονται τῶν ἐνυπνίων.
παντελῶς μὲν οὖν, ἔφη, οἶμαι οὕτως.
ταῦτα μὲν τοίνυν ἐπὶ πλέον ἐξήχθημεν εἰπεῖν· ὃ δὲ βουλόμεθα γνῶναι τόδʼ ἐστίν, ὡς ἄρα δεινόν τι καὶ ἄγριον καὶ ἄνομον ἐπιθυμιῶν εἶδος ἑκάστῳ ἔνεστι, καὶ πάνυ δοκοῦσιν ἡμῶν ἐνίοις μετρίοις εἶναι· τοῦτο δὲ ἄρα ἐν τοῖς ὕπνοις γίγνεται ἔνδηλον. εἰ οὖν τι δοκῶ λέγειν καὶ συγχωρεῖς, ἄθρει.
ἀλλὰ συγχωρῶ.
τὸν τοίνυν δημοτικὸν ἀναμνήσθητι οἷον ἔφαμεν εἶναι. [572c] ἦν δέ που γεγονὼς ἐκ νέου ὑπὸ φειδωλῷ πατρὶ τεθραμμένος, τὰς χρηματιστικὰς ἐπιθυμίας τιμῶντι μόνας, τὰς δὲ μὴ ἀναγκαίους ἀλλὰ παιδιᾶς τε καὶ καλλωπισμοῦ ἕνεκα γιγνομένας ἀτιμάζοντι. ἦ γάρ;
ναί.
συγγενόμενος δὲ κομψοτέροις ἀνδράσι καὶ μεστοῖς ὧν ἄρτι διήλθομεν ἐπιθυμιῶν, ὁρμήσας εἰς ὕβριν τε πᾶσαν καὶ τὸ ἐκείνων εἶδος μίσει τῆς τοῦ πατρὸς φειδωλίας, φύσιν δὲ τῶν διαφθειρόντων βελτίω ἔχων, ἀγόμενος ἀμφοτέρωσε [572d] κατέστη εἰς μέσον ἀμφοῖν τοῖν τρόποιν, καὶ μετρίως δή, ὡς ᾤετο, ἑκάστων ἀπολαύων οὔτε ἀνελεύθερον οὔτε παράνομον βίον ζῇ, δημοτικὸς ἐξ ὀλιγαρχικοῦ γεγονώς.
ἦν γάρ, ἔφη, καὶ ἔστιν αὕτη ἡ δόξα περὶ τὸν τοιοῦτον.
θὲς τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, πάλιν τοῦ τοιούτου ἤδη πρεσβυτέρου γεγονότος νέον ὑὸν ἐν τοῖς τούτου αὖ ἤθεσιν τεθραμμένον.
τίθημι.
τίθει τοίνυν καὶ τὰ αὐτὰ ἐκεῖνα περὶ αὐτὸν γιγνόμενα ἅπερ καὶ περὶ τὸν πατέρα αὐτοῦ, ἀγόμενόν τε εἰς πᾶσαν [572e] παρανομίαν, ὀνομαζομένην δʼ ὑπὸ τῶν ἀγόντων ἐλευθερίαν ἅπασαν, βοηθοῦντά τε ταῖς ἐν μέσῳ ταύταις ἐπιθυμίαις πατέρα τε καὶ τοὺς ἄλλους οἰκείους, τοὺς δʼ αὖ παραβοηθοῦντας·
ὅταν δʼ ἐλπίσωσιν οἱ δεινοὶ μάγοι τε καὶ τυραννοποιοὶ οὗτοι μὴ ἄλλως τὸν νέον καθέξειν, ἔρωτά τινα αὐτῷ μηχανωμένους ἐμποιῆσαι προστάτην τῶν ἀργῶν καὶ τὰ

[573a]
ἕτοιμα διανεμομένων ἐπιθυμιῶν, ὑπόπτερον καὶ μέγαν κηφῆνά τινα—ἢ τί ἄλλο οἴει εἶναι τὸν τῶν τοιούτων ἔρωτα; —
οὐδὲν ἔγωγε, ἦ δʼ ὅς, ἄλλʼ ἢ τοῦτο.
οὐκοῦν ὅταν δὴ περὶ αὐτὸν βομβοῦσαι αἱ ἄλλαι ἐπιθυμίαι, θυμιαμάτων τε γέμουσαι καὶ μύρων καὶ στεφάνων καὶ οἴνων καὶ τῶν ἐν ταῖς τοιαύταις συνουσίαις ἡδονῶν ἀνειμένων, ἐπὶ τὸ ἔσχατον αὔξουσαί τε καὶ τρέφουσαι πόθου κέντρον ἐμποιήσωσι τῷ κηφῆνι, τότε δὴ δορυφορεῖταί τε ὑπὸ μανίας καὶ [573b] οἰστρᾷ οὗτος ὁ προστάτης τῆς ψυχῆς, καὶ ἐάν τινας ἐν αὐτῷ δόξας ἢ ἐπιθυμίας λάβῃ ποιουμένας χρηστὰς καὶ ἔτι ἐπαισχυνομένας, ἀποκτείνει τε καὶ ἔξω ὠθεῖ παρʼ αὑτοῦ, ἕως ἂν καθήρῃ σωφροσύνης, μανίας δὲ πληρώσῃ ἐπακτοῦ.
παντελῶς, ἔφη, τυραννικοῦ ἀνδρὸς λέγεις γένεσιν.
ἆρʼ οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καὶ τὸ πάλαι διὰ τὸ τοιοῦτον τύραννος ὁ Ἔρως λέγεται;
κινδυνεύει, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν, ὦ φίλε, εἶπον, καὶ μεθυσθεὶς ἀνὴρ τυραννικόν τι [573c] φρόνημα ἴσχει;
ἴσχει γάρ.
καὶ μὴν ὅ γε μαινόμενος καὶ ὑποκεκινηκὼς οὐ μόνον ἀνθρώπων ἀλλὰ καὶ θεῶν ἐπιχειρεῖ τε καὶ ἐλπίζει δυνατὸς εἶναι ἄρχειν.
καὶ μάλʼ, ἔφη.
τυραννικὸς δέ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὦ δαιμόνιε, ἀνὴρ ἀκριβῶς γίγνεται, ὅταν ἢ φύσει ἢ ἐπιτηδεύμασιν ἢ ἀμφοτέροις μεθυστικός τε καὶ ἐρωτικὸς καὶ μελαγχολικὸς γένηται.
παντελῶς μὲν οὖν.
γίγνεται μέν, ὡς ἔοικεν, οὕτω καὶ τοιοῦτος ἁνήρ· ζῇ δὲ δὴ πῶς; [573d]
τὸ τῶν παιζόντων, ἔφη, τοῦτο σὺ καὶ ἐμοὶ ἐρεῖς.
λέγω δή, ἔφην. οἶμαι γὰρ τὸ μετὰ τοῦτο ἑορταὶ γίγνονται παρʼ αὐτοῖς καὶ κῶμοι καὶ θάλειαι καὶ ἑταῖραι καὶ τὰ τοιαῦτα πάντα, ὧν ἂν Ἔρως τύραννος ἔνδον οἰκῶν διακυβερνᾷ τὰ τῆς ψυχῆς ἅπαντα.
ἀνάγκη, ἔφη.
ἆρʼ οὖν οὐ πολλαὶ καὶ δειναὶ παραβλαστάνουσιν ἐπιθυμίαι ἡμέρας τε καὶ νυκτὸς ἑκάστης, πολλῶν δεόμεναι;
πολλαὶ μέντοι.
ταχὺ ἄρα ἀναλίσκονται ἐάν τινες ὦσι πρόσοδοι.
πῶς δʼ οὔ; [573e]
καὶ μετὰ τοῦτο δὴ δανεισμοὶ καὶ τῆς οὐσίας παραιρέσεις.
τί μήν;
ὅταν δὲ δὴ πάντʼ ἐπιλείπῃ, ἆρα οὐκ ἀνάγκη μὲν τὰς ἐπιθυμίας βοᾶν πυκνάς τε καὶ σφοδρὰς ἐννενεοττευμένας, τοὺς δʼ ὥσπερ ὑπὸ κέντρων ἐλαυνομένους τῶν τε ἄλλων ἐπιθυμιῶν καὶ διαφερόντως ὑπʼ αὐτοῦ τοῦ Ἔρωτος, πάσαις ταῖς ἄλλαις ὥσπερ δορυφόροις ἡγουμένου, οἰστρᾶν καὶ σκοπεῖν τίς τι ἔχει, ὃν δυνατὸν ἀφελέσθαι ἀπατήσαντα ἢ

[574a]
βιασάμενον;
σφόδρα γʼ, ἔφη.
ἀναγκαῖον δὴ πανταχόθεν φέρειν, ἢ μεγάλαις ὠδῖσί τε καὶ ὀδύναις συνέχεσθαι.
ἀναγκαῖον.
ἆρʼ οὖν, ὥσπερ αἱ ἐν αὐτῷ ἡδοναὶ ἐπιγιγνόμεναι τῶν ἀρχαίων πλέον εἶχον καὶ τὰ ἐκείνων ἀφῃροῦντο, οὕτω καὶ αὐτὸς ἀξιώσει νεώτερος ὢν πατρός τε καὶ μητρὸς πλέον ἔχειν, καὶ ἀφαιρεῖσθαι, ἐὰν τὸ αὑτοῦ μέρος ἀναλώσῃ, ἀπονειμάμενος τῶν πατρῴων;
ἀλλὰ τί μήν; ἔφη. [574b]
ἂν δὲ δὴ αὐτῷ μὴ ἐπιτρέπωσιν, ἆρʼ οὐ τὸ μὲν πρῶτον ἐπιχειροῖ ἂν κλέπτειν καὶ ἀπατᾶν τοὺς γονέας;
πάντως.
ὁπότε δὲ μὴ δύναιτο, ἁρπάζοι ἂν καὶ βιάζοιτο μετὰ τοῦτο;
οἶμαι, ἔφη.
ἀντεχομένων δὴ καὶ μαχομένων, ὦ θαυμάσιε, γέροντός τε καὶ γραός, ἆρʼ εὐλαβηθείη ἂν καὶ φείσαιτο μή τι δρᾶσαι τῶν τυραννικῶν;
οὐ πάνυ, ἦ δʼ ὅς, ἔγωγε θαρρῶ περὶ τῶν γονέων τοῦ τοιούτου.
ἀλλʼ, ὦ Ἀδείμαντε, πρὸς Διός, ἕνεκα νεωστὶ φίλης καὶ οὐκ ἀναγκαίας ἑταίρας γεγονυίας τὴν πάλαι φίλην καὶ ἀναγκαίαν [574c] μητέρα, ἢ ἕνεκα ὡραίου νεωστὶ φίλου γεγονότος οὐκ ἀναγκαίου τὸν ἄωρόν τε καὶ ἀναγκαῖον πρεσβύτην πατέρα καὶ τῶν φίλων ἀρχαιότατον δοκεῖ ἄν σοι ὁ τοιοῦτος πληγαῖς τε δοῦναι καὶ καταδουλώσασθαι ἂν αὐτοὺς ὑπʼ ἐκείνοις, εἰ εἰς τὴν αὐτὴν οἰκίαν ἀγάγοιτο;
ναὶ μὰ Δία, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
σφόδρα γε μακάριον, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἔοικεν εἶναι τὸ τυραννικὸν ὑὸν τεκεῖν.
πάνυ γʼ, ἔφη. [574d]
τί δʼ, ὅταν δὴ τὰ πατρὸς καὶ μητρὸς ἐπιλείπῃ τὸν τοιοῦτον, πολὺ δὲ ἤδη συνειλεγμένον ἐν αὐτῷ ᾖ τὸ τῶν ἡδονῶν σμῆνος, οὐ πρῶτον μὲν οἰκίας τινὸς ἐφάψεται τοίχου ἤ τινος ὀψὲ νύκτωρ ἰόντος τοῦ ἱματίου, μετὰ δὲ ταῦτα ἱερόν τι νεωκορήσει; καὶ ἐν τούτοις δὴ πᾶσιν, ἃς πάλαι εἶχεν δόξας ἐκ παιδὸς περὶ καλῶν τε καὶ αἰσχρῶν, τὰς δικαίας ποιουμένας, αἱ νεωστὶ ἐκ δουλείας λελυμέναι, δορυφοροῦσαι τὸν ἔρωτα, κρατήσουσι μετʼ ἐκείνου, αἳ πρότερον μὲν ὄναρ [574e] ἐλύοντο ἐν ὕπνῳ, ὅτε ἦν αὐτὸς ἔτι ὑπὸ νόμοις τε καὶ πατρὶ δημοκρατούμενος ἐν ἑαυτῷ·
τυραννευθεὶς δὲ ὑπὸ Ἔρωτος, οἷος ὀλιγάκις ἐγίγνετο ὄναρ, ὕπαρ τοιοῦτος ἀεὶ γενόμενος, οὔτε τινὸς φόνου δεινοῦ ἀφέξεται οὔτε βρώματος οὔτʼ ἔργου,

[575a]
ἀλλὰ τυραννικῶς ἐν αὐτῷ ὁ Ἔρως ἐν πάσῃ ἀναρχίᾳ καὶ ἀνομίᾳ ζῶν, ἅτε αὐτὸς ὢν μόναρχος, τὸν ἔχοντά τε αὐτὸν ὥσπερ πόλιν ἄξει ἐπὶ πᾶσαν τόλμαν, ὅθεν αὑτόν τε καὶ τὸν περὶ αὑτὸν θόρυβον θρέψει, τὸν μὲν ἔξωθεν εἰσεληλυθότα ἀπὸ κακῆς ὁμιλίας, τὸν δʼ ἔνδοθεν ὑπὸ τῶν αὐτῶν τρόπων καὶ ἑαυτοῦ ἀνεθέντα καὶ ἐλευθερωθέντα· ἢ οὐχ οὗτος ὁ βίος τοῦ τοιούτου;
οὗτος μὲν οὖν, ἔφη.
καὶ ἂν μέν γε, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὀλίγοι οἱ τοιοῦτοι ἐν πόλει [575b] ὦσι καὶ τὸ ἄλλο πλῆθος σωφρονῇ, ἐξελθόντες ἄλλον τινὰ δορυφοροῦσι τύραννον ἢ μισθοῦ ἐπικουροῦσιν, ἐάν που πόλεμος ᾖ· ἐὰν δʼ ἐν εἰρήνῃ τε καὶ ἡσυχίᾳ γένωνται, αὐτοῦ δὴ ἐν τῇ πόλει κακὰ δρῶσι σμικρὰ πολλά.
τὰ ποῖα δὴ λέγεις;
οἷα κλέπτουσι, τοιχωρυχοῦσι, βαλλαντιοτομοῦσι, λωποδυτοῦσιν, ἱεροσυλοῦσιν, ἀνδραποδίζονται· ἔστι δʼ ὅτε συκοφαντοῦσιν, ἐὰν δυνατοὶ ὦσι λέγειν, καὶ ψευδομαρτυροῦσι καὶ δωροδοκοῦσιν. [575c]
σμικρά γʼ, ἔφη, κακὰ λέγεις, ἐὰν ὀλίγοι ὦσιν οἱ τοιοῦτοι.
τὰ γὰρ σμικρά, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, πρὸς τὰ μεγάλα σμικρά ἐστιν, καὶ ταῦτα δὴ πάντα πρὸς τύραννον πονηρίᾳ τε καὶ ἀθλιότητι πόλεως, τὸ λεγόμενον, οὐδʼ ἵκταρ βάλλει. ὅταν γὰρ δὴ πολλοὶ ἐν πόλει γένωνται οἱ τοιοῦτοι καὶ ἄλλοι οἱ συνεπόμενοι αὐτοῖς, καὶ αἴσθωνται ἑαυτῶν τὸ πλῆθος, τότε οὗτοί εἰσιν οἱ τὸν τύραννον γεννῶντες μετὰ δήμου ἀνοίας ἐκεῖνον, ὃς ἂν αὐτῶν μάλιστα αὐτὸς ἐν αὑτῷ μέγιστον καὶ πλεῖστον [575d] ἐν τῇ ψυχῇ τύραννον ἔχῃ.
εἰκότως γʼ, ἔφη· τυραννικώτατος γὰρ ἂν εἴη.
οὐκοῦν ἐὰν μὲν ἑκόντες ὑπείκωσιν· ἐὰν δὲ μὴ ἐπιτρέπῃ ἡ πόλις, ὥσπερ τότε μητέρα καὶ πατέρα ἐκόλαζεν, οὕτω πάλιν τὴν πατρίδα, ἐὰν οἷός τʼ ᾖ, κολάσεται ἐπεισαγόμενος νέους ἑταίρους, καὶ ὑπὸ τούτοις δὴ δουλεύουσαν τὴν πάλαι φίλην μητρίδα τε, Κρῆτές φασι, καὶ πατρίδα ἕξει τε καὶ θρέψει. καὶ τοῦτο δὴ τὸ τέλος ἂν εἴη τῆς ἐπιθυμίας τοῦ τοιούτου ἀνδρός. [575e]
τοῦτο, ἦ δʼ ὅς, παντάπασί γε.
οὐκοῦν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, οὗτοί γε τοιοίδε γίγνονται ἰδίᾳ καὶ πρὶν ἄρχειν· πρῶτον μὲν οἷς ἂν συνῶσιν, ἢ κόλαξιν ἑαυτῶν συνόντες καὶ πᾶν ἑτοίμοις ὑπηρετεῖν, ἢ ἐάν τού τι δέωνται,

[576a]
αὐτοὶ ὑποπεσόντες, πάντα σχήματα τολμῶντες ποιεῖν ὡς οἰκεῖοι, διαπραξάμενοι δὲ ἀλλότριοι;
καὶ σφόδρα γε.
ἐν παντὶ ἄρα τῷ βίῳ ζῶσι φίλοι μὲν οὐδέποτε οὐδενί, ἀεὶ δέ του δεσπόζοντες ἢ δουλεύοντες ἄλλῳ, ἐλευθερίας δὲ καὶ φιλίας ἀληθοῦς τυραννικὴ φύσις ἀεὶ ἄγευστος.
πάνυ μὲν οὖν.
ἆρʼ οὖν οὐκ ὀρθῶς ἂν τοὺς τοιούτους ἀπίστους καλοῖμεν;
πῶς δʼ οὔ;
καὶ μὴν ἀδίκους γε ὡς οἷόν τε μάλιστα, εἴπερ ὀρθῶς [576b] ἐν τοῖς πρόσθεν ὡμολογήσαμεν περὶ δικαιοσύνης οἷόν ἐστιν.
ἀλλὰ μήν, ἦ δʼ ὅς, ὀρθῶς γε.
κεφαλαιωσώμεθα τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τὸν κάκιστον. ἔστιν δέ που, οἷον ὄναρ διήλθομεν, ὃς ἂν ὕπαρ τοιοῦτος ᾖ.
πάνυ μὲν οὖν.
οὐκοῦν οὗτος γίγνεται ὃς ἂν τυραννικώτατος φύσει ὢν μοναρχήσῃ, καὶ ὅσῳ ἂν πλείω χρόνον ἐν τυραννίδι βιῷ, τοσούτῳ μᾶλλον τοιοῦτος.
ἀνάγκη, ἔφη διαδεξάμενος τὸν λόγον ὁ Γλαύκων.
ἆρʼ οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὃς ἂν φαίνηται πονηρότατος, καὶ [576c] ἀθλιώτατος φανήσεται; καὶ ὃς ἂν πλεῖστον χρόνον καὶ μάλιστα τυραννεύσῃ, μάλιστά τε καὶ πλεῖστον χρόνον τοιοῦτος γεγονὼς τῇ ἀληθείᾳ; τοῖς δὲ πολλοῖς πολλὰ καὶ δοκεῖ.
ἀνάγκη, ἔφη, ταῦτα γοῦν οὕτως ἔχειν.
ἄλλο τι οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὅ γε τυραννικὸς κατὰ τὴν τυραννουμένην πόλιν ἂν εἴη ὁμοιότητι, δημοτικὸς δὲ κατὰ δημοκρατουμένην, καὶ οἱ ἄλλοι οὕτω;
τί μήν;
οὐκοῦν, ὅτι πόλις πρὸς πόλιν ἀρετῇ καὶ εὐδαιμονίᾳ, τοῦτο καὶ ἀνὴρ πρὸς ἄνδρα; [576d]
πῶς γὰρ οὔ;
τί οὖν ἀρετῇ τυραννουμένη πόλις πρὸς βασιλευομένην οἵαν τὸ πρῶτον διήλθομεν;
πᾶν τοὐναντίον, ἔφη· ἡ μὲν γὰρ ἀρίστη, ἡ δὲ κακίστη.
οὐκ ἐρήσομαι, εἶπον, ὁποτέραν λέγεις· δῆλον γάρ. ἀλλʼ εὐδαιμονίας τε αὖ καὶ ἀθλιότητος ὡσαύτως ἢ ἄλλως κρίνεις; καὶ μὴ ἐκπληττώμεθα πρὸς τὸν τύραννον ἕνα ὄντα βλέποντες, μηδʼ εἴ τινες ὀλίγοι περὶ ἐκεῖνον, ἀλλʼ ὡς χρὴ ὅλην [576e] τὴν πόλιν εἰσελθόντας θεάσασθαι, καταδύντες εἰς ἅπασαν καὶ ἰδόντες, οὕτω δόξαν ἀποφαινώμεθα.
ἀλλʼ ὀρθῶς, ἔφη, προκαλῇ· καὶ δῆλον παντὶ ὅτι τυραννουμένης μὲν οὐκ ἔστιν ἀθλιωτέρα, βασιλευομένης δὲ οὐκ εὐδαιμονεστέρα.
ἆρʼ οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καὶ περὶ τῶν ἀνδρῶν τὰ αὐτὰ ταῦτα

[577a]
προκαλούμενος ὀρθῶς ἂν προκαλοίμην, ἀξιῶν κρίνειν περὶ αὐτῶν ἐκεῖνον, ὃς δύναται τῇ διανοίᾳ εἰς ἀνδρὸς ἦθος ἐνδὺς διιδεῖν καὶ μὴ καθάπερ παῖς ἔξωθεν ὁρῶν ἐκπλήττεται ὑπὸ τῆς τῶν τυραννικῶν προστάσεως ἣν πρὸς τοὺς ἔξω σχηματίζονται, ἀλλʼ ἱκανῶς διορᾷ; εἰ οὖν οἰοίμην δεῖν ἐκείνου πάντας ἡμᾶς ἀκούειν, τοῦ δυνατοῦ μὲν κρῖναι, συνῳκηκότος δὲ ἐν τῷ αὐτῷ καὶ παραγεγονότος ἔν τε ταῖς κατʼ οἰκίαν πράξεσιν, ὡς πρὸς ἑκάστους τοὺς οἰκείους ἔχει, ἐν οἷς [577b] μάλιστα γυμνὸς ἂν ὀφθείη τῆς τραγικῆς σκευῆς, καὶ ἐν αὖ τοῖς δημοσίοις κινδύνοις, καὶ ταῦτα πάντα ἰδόντα κελεύοιμεν ἐξαγγέλλειν πῶς ἔχει εὐδαιμονίας καὶ ἀθλιότητος ὁ τύραννος πρὸς τοὺς ἄλλους;
ὀρθότατʼ ἄν, ἔφη, καὶ ταῦτα προκαλοῖο.
βούλει οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, προσποιησώμεθα ἡμεῖς εἶναι τῶν δυνατῶν ἂν κρῖναι καὶ ἤδη ἐντυχόντων τοιούτοις, ἵνα ἔχωμεν ὅστις ἀποκρινεῖται ἃ ἐρωτῶμεν;
πάνυ γε. [577c]
ἴθι δή μοι, ἔφην, ὧδε σκόπει. τὴν ὁμοιότητα ἀναμιμνῃσκόμενος τῆς τε πόλεως καὶ τοῦ ἀνδρός, οὕτω καθʼ ἕκαστον ἐν μέρει ἀθρῶν, τὰ παθήματα ἑκατέρου λέγε.
τὰ ποῖα; ἔφη.
πρῶτον μέν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὡς πόλιν εἰπεῖν, ἐλευθέραν ἢ δούλην τὴν τυραννουμένην ἐρεῖς;
ὡς οἷόν τʼ, ἔφη, μάλιστα δούλην.
καὶ μὴν ὁρᾷς γε ἐν αὐτῇ δεσπότας καὶ ἐλευθέρους.
ὁρῶ, ἔφη, σμικρόν γέ τι τοῦτο· τὸ δὲ ὅλον, ὡς ἔπος εἰπεῖν, ἐν αὐτῇ καὶ τὸ ἐπιεικέστατον ἀτίμως τε καὶ ἀθλίως δοῦλον. [577d]
εἰ οὖν, εἶπον, ὅμοιος ἀνὴρ τῇ πόλει, οὐ καὶ ἐν ἐκείνῳ ἀνάγκη τὴν αὐτὴν τάξιν ἐνεῖναι, καὶ πολλῆς μὲν δουλείας τε καὶ ἀνελευθερίας γέμειν τὴν ψυχὴν αὐτοῦ, καὶ ταῦτα αὐτῆς τὰ μέρη δουλεύειν, ἅπερ ἦν ἐπιεικέστατα, μικρὸν δὲ καὶ τὸ μοχθηρότατον καὶ μανικώτατον δεσπόζειν;
ἀνάγκη, ἔφη.
τί οὖν; δούλην ἢ ἐλευθέραν τὴν τοιαύτην φήσεις εἶναι ψυχήν;
δούλην δήπου ἔγωγε.
οὐκοῦν ἥ γε αὖ δούλη καὶ τυραννουμένη πόλις ἥκιστα ποιεῖ ἃ βούλεται;
πολύ γε. [577e]
καὶ ἡ τυραννουμένη ἄρα ψυχὴ ἥκιστα ποιήσει ἃ ἂν βουληθῇ, ὡς περὶ ὅλης εἰπεῖν ψυχῆς· ὑπὸ δὲ οἴστρου ἀεὶ ἑλκομένη βίᾳ ταραχῆς καὶ μεταμελείας μεστὴ ἔσται.
πῶς γὰρ οὔ;
πλουσίαν δὲ ἢ πενομένην ἀνάγκη τὴν τυραννουμένην πόλιν εἶναι;
πενομένην.

[578a]
καὶ ψυχὴν ἄρα τυραννικὴν πενιχρὰν καὶ ἄπληστον ἀνάγκη ἀεὶ εἶναι.
οὕτως, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
τί δέ; φόβου γέμειν ἆρʼ οὐκ ἀνάγκη τήν τε τοιαύτην πόλιν τόν τε τοιοῦτον ἄνδρα;
πολλή γε.
ὀδυρμούς τε καὶ στεναγμοὺς καὶ θρήνους καὶ ἀλγηδόνας οἴει ἔν τινι ἄλλῃ πλείους εὑρήσειν;
οὐδαμῶς.
ἐν ἀνδρὶ δὲ ἡγῇ τὰ τοιαῦτα ἐν ἄλλῳ τινὶ πλείω εἶναι ἢ ἐν τῷ μαινομένῳ ὑπὸ ἐπιθυμιῶν τε καὶ ἐρώτων τούτῳ τῷ τυραννικῷ;
πῶς γὰρ ἄν; ἔφη. [578b]
εἰς πάντα δὴ οἶμαι ταῦτά τε καὶ ἄλλα τοιαῦτα ἀποβλέψας τήν τε πόλιν τῶν πόλεων ἀθλιωτάτην ἔκρινας—
οὐκοῦν ὀρθῶς; ἔφη.
καὶ μάλα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ. ἀλλὰ περὶ τοῦ ἀνδρὸς αὖ τοῦ τυραννικοῦ τί λέγεις εἰς ταὐτὰ ταῦτα ἀποβλέπων;
μακρῷ, ἔφη, ἀθλιώτατον εἶναι τῶν ἄλλων ἁπάντων.
τοῦτο, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, οὐκέτʼ ὀρθῶς λέγεις.
πῶς; ἦ δʼ ὅς.
οὔπω, ἔφην, οἶμαι, οὗτός ἐστιν ὁ τοιοῦτος μάλιστα.
ἀλλὰ τίς μήν;
ὅδε ἴσως σοι ἔτι δόξει εἶναι τούτου ἀθλιώτερος.
ποῖος; [578c]
ὃς ἄν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τυραννικὸς ὢν μὴ ἰδιώτην βίον καταβιῷ, ἀλλὰ δυστυχὴς ᾖ καὶ αὐτῷ ὑπό τινος συμφορᾶς ἐκπορισθῇ ὥστε τυράννῳ γενέσθαι.
τεκμαίρομαί σε, ἔφη, ἐκ τῶν προειρημένων ἀληθῆ λέγειν.
ναί, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἀλλʼ οὐκ οἴεσθαι χρὴ τὰ τοιαῦτα, ἀλλʼ εὖ μάλα τῷ τοιούτῳ λόγῳ σκοπεῖν· περὶ γάρ τοι τοῦ μεγίστου ἡ σκέψις, ἀγαθοῦ τε βίου καὶ κακοῦ.
ὀρθότατα, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
σκόπει δὴ εἰ ἄρα τι λέγω. δοκεῖ γάρ μοι δεῖν ἐννοῆσαι [578d] ἐκ τῶνδε περὶ αὐτοῦ σκοποῦντας.
ἐκ τίνων;
ἐξ ἑνὸς ἑκάστου τῶν ἰδιωτῶν, ὅσοι πλούσιοι ἐν πόλεσιν ἀνδράποδα πολλὰ κέκτηνται. οὗτοι γὰρ τοῦτό γε προσόμοιον ἔχουσιν τοῖς τυράννοις, τὸ πολλῶν ἄρχειν· διαφέρει δὲ τὸ ἐκείνου πλῆθος.
διαφέρει γάρ.
οἶσθʼ οὖν ὅτι οὗτοι ἀδεῶς ἔχουσιν καὶ οὐ φοβοῦνται τοὺς οἰκέτας;
τί γὰρ ἂν φοβοῖντο;
οὐδέν, εἶπον· ἀλλὰ τὸ αἴτιον ἐννοεῖς;
ναί, ὅτι γε πᾶσα ἡ πόλις ἑνὶ ἑκάστῳ βοηθεῖ τῶν ἰδιωτῶν. [578e]
καλῶς, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, λέγεις. τί δέ; εἴ τις θεῶν ἄνδρα ἕνα, ὅτῳ ἔστιν ἀνδράποδα πεντήκοντα ἢ καὶ πλείω, ἄρας ἐκ τῆς πόλεως αὐτόν τε καὶ γυναῖκα καὶ παῖδας θείη εἰς ἐρημίαν μετὰ τῆς ἄλλης οὐσίας τε καὶ τῶν οἰκετῶν, ὅπου αὐτῷ μηδεὶς τῶν ἐλευθέρων μέλλοι βοηθήσειν, ἐν ποίῳ ἄν τινι καὶ ὁπόσῳ φόβῳ οἴει γενέσθαι αὐτὸν περί τε αὑτοῦ καὶ παίδων καὶ γυναικός, μὴ ἀπόλοιντο ὑπὸ τῶν οἰκετῶν;
ἐν παντί, ἦ δʼ ὅς, ἔγωγε.

### Book IX, 579–586

[579a]
οὐκοῦν ἀναγκάζοιτο ἄν τινας ἤδη θωπεύειν αὐτῶν τῶν δούλων καὶ ὑπισχνεῖσθαι πολλὰ καὶ ἐλευθεροῦν οὐδὲν δεόμενος, καὶ κόλαξ αὐτὸς ἂν θεραπόντων ἀναφανείη;
πολλὴ ἀνάγκη, ἔφη, αὐτῷ, ἢ ἀπολωλέναι.
τί δʼ, εἰ καὶ ἄλλους, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὁ θεὸς κύκλῳ κατοικίσειεν γείτονας πολλοὺς αὐτῷ, οἳ μὴ ἀνέχοιντο εἴ τις ἄλλος ἄλλου δεσπόζειν ἀξιοῖ, ἀλλʼ εἴ πού τινα τοιοῦτον λαμβάνοιεν, ταῖς ἐσχάταις τιμωροῖντο τιμωρίαις; [579b]
ἔτι ἄν, ἔφη, οἶμαι, μᾶλλον ἐν παντὶ κακοῦ εἴη, κύκλῳ φρουρούμενος ὑπὸ πάντων πολεμίων.
ἆρʼ οὖν οὐκ ἐν τοιούτῳ μὲν δεσμωτηρίῳ δέδεται ὁ τύραννος, φύσει ὢν οἷον διεληλύθαμεν, πολλῶν καὶ παντοδαπῶν φόβων καὶ ἐρώτων μεστός· λίχνῳ δὲ ὄντι αὐτῷ τὴν ψυχὴν μόνῳ τῶν ἐν τῇ πόλει οὔτε ἀποδημῆσαι ἔξεστιν οὐδαμόσε, οὔτε θεωρῆσαι ὅσων δὴ καὶ οἱ ἄλλοι ἐλεύθεροι ἐπιθυμηταί εἰσιν, καταδεδυκὼς δὲ ἐν τῇ οἰκίᾳ τὰ πολλὰ ὡς γυνὴ ζῇ, [579c] φθονῶν καὶ τοῖς ἄλλοις πολίταις, ἐάν τις ἔξω ἀποδημῇ καί τι ἀγαθὸν ὁρᾷ;
παντάπασιν μὲν οὖν, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν τοῖς τοιούτοις κακοῖς πλείω καρποῦται ἀνὴρ ὃς ἂν κακῶς ἐν ἑαυτῷ πολιτευόμενος, ὃν νυνδὴ σὺ ἀθλιώτατον ἔκρινας, τὸν τυραννικόν, ὡς μὴ ἰδιώτης καταβιῷ, ἀλλὰ ἀναγκασθῇ ὑπό τινος τύχης τυραννεῦσαι καὶ ἑαυτοῦ ὢν ἀκράτωρ ἄλλων ἐπιχειρήσῃ ἄρχειν, ὥσπερ εἴ τις κάμνοντι σώματι καὶ ἀκράτορι ἑαυτοῦ μὴ ἰδιωτεύων ἀλλʼ ἀγωνιζόμενος [579d] πρὸς ἄλλα σώματα καὶ μαχόμενος ἀναγκάζοιτο διάγειν τὸν βίον.
παντάπασιν, ἔφη, ὁμοιότατά τε καὶ ἀληθέστατα λέγεις, ὦ Σώκρατες.
οὐκοῦν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὦ φίλε Γλαύκων, παντελῶς τὸ πάθος ἄθλιον, καὶ τοῦ ὑπὸ σοῦ κριθέντος χαλεπώτατα ζῆν χαλεπώτερον ἔτι ζῇ ὁ τυραννῶν;
κομιδῇ γʼ, ἔφη.
ἔστιν ἄρα τῇ ἀληθείᾳ, κἂν εἰ μή τῳ δοκεῖ, ὁ τῷ ὄντι τύραννος τῷ ὄντι δοῦλος τὰς μεγίστας θωπείας καὶ δουλείας [579e] καὶ κόλαξ τῶν πονηροτάτων, καὶ τὰς ἐπιθυμίας οὐδʼ ὁπωστιοῦν ἀποπιμπλάς, ἀλλὰ πλείστων ἐπιδεέστατος καὶ πένης τῇ ἀληθείᾳ φαίνεται, ἐάν τις ὅλην ψυχὴν ἐπίστηται θεάσασθαι, καὶ φόβου γέμων διὰ παντὸς τοῦ βίου, σφαδᾳσμῶν τε καὶ ὀδυνῶν πλήρης, εἴπερ τῇ τῆς πόλεως διαθέσει ἧς ἄρχει ἔοικεν. ἔοικεν δέ· ἦ γάρ;
καὶ μάλα, ἔφη.

[580a]
οὐκοῦν καὶ πρὸς τούτοις ἔτι ἀποδώσομεν τῷ ἀνδρὶ καὶ ἃ τὸ πρότερον εἴπομεν, ὅτι ἀνάγκη καὶ εἶναι καὶ ἔτι μᾶλλον γίγνεσθαι αὐτῷ ἢ πρότερον διὰ τὴν ἀρχὴν φθονερῷ, ἀπίστῳ, ἀδίκῳ, ἀφίλῳ, ἀνοσίῳ καὶ πάσης κακίας πανδοκεῖ τε καὶ τροφεῖ, καὶ ἐξ ἁπάντων τούτων μάλιστα μὲν αὐτῷ δυστυχεῖ εἶναι, ἔπειτα δὲ καὶ τοὺς πλησίον αὑτῷ τοιούτους ἀπεργάζεσθαι.
οὐδείς σοι, ἔφη, τῶν νοῦν ἐχόντων ἀντερεῖ.
ἴθι δή μοι, ἔφην ἐγώ, νῦν ἤδη ὥσπερ ὁ διὰ πάντων [580b] κριτὴς ἀποφαίνεται, καὶ σὺ οὕτω, τίς πρῶτος κατὰ τὴν σὴν δόξαν εὐδαιμονίᾳ καὶ τίς δεύτερος, καὶ τοὺς ἄλλους ἑξῆς πέντε ὄντας κρῖνε, βασιλικόν, τιμοκρατικόν, ὀλιγαρχικόν, δημοκρατικόν, τυραννικόν.
ἀλλὰ ῥᾳδία, ἔφη, ἡ κρίσις. καθάπερ γὰρ εἰσῆλθον ἔγωγε ὥσπερ χοροὺς κρίνω ἀρετῇ καὶ κακίᾳ καὶ εὐδαιμονίᾳ καὶ τῷ ἐναντίῳ.
μισθωσώμεθα οὖν κήρυκα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἢ αὐτὸς ἀνείπω ὅτι ὁ Ἀρίστωνος ὑὸς τὸν ἄριστόν τε καὶ δικαιότατον εὐδαιμονέστατον [580c] ἔκρινε, τοῦτον δʼ εἶναι τὸν βασιλικώτατον καὶ βασιλεύοντα αὑτοῦ, τὸν δὲ κάκιστόν τε καὶ ἀδικώτατον ἀθλιώτατον, τοῦτον δὲ αὖ τυγχάνειν ὄντα ὃς ἂν τυραννικώτατος ὢν ἑαυτοῦ τε ὅτι μάλιστα τυραννῇ καὶ τῆς πόλεως;
ἀνειρήσθω σοι, ἔφη.
ἦ οὖν προσαναγορεύω, εἶπον, ἐάντε λανθάνωσιν τοιοῦτοι ὄντες ἐάντε μὴ πάντας ἀνθρώπους τε καὶ θεούς;
προσαναγόρευε, ἔφη.
εἶεν δή, εἶπον· αὕτη μὲν ἡμῖν ἡ ἀπόδειξις μία ἂν εἴη, [580d] δευτέραν δὲ ἰδὲ τήνδε, ἐάν τι δόξῃ εἶναι.
τίς αὕτη;
ἐπειδή, ὥσπερ πόλις, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, διῄρηται κατὰ τρία εἴδη, οὕτω καὶ ψυχὴ ἑνὸς ἑκάστου τριχῇ, [λογιστικὸν] δέξεται, ὡς ἐμοὶ δοκεῖ, καὶ ἑτέραν ἀπόδειξιν.
τίνα ταύτην;
τήνδε. τριῶν ὄντων τριτταὶ καὶ ἡδοναί μοι φαίνονται, ἑνὸς ἑκάστου μία ἰδία· ἐπιθυμίαι τε ὡσαύτως καὶ ἀρχαί.
πῶς λέγεις; ἔφη.
τὸ μέν, φαμέν, ἦν ᾧ μανθάνει ἄνθρωπος, τὸ δὲ ᾧ θυμοῦται, τὸ δὲ τρίτον διὰ πολυειδίαν ἑνὶ οὐκ ἔσχομεν ὀνόματι προσειπεῖν [580e] ἰδίῳ αὐτοῦ, ἀλλὰ ὃ μέγιστον καὶ ἰσχυρότατον εἶχεν ἐν αὑτῷ, τούτῳ ἐπωνομάσαμεν·
ἐπιθυμητικὸν γὰρ αὐτὸ κεκλήκαμεν διὰ σφοδρότητα τῶν τε περὶ τὴν ἐδωδὴν ἐπιθυμιῶν καὶ πόσιν καὶ ἀφροδίσια καὶ ὅσα ἄλλα τούτοις ἀκόλουθα, καὶ φιλοχρήματον δή, ὅτι διὰ χρημάτων μάλιστα ἀποτελοῦνται

[581a]
αἱ τοιαῦται ἐπιθυμίαι.
καὶ ὀρθῶς γʼ, ἔφη.
ἆρʼ οὖν καὶ τὴν ἡδονὴν αὐτοῦ καὶ φιλίαν εἰ φαῖμεν εἶναι τοῦ κέρδους, μάλιστʼ ἂν εἰς ἓν κεφάλαιον ἀπερειδοίμεθα τῷ λόγῳ, ὥστε τι ἡμῖν αὐτοῖς δηλοῦν, ὁπότε τοῦτο τῆς ψυχῆς τὸ μέρος λέγοιμεν, καὶ καλοῦντες αὐτὸ φιλοχρήματον καὶ φιλοκερδὲς ὀρθῶς ἂν καλοῖμεν;
ἐμοὶ γοῦν δοκεῖ, ἔφη.
τί δέ; τὸ θυμοειδὲς οὐ πρὸς τὸ κρατεῖν μέντοι φαμὲν καὶ νικᾶν καὶ εὐδοκιμεῖν ἀεὶ ὅλον ὡρμῆσθαι; [581b]
καὶ μάλα.
εἰ οὖν φιλόνικον αὐτὸ καὶ φιλότιμον προσαγορεύοιμεν, ἦ ἐμμελῶς ἂν ἔχοι;
ἐμμελέστατα μὲν οὖν.
ἀλλὰ μὴν ᾧ γε μανθάνομεν, παντὶ δῆλον ὅτι πρὸς τὸ εἰδέναι τὴν ἀλήθειαν ὅπῃ ἔχει πᾶν ἀεὶ τέταται, καὶ χρημάτων τε καὶ δόξης ἥκιστα τούτων τούτῳ μέλει.
πολύ γε.
φιλομαθὲς δὴ καὶ φιλόσοφον καλοῦντες αὐτὸ κατὰ τρόπον ἂν καλοῖμεν;
πῶς γὰρ οὔ;
οὐκοῦν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καὶ ἄρχει ἐν ταῖς ψυχαῖς τῶν μὲν [581c] τοῦτο, τῶν δὲ τὸ ἕτερον ἐκείνων, ὁπότερον ἂν τύχῃ;
οὕτως, ἔφη.
διὰ ταῦτα δὴ καὶ ἀνθρώπων λέγομεν τὰ πρῶτα τριττὰ γένη εἶναι, φιλόσοφον, φιλόνικον, φιλοκερδές;
κομιδῇ γε.
καὶ ἡδονῶν δὴ τρία εἴδη, ὑποκείμενον ἓν ἑκάστῳ τούτων;
πάνυ γε.
οἶσθʼ οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὅτι εἰ ʼθέλοις τρεῖς τοιούτους ἀνθρώπους ἐν μέρει ἕκαστον ἀνερωτᾶν τίς τούτων τῶν βίων ἥδιστος, τὸν ἑαυτοῦ ἕκαστος μάλιστα ἐγκωμιάσεται; ὅ τε [581d] χρηματιστικὸς πρὸς τὸ κερδαίνειν τὴν τοῦ τιμᾶσθαι ἡδονὴν ἢ τὴν τοῦ μανθάνειν οὐδενὸς ἀξίαν φήσει εἶναι, εἰ μὴ εἴ τι αὐτῶν ἀργύριον ποιεῖ;
ἀληθῆ, ἔφη.
τί δὲ ὁ φιλότιμος; ἦν δʼ ἐγώ· οὐ τὴν μὲν ἀπὸ τῶν χρημάτων ἡδονὴν φορτικήν τινα ἡγεῖται, καὶ αὖ τὴν ἀπὸ τοῦ μανθάνειν, ὅτι μὴ μάθημα τιμὴν φέρει, καπνὸν καὶ φλυαρίαν;
οὕτως, ἔφη, ἔχει.
τὸν δὲ φιλόσοφον, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τί οἰώμεθα τὰς ἄλλας [581e] ἡδονὰς νομίζειν πρὸς τὴν τοῦ εἰδέναι τἀληθὲς ὅπῃ ἔχει καὶ ἐν τοιούτῳ τινὶ ἀεὶ εἶναι μανθάνοντα; [τῆς ἡδονῆς] οὐ πάνυ πόρρω; καὶ καλεῖν τῷ ὄντι ἀναγκαίας, ὡς οὐδὲν τῶν ἄλλων δεόμενον, εἰ μὴ ἀνάγκη ἦν;
εὖ, ἔφη, δεῖ εἰδέναι;
ὅτε δὴ οὖν, εἶπον, ἀμφισβητοῦνται ἑκάστου τοῦ εἴδους αἱ ἡδοναὶ καὶ αὐτὸς ὁ βίος, μὴ ὅτι πρὸς τὸ κάλλιον καὶ αἴσχιον ζῆν μηδὲ τὸ χεῖρον καὶ ἄμεινον, ἀλλὰ πρὸς αὐτὸ τὸ

[582a]
ἥδιον καὶ ἀλυπότερον, πῶς ἂν εἰδεῖμεν τίς αὐτῶν ἀληθέστατα λέγει;
οὐ πάνυ, ἔφη, ἔγωγε ἔχω εἰπεῖν.
ἀλλʼ ὧδε σκόπει· τίνι χρὴ κρίνεσθαι τὰ μέλλοντα καλῶς κριθήσεσθαι; ἆρʼ οὐκ ἐμπειρίᾳ τε καὶ φρονήσει καὶ λόγῳ; ἢ τούτων ἔχοι ἄν τις βέλτιον κριτήριον;
καὶ πῶς ἄν; ἔφη.
σκόπει δή· τριῶν ὄντων τῶν ἀνδρῶν τίς ἐμπειρότατος πασῶν ὧν εἴπομεν ἡδονῶν; πότερον ὁ φιλοκερδής, μανθάνων αὐτὴν τὴν ἀλήθειαν οἷόν ἐστιν, ἐμπειρότερος δοκεῖ σοι εἶναι τῆς [582b] ἀπὸ τοῦ εἰδέναι ἡδονῆς, ἢ ὁ φιλόσοφος τῆς ἀπὸ τοῦ κερδαίνειν;
πολύ, ἔφη, διαφέρει. τῷ μὲν γὰρ ἀνάγκη γεύεσθαι τῶν ἑτέρων ἐκ παιδὸς ἀρξαμένῳ· τῷ δὲ φιλοκερδεῖ, ὅπῃ πέφυκε τὰ ὄντα μανθάνοντι, τῆς ἡδονῆς ταύτης, ὡς γλυκεῖά ἐστιν, οὐκ ἀνάγκη γεύεσθαι οὐδʼ ἐμπείρῳ γίγνεσθαι, μᾶλλον δὲ καὶ προθυμουμένῳ οὐ ῥᾴδιον.
πολὺ ἄρα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, διαφέρει τοῦ γε φιλοκερδοῦς ὁ φιλόσοφος ἐμπειρίᾳ ἀμφοτέρων τῶν ἡδονῶν. [582c]
πολὺ μέντοι.
τί δὲ τοῦ φιλοτίμου; ἆρα μᾶλλον ἄπειρός ἐστι τῆς ἀπὸ τοῦ τιμᾶσθαι ἡδονῆς ἢ ἐκεῖνος τῆς ἀπὸ τοῦ φρονεῖν;
ἀλλὰ τιμὴ μέν, ἔφη, ἐάνπερ ἐξεργάζωνται ἐπὶ ὃ ἕκαστος ὥρμηκε, πᾶσιν αὐτοῖς ἕπεται—καὶ γὰρ ὁ πλούσιος ὑπὸ πολλῶν τιμᾶται καὶ ὁ ἀνδρεῖος καὶ σοφός—ὥστε ἀπό γε τοῦ τιμᾶσθαι, οἷόν ἐστιν, πάντες τῆς ἡδονῆς ἔμπειροι· τῆς δὲ τοῦ ὄντος θέας, οἵαν ἡδονὴν ἔχει, ἀδύνατον ἄλλῳ γεγεῦσθαι πλὴν τῷ φιλοσόφῳ. [582d]
ἐμπειρίας μὲν ἄρα, εἶπον, ἕνεκα κάλλιστα τῶν ἀνδρῶν κρίνει οὗτος.
πολύ γε.
καὶ μὴν μετά γε φρονήσεως μόνος ἔμπειρος γεγονὼς ἔσται.
τί μήν;
ἀλλὰ μὴν καὶ διʼ οὗ γε δεῖ ὀργάνου κρίνεσθαι, οὐ τοῦ φιλοκερδοῦς τοῦτο ὄργανον οὐδὲ τοῦ φιλοτίμου, ἀλλὰ τοῦ φιλοσόφου.
τὸ ποῖον;
διὰ λόγων που ἔφαμεν δεῖν κρίνεσθαι. ἦ γάρ;
ναί.
λόγοι δὲ τούτου μάλιστα ὄργανον.
πῶς δʼ οὔ;
οὐκοῦν εἰ μὲν πλούτῳ καὶ κέρδει ἄριστα ἐκρίνετο τὰ [582e] κρινόμενα, ἃ ἐπῄνει ὁ φιλοκερδὴς καὶ ἔψεγεν, ἀνάγκη ἂν ἦν ταῦτα ἀληθέστατα εἶναι.
πολλή γε.
εἰ δὲ τιμῇ τε καὶ νίκῃ καὶ ἀνδρείᾳ, ἆρʼ οὐχ ἃ ὁ φιλότιμός τε καὶ φιλόνικος;
δῆλον.
ἐπειδὴ δʼ ἐμπειρίᾳ καὶ φρονήσει καὶ λόγῳ;
ἀνάγκη, ἔφη, ἃ ὁ φιλόσοφός τε καὶ ὁ φιλόλογος ἐπαινεῖ, ἀληθέστατα εἶναι.

[583a]
τριῶν ἄρʼ οὐσῶν τῶν ἡδονῶν ἡ τούτου τοῦ μέρους τῆς ψυχῆς ᾧ μανθάνομεν ἡδίστη ἂν εἴη, καὶ ἐν ᾧ ἡμῶν τοῦτο ἄρχει, ὁ τούτου βίος ἥδιστος;
πῶς δʼ οὐ μέλλει; ἔφη· κύριος γοῦν ἐπαινέτης ὢν ἐπαινεῖ τὸν ἑαυτοῦ βίον ὁ φρόνιμος.
τίνα δὲ δεύτερον, εἶπον, βίον καὶ τίνα δευτέραν ἡδονήν φησιν ὁ κριτὴς εἶναι;
δῆλον ὅτι τὴν τοῦ πολεμικοῦ τε καὶ φιλοτίμου· ἐγγυτέρω γὰρ αὐτοῦ ἐστιν ἢ ἡ τοῦ χρηματιστοῦ.
ὑστάτην δὴ τὴν τοῦ φιλοκερδοῦς, ὡς ἔοικεν.
τί μήν; ἦ δʼ ὅς. [583b]
ταῦτα μὲν τοίνυν οὕτω δύʼ ἐφεξῆς ἂν εἴη καὶ δὶς νενικηκὼς ὁ δίκαιος τὸν ἄδικον· τὸ δὲ τρίτον Ὀλυμπικῶς τῷ σωτῆρί τε καὶ τῷ Ὀλυμπίῳ Διί, ἄθρει ὅτι οὐδὲ παναληθής ἐστιν ἡ τῶν ἄλλων ἡδονὴ πλὴν τῆς τοῦ φρονίμου οὐδὲ καθαρά, ἀλλʼ ἐσκιαγραφημένη τις, ὡς ἐγὼ δοκῶ μοι τῶν σοφῶν τινος ἀκηκοέναι. καίτοι τοῦτʼ ἂν εἴη μέγιστόν τε καὶ κυριώτατον τῶν πτωμάτων.
πολύ γε· ἀλλὰ πῶς λέγεις; [583c]
ὧδʼ, εἶπον, ἐξευρήσω, σοῦ ἀποκρινομένου ζητῶν ἅμα.
Ἐρώτα δή, ἔφη.
λέγε δή, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ· οὐκ ἐναντίον φαμὲν λύπην ἡδονῇ;
καὶ μάλα.
οὐκοῦν καὶ τὸ μήτε χαίρειν μήτε λυπεῖσθαι εἶναί τι;
εἶναι μέντοι.
μεταξὺ τούτοιν ἀμφοῖν ἐν μέσῳ ὂν ἡσυχίαν τινὰ περὶ ταῦτα τῆς ψυχῆς; ἢ οὐχ οὕτως αὐτὸ λέγεις;
οὕτως, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
ἆρʼ οὖν μνημονεύεις, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τοὺς τῶν καμνόντων λόγους, οὓς λέγουσιν ὅταν κάμνωσιν;
ποίους;
ὡς οὐδὲν ἄρα ἐστὶν ἥδιον τοῦ ὑγιαίνειν, ἀλλὰ σφᾶς [583d] ἐλελήθει, πρὶν κάμνειν, ἥδιστον ὄν.
μέμνημαι, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν καὶ τῶν περιωδυνίᾳ τινὶ ἐχομένων ἀκούεις λεγόντων ὡς οὐδὲν ἥδιον τοῦ παύσασθαι ὀδυνώμενον;
ἀκούω.
καὶ ἐν ἄλλοις γε οἶμαι πολλοῖς τοιούτοις αἰσθάνῃ γιγνομένους τοὺς ἀνθρώπους, ἐν οἷς, ὅταν λυπῶνται, τὸ μὴ λυπεῖσθαι καὶ τὴν ἡσυχίαν τοῦ τοιούτου ἐγκωμιάζουσιν ὡς ἥδιστον, οὐ τὸ χαίρειν.
τοῦτο γάρ, ἔφη, τότε ἡδὺ ἴσως καὶ ἀγαπητὸν γίγνεται, ἡσυχία. [583e]
καὶ ὅταν παύσηται ἄρα, εἶπον, χαίρων τις, ἡ τῆς ἡδονῆς ἡσυχία λυπηρὸν ἔσται.
ἴσως, ἔφη.
ὃ μεταξὺ ἄρα νυνδὴ ἀμφοτέρων ἔφαμεν εἶναι, τὴν ἡσυχίαν, τοῦτό ποτε ἀμφότερα ἔσται, λύπη τε καὶ ἡδονή.
ἔοικεν.
ἦ καὶ δυνατὸν τὸ μηδέτερα ὂν ἀμφότερα γίγνεσθαι;
οὔ μοι δοκεῖ.
καὶ μὴν τό γε ἡδὺ ἐν ψυχῇ γιγνόμενον καὶ τὸ λυπηρὸν κίνησίς τις ἀμφοτέρω ἐστόν· ἢ οὔ;
ναί.

[584a]
τὸ δὲ μήτε λυπηρὸν μήτε ἡδὺ οὐχὶ ἡσυχία μέντοι καὶ ἐν μέσῳ τούτοιν ἐφάνη ἄρτι;
ἐφάνη γάρ.
πῶς οὖν ὀρθῶς ἔστι τὸ μὴ ἀλγεῖν ἡδὺ ἡγεῖσθαι ἢ τὸ μὴ χαίρειν ἀνιαρόν;
οὐδαμῶς.
οὐκ ἔστιν ἄρα τοῦτο, ἀλλὰ φαίνεται, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, παρὰ τὸ ἀλγεινὸν ἡδὺ καὶ παρὰ τὸ ἡδὺ ἀλγεινὸν τότε ἡ ἡσυχία, καὶ οὐδὲν ὑγιὲς τούτων τῶν φαντασμάτων πρὸς ἡδονῆς ἀλήθειαν, ἀλλὰ γοητεία τις.
ὡς γοῦν ὁ λόγος, ἔφη, σημαίνει. [584b]
ἰδὲ τοίνυν, ἔφην ἐγώ, ἡδονάς, αἳ οὐκ ἐκ λυπῶν εἰσίν, ἵνα μὴ πολλάκις οἰηθῇς ἐν τῷ παρόντι οὕτω τοῦτο πεφυκέναι, ἡδονὴν μὲν παῦλαν λύπης εἶναι, λύπην δὲ ἡδονῆς.
ποῦ δή, ἔφη, καὶ ποίας λέγεις;
πολλαὶ μέν, εἶπον, καὶ ἄλλαι, μάλιστα δʼ εἰ ʼθέλεις ἐννοῆσαι τὰς περὶ τὰς ὀσμὰς ἡδονάς. αὗται γὰρ οὐ προλυπηθέντι ἐξαίφνης ἀμήχανοι τὸ μέγεθος γίγνονται, παυσάμεναί τε λύπην οὐδεμίαν καταλείπουσιν.
ἀληθέστατα, ἔφη. [584c]
μὴ ἄρα πειθώμεθα καθαρὰν ἡδονὴν εἶναι τὴν λύπης ἀπαλλαγήν, μηδὲ λύπην τὴν ἡδονῆς.
μὴ γάρ.
ἀλλὰ μέντοι, εἶπον, αἵ γε διὰ τοῦ σώματος ἐπὶ τὴν ψυχὴν τείνουσαι καὶ λεγόμεναι ἡδοναί, σχεδὸν αἱ πλεῖσταί τε καὶ μέγισται, τούτου τοῦ εἴδους εἰσί, λυπῶν τινες ἀπαλλαγαί.
εἰσὶ γάρ.
οὐκοῦν καὶ αἱ πρὸ μελλόντων τούτων ἐκ προσδοκίας γιγνόμεναι προησθήσεις τε καὶ προλυπήσεις κατὰ ταὐτὰ ἔχουσιν;
κατὰ ταὐτά. [584d]
οἶσθʼ οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, οἷαί εἰσιν καὶ ᾧ μάλιστα ἐοίκασιν;
τῷ; ἔφη.
νομίζεις τι, εἶπον, ἐν τῇ φύσει εἶναι τὸ μὲν ἄνω, τὸ δὲ κάτω, τὸ δὲ μέσον;
ἔγωγε.
οἴει οὖν ἄν τινα ἐκ τοῦ κάτω φερόμενον πρὸς μέσον ἄλλο τι οἴεσθαι ἢ ἄνω φέρεσθαι; καὶ ἐν μέσῳ στάντα, ἀφορῶντα ὅθεν ἐνήνεκται, ἄλλοθί που ἂν ἡγεῖσθαι εἶναι ἢ ἐν τῷ ἄνω, μὴ ἑωρακότα τὸ ἀληθῶς ἄνω;
μὰ Δίʼ, οὐκ ἔγωγε, ἔφη, ἄλλως οἶμαι οἰηθῆναι ἂν τὸν τοιοῦτον. [584e]
ἀλλʼ εἰ πάλιν γʼ, ἔφην, φέροιτο, κάτω τʼ ἂν οἴοιτο φέρεσθαι καὶ ἀληθῆ οἴοιτο;
πῶς γὰρ οὔ;
οὐκοῦν ταῦτα πάσχοι ἂν πάντα διὰ τὸ μὴ ἔμπειρος εἶναι τοῦ ἀληθινῶς ἄνω τε ὄντος καὶ ἐν μέσῳ καὶ κάτω;
δῆλον δή.
θαυμάζοις ἂν οὖν εἰ καὶ οἱ ἄπειροι ἀληθείας περὶ πολλῶν τε ἄλλων μὴ ὑγιεῖς δόξας ἔχουσιν, πρός τε ἡδονὴν καὶ λύπην καὶ τὸ μεταξὺ τούτων οὕτω διάκεινται, ὥστε, ὅταν μὲν ἐπὶ τὸ

[585a]
λυπηρὸν φέρωνται, ἀληθῆ τε οἴονται καὶ τῷ ὄντι λυποῦνται, ὅταν δὲ ἀπὸ λύπης ἐπὶ τὸ μεταξύ, σφόδρα μὲν οἴονται πρὸς πληρώσει τε καὶ ἡδονῇ γίγνεσθαι, ὥσπερ πρὸς μέλαν φαιὸν ἀποσκοποῦντες ἀπειρίᾳ λευκοῦ, καὶ πρὸς τὸ ἄλυπον οὕτω λύπην ἀφορῶντες ἀπειρίᾳ ἡδονῆς ἀπατῶνται;
μὰ Δία, ἦ δʼ ὅς, οὐκ ἂν θαυμάσαιμι, ἀλλὰ πολὺ μᾶλλον, εἰ μὴ οὕτως ἔχει.
ὧδέ γʼ οὖν, εἶπον, ἐννόει· οὐχὶ πεῖνα καὶ δίψα καὶ τὰ [585b] τοιαῦτα κενώσεις τινές εἰσιν τῆς περὶ τὸ σῶμα ἕξεως;
τί μήν;
ἄγνοια δὲ καὶ ἀφροσύνη ἆρʼ οὐ κενότης ἐστὶ γῆς περὶ ψυχὴν αὖ ἕξεως;
μάλα γε.
οὐκοῦν πληροῖτʼ ἂν ὅ τε τροφῆς μεταλαμβάνων καὶ ὁ νοῦν ἴσχων;
πῶς δʼ οὔ;
πλήρωσις δὲ ἀληθεστέρα τοῦ ἧττον ἢ τοῦ μᾶλλον ὄντος;
δῆλον ὅτι τοῦ μᾶλλον.
πότερα οὖν ἡγῇ τὰ γένη μᾶλλον καθαρᾶς οὐσίας μετέχειν, τὰ οἷον σίτου τε καὶ ποτοῦ καὶ ὄψου καὶ συμπάσης τροφῆς, ἢ τὸ δόξης τε ἀληθοῦς εἶδος καὶ ἐπιστήμης καὶ νοῦ καὶ [585c] συλλήβδην αὖ πάσης ἀρετῆς; ὧδε δὲ κρῖνε· τὸ τοῦ ἀεὶ ὁμοίου ἐχόμενον καὶ ἀθανάτου καὶ ἀληθείας, καὶ αὐτὸ τοιοῦτον ὂν καὶ ἐν τοιούτῳ γιγνόμενον, μᾶλλον εἶναί σοι δοκεῖ, ἢ τὸ μηδέποτε ὁμοίου καὶ θνητοῦ, καὶ αὐτὸ τοιοῦτον καὶ ἐν τοιούτῳ γιγνόμενον;
πολύ, ἔφη, διαφέρει τὸ τοῦ ἀεὶ ὁμοίου.
ἡ οὖν ἀεὶ ὁμοίου οὐσία οὐσίας τι μᾶλλον ἢ ἐπιστήμης μετέχει;
οὐδαμῶς.
τί δʼ; ἀληθείας;
οὐδὲ τοῦτο.
εἰ δὲ ἀληθείας ἧττον, οὐ καὶ οὐσίας;
ἀνάγκη. [585d]
οὐκοῦν ὅλως τὰ περὶ τὴν τοῦ σώματος θεραπείαν γένη τῶν γενῶν αὖ τῶν περὶ τὴν τῆς ψυχῆς θεραπείαν ἧττον ἀληθείας τε καὶ οὐσίας μετέχει;
πολύ γε.
σῶμα δὲ αὐτὸ ψυχῆς οὐκ οἴει οὕτως;
ἔγωγε.
οὐκοῦν τὸ τῶν μᾶλλον ὄντων πληρούμενον καὶ αὐτὸ μᾶλλον ὂν ὄντως μᾶλλον πληροῦται ἢ τὸ τῶν ἧττον ὄντων καὶ αὐτὸ ἧττον ὄν;
πῶς γὰρ οὔ;
εἰ ἄρα τὸ πληροῦσθαι τῶν φύσει προσηκόντων ἡδύ ἐστι, τὸ τῷ ὄντι καὶ τῶν ὄντων πληρούμενον μᾶλλον μᾶλλον [585e] ὄντως τε καὶ ἀληθεστέρως χαίρειν ἂν ποιοῖ ἡδονῇ ἀληθεῖ, τὸ δὲ τῶν ἧττον ὄντων μεταλαμβάνον ἧττόν τε ἂν ἀληθῶς καὶ βεβαίως πληροῖτο καὶ ἀπιστοτέρας ἂν ἡδονῆς καὶ ἧττον ἀληθοῦς μεταλαμβάνοι.
ἀναγκαιότατα, ἔφη.

[586a]
οἱ ἄρα φρονήσεως καὶ ἀρετῆς ἄπειροι, εὐωχίαις δὲ καὶ τοῖς τοιούτοις ἀεὶ συνόντες, κάτω, ὡς ἔοικεν, καὶ μέχρι πάλιν πρὸς τὸ μεταξὺ φέρονταί τε καὶ ταύτῃ πλανῶνται διὰ βίου, ὑπερβάντες δὲ τοῦτο πρὸς τὸ ἀληθῶς ἄνω οὔτε ἀνέβλεψαν πώποτε οὔτε ἠνέχθησαν, οὐδὲ τοῦ ὄντος τῷ ὄντι ἐπληρώθησαν, οὐδὲ βεβαίου τε καὶ καθαρᾶς ἡδονῆς ἐγεύσαντο, ἀλλὰ βοσκημάτων δίκην κάτω ἀεὶ βλέποντες καὶ κεκυφότες εἰς γῆν καὶ εἰς τραπέζας βόσκονται χορταζόμενοι καὶ ὀχεύοντες, [586b] καὶ ἕνεκα τῆς τούτων πλεονεξίας λακτίζοντες καὶ κυρίττοντες ἀλλήλους σιδηροῖς κέρασί τε καὶ ὁπλαῖς ἀποκτεινύασι διʼ ἀπληστίαν, ἅτε οὐχὶ τοῖς οὖσιν οὐδὲ τὸ ὂν οὐδὲ τὸ στέγον ἑαυτῶν πιμπλάντες.
παντελῶς, ἔφη ὁ Γλαύκων, τὸν τῶν πολλῶν, ὦ Σώκρατες, χρησμῳδεῖς βίον.
ἆρʼ οὖν οὐκ ἀνάγκη καὶ ἡδοναῖς συνεῖναι μεμειγμέναις λύπαις, εἰδώλοις τῆς ἀληθοῦς ἡδονῆς καὶ ἐσκιαγραφημέναις, [586c] ὑπὸ τῆς παρʼ ἀλλήλας θέσεως ἀποχραινομέναις, ὥστε σφοδροὺς ἑκατέρας φαίνεσθαι, καὶ ἔρωτας ἑαυτῶν λυττῶντας τοῖς ἄφροσιν ἐντίκτειν καὶ περιμαχήτους εἶναι, ὥσπερ τὸ τῆς Ἑλένης εἴδωλον ὑπὸ τῶν ἐν Τροίᾳ Στησίχορός φησι γενέσθαι περιμάχητον ἀγνοίᾳ τοῦ ἀληθοῦς;
πολλὴ ἀνάγκη, ἔφη, τοιοῦτόν τι αὐτὸ εἶναι.
τί δέ; περὶ τὸ θυμοειδὲς οὐχ ἕτερα τοιαῦτα ἀνάγκη γίγνεσθαι, ὃς ἂν αὐτὸ τοῦτο διαπράττηται ἢ φθόνῳ διὰ φιλοτιμίαν ἢ βίᾳ διὰ φιλονικίαν ἢ θυμῷ διὰ δυσκολίαν, [586d] πλησμονὴν τιμῆς τε καὶ νίκης καὶ θυμοῦ διώκων ἄνευ λογισμοῦ τε καὶ νοῦ;
τοιαῦτα, ἦ δʼ ὅς, ἀνάγκη καὶ περὶ τοῦτο εἶναι.
τί οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ· θαρροῦντες λέγωμεν ὅτι καὶ περὶ τὸ φιλοκερδὲς καὶ τὸ φιλόνικον ὅσαι ἐπιθυμίαι εἰσίν, αἳ μὲν ἂν τῇ ἐπιστήμῃ καὶ λόγῳ ἑπόμεναι καὶ μετὰ τούτων τὰς ἡδονὰς διώκουσαι, ἃς ἂν τὸ φρόνιμον ἐξηγῆται, λαμβάνωσι, τὰς ἀληθεστάτας τε λήψονται, ὡς οἷόν τε αὐταῖς ἀληθεῖς [586e] λαβεῖν, ἅτε ἀληθείᾳ ἑπομένων, καὶ τὰς ἑαυτῶν οἰκείας, εἴπερ τὸ βέλτιστον ἑκάστῳ, τοῦτο καὶ οἰκειότατον;
ἀλλὰ μήν, ἔφη, οἰκειότατόν γε.
τῷ φιλοσόφῳ ἄρα ἑπομένης ἁπάσης τῆς ψυχῆς καὶ μὴ στασιαζούσης ἑκάστῳ τῷ μέρει ὑπάρχει εἴς τε τἆλλα τὰ ἑαυτοῦ πράττειν καὶ δικαίῳ εἶναι, καὶ δὴ καὶ τὰς ἡδονὰς τὰς ἑαυτοῦ ἕκαστον καὶ τὰς βελτίστας καὶ εἰς τὸ δυνατὸν τὰς

### Book IX, 587–592

[587a]
ἀληθεστάτας καρποῦσθαι.
κομιδῇ μὲν οὖν.
ὅταν δὲ ἄρα τῶν ἑτέρων τι κρατήσῃ, ὑπάρχει αὐτῷ μήτε τὴν ἑαυτοῦ ἡδονὴν ἐξευρίσκειν, τά τε ἄλλʼ ἀναγκάζειν ἀλλοτρίαν καὶ μὴ ἀληθῆ ἡδονὴν διώκειν.
οὕτως, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν ἃ πλεῖστον φιλοσοφίας τε καὶ λόγου ἀφέστηκεν, μάλιστʼ ἂν τοιαῦτα ἐξεργάζοιτο;
πολύ γε.
πλεῖστον δὲ λόγου ἀφίσταται οὐχ ὅπερ νόμου τε καὶ τάξεως;
δῆλον δή.
ἐφάνησαν δὲ πλεῖστον ἀφεστῶσαι οὐχ αἱ ἐρωτικαί τε [587b] καὶ τυραννικαὶ ἐπιθυμίαι;
πολύ γε.
ἐλάχιστον δὲ αἱ βασιλικαί τε καὶ κόσμιαι;
ναί.
πλεῖστον δὴ οἶμαι ἀληθοῦς ἡδονῆς καὶ οἰκείας ὁ τύραννος ἀφεστήξει, ὁ δὲ ὀλίγιστον.
ἀνάγκη.
καὶ ἀηδέστατα ἄρα, εἶπον, ὁ τύραννος βιώσεται, ὁ δὲ βασιλεὺς ἥδιστα.
πολλὴ ἀνάγκη.
οἶσθʼ οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὅσῳ ἀηδέστερον ζῇ τύραννος βασιλέως;
ἂν εἴπῃς, ἔφη.
τριῶν ἡδονῶν, ὡς ἔοικεν, οὐσῶν, μιᾶς μὲν γνησίας, δυοῖν [587c] δὲ νόθαιν, τῶν νόθων εἰς τὸ ἐπέκεινα ὑπερβὰς ὁ τύραννος, φυγὼν νόμον τε καὶ λόγον, δούλαις τισὶ δορυφόροις ἡδοναῖς συνοικεῖ, καὶ ὁπόσῳ ἐλαττοῦται οὐδὲ πάνυ ῥᾴδιον εἰπεῖν, πλὴν ἴσως ὧδε.
πῶς; ἔφη.
ἀπὸ τοῦ ὀλιγαρχικοῦ τρίτος που ὁ τύραννος ἀφειστήκει· ἐν μέσῳ γὰρ αὐτῶν ὁ δημοτικὸς ἦν.
ναί.
οὐκοῦν καὶ ἡδονῆς τρίτῳ εἰδώλῳ πρὸς ἀλήθειαν ἀπʼ ἐκείνου συνοικοῖ ἄν, εἰ τὰ πρόσθεν ἀληθῆ;
οὕτω.
ὁ δέ γε ὀλιγαρχικὸς ἀπὸ τοῦ βασιλικοῦ αὖ τρίτος, ἐὰν [587d] εἰς ταὐτὸν ἀριστοκρατικὸν καὶ βασιλικὸν τιθῶμεν.
τρίτος γάρ.
τριπλασίου ἄρα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τριπλάσιον ἀριθμῷ ἀληθοῦς ἡδονῆς ἀφέστηκεν τύραννος.
φαίνεται.
ἐπίπεδον ἄρʼ, ἔφην, ὡς ἔοικεν, τὸ εἴδωλον κατὰ τὸν τοῦ μήκους ἀριθμὸν ἡδονῆς τυραννικῆς ἂν εἴη.
κομιδῇ γε.
κατὰ δὲ δύναμιν καὶ τρίτην αὔξην δῆλον δὴ ἀπόστασιν ὅσην ἀφεστηκὼς γίγνεται.
δῆλον, ἔφη, τῷ γε λογιστικῷ.
οὐκοῦν ἐάν τις μεταστρέψας ἀληθείᾳ ἡδονῆς τὸν βασιλέα [587e] τοῦ τυράννου ἀφεστηκότα λέγῃ ὅσον ἀφέστηκεν, ἐννεακαιεικοσικαιεπτακοσιοπλασιάκις ἥδιον αὐτὸν ζῶντα εὑρήσει τελειωθείσῃ τῇ πολλαπλασιώσει, τὸν δὲ τύραννον ἀνιαρότερον τῇ αὐτῇ ταύτῃ ἀποστάσει.
ἀμήχανον, ἔφη, λογισμὸν καταπεφόρηκας τῆς διαφορότητος

[588a]
τοῖν ἀνδροῖν, τοῦ τε δικαίου καὶ τοῦ ἀδίκου, πρὸς ἡδονήν τε καὶ λύπην.
καὶ μέντοι καὶ ἀληθῆ καὶ προσήκοντά γε, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, βίοις ἀριθμόν, εἴπερ αὐτοῖς προσήκουσιν ἡμέραι καὶ νύκτες καὶ μῆνες καὶ ἐνιαυτοί.
ἀλλὰ μήν, ἔφη, προσήκουσιν.
οὐκοῦν εἰ τοσοῦτον ἡδονῇ νικᾷ ὁ ἀγαθός τε καὶ δίκαιος τὸν κακόν τε καὶ ἄδικον, ἀμηχάνῳ δὴ ὅσῳ πλείονι νικήσει εὐσχημοσύνῃ τε βίου καὶ κάλλει καὶ ἀρετῇ;
ἀμηχάνῳ μέντοι νὴ Δία, ἔφη. [588b]
εἶεν δή, εἶπον· ἐπειδὴ ἐνταῦθα λόγου γεγόναμεν, ἀναλάβωμεν τὰ πρῶτα λεχθέντα, διʼ ἃ δεῦρʼ ἥκομεν. ἦν δέ που λεγόμενον λυσιτελεῖν ἀδικεῖν τῷ τελέως μὲν ἀδίκῳ, δοξαζομένῳ δὲ δικαίῳ· ἢ οὐχ οὕτως ἐλέχθη;
οὕτω μὲν οὖν.
νῦν δή, ἔφην, αὐτῷ διαλεγώμεθα, ἐπειδὴ διωμολογησάμεθα τό τε ἀδικεῖν καὶ τὸ δίκαια πράττειν ἣν ἑκάτερον ἔχει δύναμιν.
πῶς; ἔφη.
εἰκόνα πλάσαντες τῆς ψυχῆς λόγῳ, ἵνα εἰδῇ ὁ ἐκεῖνα λέγων οἷα ἔλεγεν. [588c]
ποίαν τινά; ἦ δʼ ὅς.
τῶν τοιούτων τινά, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, οἷαι μυθολογοῦνται παλαιαὶ γενέσθαι φύσεις, ἥ τε Χιμαίρας καὶ ἡ Σκύλλης καὶ Κερβέρου, καὶ ἄλλαι τινὲς συχναὶ λέγονται συμπεφυκυῖαι ἰδέαι πολλαὶ εἰς ἓν γενέσθαι.
λέγονται γάρ, ἔφη.
πλάττε τοίνυν μίαν μὲν ἰδέαν θηρίου ποικίλου καὶ πολυκεφάλου, ἡμέρων δὲ θηρίων ἔχοντος κεφαλὰς κύκλῳ καὶ ἀγρίων, καὶ δυνατοῦ μεταβάλλειν καὶ φύειν ἐξ αὑτοῦ πάντα ταῦτα. [588d]
δεινοῦ πλάστου, ἔφη, τὸ ἔργον· ὅμως δέ, ἐπειδὴ εὐπλαστότερον κηροῦ καὶ τῶν τοιούτων λόγος, πεπλάσθω.
μίαν δὴ τοίνυν ἄλλην ἰδέαν λέοντος, μίαν δὲ ἀνθρώπου· πολὺ δὲ μέγιστον ἔστω τὸ πρῶτον καὶ δεύτερον τὸ δεύτερον.
ταῦτα, ἔφη, ῥᾴω, καὶ πέπλασται.
σύναπτε τοίνυν αὐτὰ εἰς ἓν τρία ὄντα, ὥστε πῃ συμπεφυκέναι ἀλλήλοις.
συνῆπται, ἔφη.
περίπλασον δὴ αὐτοῖς ἔξωθεν ἑνὸς εἰκόνα, τὴν τοῦ ἀνθρώπου, ὥστε τῷ μὴ δυναμένῳ τὰ ἐντὸς ὁρᾶν, ἀλλὰ τὸ [588e] ἔξω μόνον ἔλυτρον ὁρῶντι, ἓν ζῷον φαίνεσθαι, ἄνθρωπον.
περιπέπλασται, ἔφη.
λέγωμεν δὴ τῷ λέγοντι ὡς λυσιτελεῖ τούτῳ ἀδικεῖν τῷ ἀνθρώπῳ, δίκαια δὲ πράττειν οὐ συμφέρει, ὅτι οὐδὲν ἄλλο φησὶν ἢ λυσιτελεῖν αὐτῷ τὸ παντοδαπὸν θηρίον εὐωχοῦντι ποιεῖν ἰσχυρὸν καὶ τὸν λέοντα καὶ τὰ περὶ τὸν λέοντα, τὸν

[589a]
δὲ ἄνθρωπον λιμοκτονεῖν καὶ ποιεῖν ἀσθενῆ, ὥστε ἕλκεσθαι ὅπῃ ἂν ἐκείνων ὁπότερον ἄγῃ, καὶ μηδὲν ἕτερον ἑτέρῳ συνεθίζειν μηδὲ φίλον ποιεῖν, ἀλλʼ ἐᾶν αὐτὰ ἐν αὑτοῖς δάκνεσθαί τε καὶ μαχόμενα ἐσθίειν ἄλληλα.
παντάπασι γάρ, ἔφη, ταῦτʼ ἂν λέγοι ὁ τὸ ἀδικεῖν ἐπαινῶν.
οὐκοῦν αὖ ὁ τὰ δίκαια λέγων λυσιτελεῖν φαίη ἂν δεῖν ταῦτα πράττειν καὶ ταῦτα λέγειν, ὅθεν τοῦ ἀνθρώπου ὁ ἐντὸς [589b] ἄνθρωπος ἔσται ἐγκρατέστατος, καὶ τοῦ πολυκεφάλου θρέμματος ἐπιμελήσεται ὥσπερ γεωργός, τὰ μὲν ἥμερα τρέφων καὶ τιθασεύων, τὰ δὲ ἄγρια ἀποκωλύων φύεσθαι, σύμμαχον ποιησάμενος τὴν τοῦ λέοντος φύσιν, καὶ κοινῇ πάντων κηδόμενος, φίλα ποιησάμενος ἀλλήλοις τε καὶ αὑτῷ, οὕτω θρέψει;
κομιδῇ γὰρ αὖ λέγει ταῦτα ὁ τὸ δίκαιον ἐπαινῶν.
κατὰ πάντα τρόπον δὴ ὁ μὲν τὰ δίκαια ἐγκωμιάζων ἀληθῆ [589c] ἂν λέγοι, ὁ δὲ τὰ ἄδικα ψεύδοιτο. πρός τε γὰρ ἡδονὴν καὶ πρὸς εὐδοξίαν καὶ ὠφελίαν σκοπουμένῳ ὁ μὲν ἐπαινέτης τοῦ δικαίου ἀληθεύει, ὁ δὲ ψέκτης οὐδὲν ὑγιὲς οὐδʼ εἰδὼς ψέγει ὅτι ψέγει.
οὔ μοι δοκεῖ, ἦ δʼ ὅς, οὐδαμῇ γε.
πείθωμεν τοίνυν αὐτὸν πρᾴως—οὐ γὰρ ἑκὼν ἁμαρτάνει —ἐρωτῶντες· ὦ μακάριε, οὐ καὶ τὰ καλὰ καὶ αἰσχρὰ νόμιμα διὰ τὰ τοιαῦτʼ ἂν φαῖμεν γεγονέναι· τὰ μὲν καλὰ τὰ ὑπὸ [589d] τῷ ἀνθρώπῳ, μᾶλλον δὲ ἴσως τὰ ὑπὸ τῷ θείῳ τὰ θηριώδη ποιοῦντα τῆς φύσεως, αἰσχρὰ δὲ τὰ ὑπὸ τῷ ἀγρίῳ τὸ ἥμερον δουλούμενα; συμφήσει· ἢ πῶς;
ἐάν μοι, ἔφη, πείθηται.
ἔστιν οὖν, εἶπον, ὅτῳ λυσιτελεῖ ἐκ τούτου τοῦ λόγου χρυσίον λαμβάνειν ἀδίκως, εἴπερ τοιόνδε τι γίγνεται, λαμβάνων τὸ χρυσίον ἅμα καταδουλοῦται τὸ βέλτιστον ἑαυτοῦ [589e] τῷ μοχθηροτάτῳ; ἢ εἰ μὲν λαβὼν χρυσίον ὑὸν ἢ θυγατέρα ἐδουλοῦτο, καὶ ταῦτʼ εἰς ἀγρίων τε καὶ κακῶν ἀνδρῶν, οὐκ ἂν αὐτῷ ἐλυσιτέλει οὐδʼ ἂν πάμπολυ ἐπὶ τούτῳ λαμβάνειν, εἰ δὲ τὸ ἑαυτοῦ θειότατον ὑπὸ τῷ ἀθεωτάτῳ τε καὶ μιαρωτάτῳ δουλοῦται καὶ μηδὲν ἐλεεῖ, οὐκ ἄρα ἄθλιός ἐστι καὶ πολὺ

[590a]
ἐπὶ δεινοτέρῳ ὀλέθρῳ χρυσὸν δωροδοκεῖ ἢ Ἐριφύλη ἐπὶ τῇ τοῦ ἀνδρὸς ψυχῇ τὸν ὅρμον δεξαμένη;
πολὺ μέντοι, ἦ δʼ ὃς ὁ Γλαύκων· ἐγὼ γάρ σοι ὑπὲρ ἐκείνου ἀποκρινοῦμαι.
οὐκοῦν καὶ τὸ ἀκολασταίνειν οἴει διὰ τοιαῦτα πάλαι ψέγεσθαι, ὅτι ἀνίεται ἐν τῷ τοιούτῳ τὸ δεινόν, τὸ μέγα ἐκεῖνο καὶ πολυειδὲς θρέμμα, πέρα τοῦ δέοντος;
δῆλον, ἔφη.
ἡ δʼ αὐθάδεια καὶ δυσκολία ψέγεται οὐχ ὅταν τὸ λεοντῶδές [590b] τε καὶ ὀφεῶδες αὔξηται καὶ συντείνηται ἀναρμόστως;
πάνυ μὲν οὖν.
τρυφὴ δὲ καὶ μαλθακία οὐκ ἐπὶ τῇ αὐτοῦ τούτου χαλάσει τε καὶ ἀνέσει ψέγεται, ὅταν ἐν αὐτῷ δειλίαν ἐμποιῇ;
τί μήν;
κολακεία δὲ καὶ ἀνελευθερία οὐχ ὅταν τις τὸ αὐτὸ τοῦτο, τὸ θυμοειδές, ὑπὸ τῷ ὀχλώδει θηρίῳ ποιῇ καὶ ἕνεκα χρημάτων καὶ τῆς ἐκείνου ἀπληστίας προπηλακιζόμενον ἐθίζῃ ἐκ νέου ἀντὶ λέοντος πίθηκον γίγνεσθαι; [590c]
καὶ μάλα, ἔφη.
βαναυσία δὲ καὶ χειροτεχνία διὰ τί οἴει ὄνειδος φέρει; ἢ διʼ ἄλλο τι φήσομεν ἢ ὅταν τις ἀσθενὲς φύσει ἔχῃ τὸ τοῦ βελτίστου εἶδος, ὥστε μὴ ἂν δύνασθαι ἄρχειν τῶν ἐν αὑτῷ θρεμμάτων, ἀλλὰ θεραπεύειν ἐκεῖνα, καὶ τὰ θωπεύματα αὐτῶν μόνον δύνηται μανθάνειν;
ἔοικεν, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν ἵνα καὶ ὁ τοιοῦτος ὑπὸ ὁμοίου ἄρχηται οἵουπερ ὁ βέλτιστος, δοῦλον αὐτόν φαμεν δεῖν εἶναι ἐκείνου τοῦ βελτίστου [590d] καὶ ἔχοντος ἐν αὑτῷ τὸ θεῖον ἄρχον, οὐκ ἐπὶ βλάβῃ τῇ τοῦ δούλου οἰόμενοι δεῖν ἄρχεσθαι αὐτόν, ὥσπερ Θρασύμαχος ᾤετο τοὺς ἀρχομένους, ἀλλʼ ὡς ἄμεινον ὂν παντὶ ὑπὸ θείου καὶ φρονίμου ἄρχεσθαι, μάλιστα μὲν οἰκεῖον ἔχοντος ἐν αὑτῷ, εἰ δὲ μή, ἔξωθεν ἐφεστῶτος, ἵνα εἰς δύναμιν πάντες ὅμοιοι ὦμεν καὶ φίλοι, τῷ αὐτῷ κυβερνώμενοι;
καὶ ὀρθῶς γʼ, ἔφη. [590e]
δηλοῖ δέ γε, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καὶ ὁ νόμος ὅτι τοιοῦτον βούλεται, πᾶσι τοῖς ἐν τῇ πόλει σύμμαχος ὤν·
καὶ ἡ τῶν παίδων ἀρχή, τὸ μὴ ἐᾶν ἐλευθέρους εἶναι, ἕως ἂν ἐν αὐτοῖς ὥσπερ ἐν πόλει πολιτείαν καταστήσωμεν, καὶ τὸ βέλτιστον

[591a]
θεραπεύσαντες τῷ παρʼ ἡμῖν τοιούτῳ ἀντικαταστήσωμεν φύλακα ὅμοιον καὶ ἄρχοντα ἐν αὐτῷ, καὶ τότε δὴ ἐλεύθερον ἀφίεμεν.
δηλοῖ γάρ, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
πῇ δὴ οὖν φήσομεν, ὦ Γλαύκων, καὶ κατὰ τίνα λόγον λυσιτελεῖν ἀδικεῖν, ἢ ἀκολασταίνειν ἤ τι αἰσχρὸν ποιεῖν, ἐξ ὧν πονηρότερος μὲν ἔσται, πλείω δὲ χρήματα ἢ ἄλλην τινὰ δύναμιν κεκτήσεται;
οὐδαμῇ, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
πῇ δʼ ἀδικοῦντα λανθάνειν καὶ μὴ διδόναι δίκην λυσιτελεῖν; [591b] ἢ οὐχὶ ὁ μὲν λανθάνων ἔτι πονηρότερος γίγνεται, τοῦ δὲ μὴ λανθάνοντος καὶ κολαζομένου τὸ μὲν θηριῶδες κοιμίζεται καὶ ἡμεροῦται, τὸ δὲ ἥμερον ἐλευθεροῦται, καὶ ὅλη ἡ ψυχὴ εἰς τὴν βελτίστην φύσιν καθισταμένη τιμιωτέραν ἕξιν λαμβάνει, σωφροσύνην τε καὶ δικαιοσύνην μετὰ φρονήσεως κτωμένη, ἢ σῶμα ἰσχύν τε καὶ κάλλος μετὰ ὑγιείας λαμβάνον, τοσούτῳ ὅσῳπερ ψυχὴ σώματος τιμιωτέρα;
παντάπασιν μὲν οὖν, ἔφη. [591c]
οὐκοῦν ὅ γε νοῦν ἔχων πάντα τὰ αὑτοῦ εἰς τοῦτο συντείνας βιώσεται, πρῶτον μὲν τὰ μαθήματα τιμῶν, ἃ τοιαύτην αὐτοῦ τὴν ψυχὴν ἀπεργάσεται, τὰ δὲ ἄλλα ἀτιμάζων;
δῆλον, ἔφη.
ἔπειτά γʼ, εἶπον, τὴν τοῦ σώματος ἕξιν καὶ τροφὴν οὐχ ὅπως τῇ θηριώδει καὶ ἀλόγῳ ἡδονῇ ἐπιτρέψας ἐνταῦθα τετραμμένος ζήσει, ἀλλʼ οὐδὲ πρὸς ὑγίειαν βλέπων, οὐδὲ τοῦτο πρεσβεύων, ὅπως ἰσχυρὸς ἢ ὑγιὴς ἢ καλὸς ἔσται, ἐὰν μὴ [591d] καὶ σωφρονήσειν μέλλῃ ἀπʼ αὐτῶν, ἀλλʼ ἀεὶ τὴν ἐν τῷ σώματι ἁρμονίαν τῆς ἐν τῇ ψυχῇ ἕνεκα συμφωνίας ἁρμοττόμενος φανεῖται.
παντάπασι μὲν οὖν, ἔφη, ἐάνπερ μέλλῃ τῇ ἀληθείᾳ μουσικὸς εἶναι.
οὐκοῦν, εἶπον, καὶ τὴν ἐν τῇ τῶν χρημάτων κτήσει σύνταξίν τε καὶ συμφωνίαν; καὶ τὸν ὄγκον τοῦ πλήθους οὐκ ἐκπληττόμενος ὑπὸ τοῦ τῶν πολλῶν μακαρισμοῦ ἄπειρον αὐξήσει, ἀπέραντα κακὰ ἔχων;
οὐκ οἴομαι, ἔφη. [591e]
ἀλλʼ ἀποβλέπων γε, εἶπον, πρὸς τὴν ἐν αὑτῷ πολιτείαν, καὶ φυλάττων μή τι παρακινῇ αὑτοῦ τῶν ἐκεῖ διὰ πλῆθος οὐσίας ἢ διʼ ὀλιγότητα, οὕτως κυβερνῶν προσθήσει καὶ ἀναλώσει τῆς οὐσίας καθʼ ὅσον ἂν οἷός τʼ ᾖ.
κομιδῇ μὲν οὖν, ἔφη.

[592a]
ἀλλὰ μὴν καὶ τιμάς γε, εἰς ταὐτὸν ἀποβλέπων, τῶν μὲν μεθέξει καὶ γεύσεται ἑκών, ἃς ἂν ἡγῆται ἀμείνω αὑτὸν ποιήσειν, ἃς δʼ ἂν λύσειν τὴν ὑπάρχουσαν ἕξιν, φεύξεται ἰδίᾳ καὶ δημοσίᾳ.
οὐκ ἄρα, ἔφη, τά γε πολιτικὰ ἐθελήσει πράττειν, ἐάνπερ τούτου κήδηται.
νὴ τὸν κύνα, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἔν γε τῇ ἑαυτοῦ πόλει καὶ μάλα, οὐ μέντοι ἴσως ἔν γε τῇ πατρίδι, ἐὰν μὴ θεία τις συμβῇ τύχη.
μανθάνω, ἔφη· ἐν ᾗ νῦν διήλθομεν οἰκίζοντες πόλει λέγεις, τῇ ἐν λόγοις κειμένῃ, ἐπεὶ γῆς γε οὐδαμοῦ οἶμαι [592b] αὐτὴν εἶναι.
ἀλλʼ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἐν οὐρανῷ ἴσως παράδειγμα ἀνάκειται τῷ βουλομένῳ ὁρᾶν καὶ ὁρῶντι ἑαυτὸν κατοικίζειν. διαφέρει δὲ οὐδὲν εἴτε που ἔστιν εἴτε ἔσται· τὰ γὰρ ταύτης μόνης ἂν πράξειεν, ἄλλης δὲ οὐδεμιᾶς.
εἰκός γʼ, ἔφη.

### Book X, 595–602

[595a]
καὶ μήν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, πολλὰ μὲν καὶ ἄλλα περὶ αὐτῆς ἐννοῶ, ὡς παντὸς ἄρα μᾶλλον ὀρθῶς ᾠκίζομεν τὴν πόλιν, οὐχ ἥκιστα δὲ ἐνθυμηθεὶς περὶ ποιήσεως λέγω.
τὸ ποῖον; ἔφη.
τὸ μηδαμῇ παραδέχεσθαι αὐτῆς ὅση μιμητική· παντὸς γὰρ μᾶλλον οὐ παραδεκτέα νῦν καὶ ἐναργέστερον, ὡς ἐμοὶ δοκεῖ, φαίνεται, ἐπειδὴ χωρὶς ἕκαστα διῄρηται τὰ τῆς ψυχῆς [595b] εἴδη.
πῶς λέγεις;
ὡς μὲν πρὸς ὑμᾶς εἰρῆσθαι—οὐ γάρ μου κατερεῖτε πρὸς τοὺς τῆς τραγῳδίας ποιητὰς καὶ τοὺς ἄλλους ἅπαντας τοὺς μιμητικούς—λώβη ἔοικεν εἶναι πάντα τὰ τοιαῦτα τῆς τῶν ἀκουόντων διανοίας, ὅσοι μὴ ἔχουσι φάρμακον τὸ εἰδέναι αὐτὰ οἷα τυγχάνει ὄντα.
πῇ δή, ἔφη, διανοούμενος λέγεις;
ῥητέον, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ· καίτοι φιλία γέ τίς με καὶ αἰδὼς ἐκ παιδὸς ἔχουσα περὶ Ὁμήρου ἀποκωλύει λέγειν. ἔοικε μὲν [595c] γὰρ τῶν καλῶν ἁπάντων τούτων τῶν τραγικῶν πρῶτος διδάσκαλός τε καὶ ἡγεμὼν γενέσθαι. ἀλλʼ οὐ γὰρ πρό γε τῆς ἀληθείας τιμητέος ἀνήρ, ἀλλʼ, ὃ λέγω, ῥητέον.
πάνυ μὲν οὖν, ἔφη.
ἄκουε δή, μᾶλλον δὲ ἀποκρίνου.
Ἐρώτα.
μίμησιν ὅλως ἔχοις ἄν μοι εἰπεῖν ὅτι ποτʼ ἐστίν; οὐδὲ γάρ τοι αὐτὸς πάνυ τι συννοῶ τί βούλεται εἶναι.
ἦ που ἄρʼ, ἔφη, ἐγὼ συννοήσω.
οὐδέν γε, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἄτοπον, ἐπεὶ πολλά τοι ὀξύτερον

[596a]
βλεπόντων ἀμβλύτερον ὁρῶντες πρότεροι εἶδον.
ἔστιν, ἔφη, οὕτως· ἀλλὰ σοῦ παρόντος οὐδʼ ἂν προθυμηθῆναι οἷός τε εἴην εἰπεῖν, εἴ τί μοι καταφαίνεται, ἀλλʼ αὐτὸς ὅρα.
βούλει οὖν ἐνθένδε ἀρξώμεθα ἐπισκοποῦντες, ἐκ τῆς εἰωθυίας μεθόδου; εἶδος γάρ πού τι ἓν ἕκαστον εἰώθαμεν τίθεσθαι περὶ ἕκαστα τὰ πολλά, οἷς ταὐτὸν ὄνομα ἐπιφέρομεν. ἢ οὐ μανθάνεις;
μανθάνω.
θῶμεν δὴ καὶ νῦν ὅτι βούλει τῶν πολλῶν. οἷον, εἰ [596b] ʼθʼέλεις, πολλαί πού εἰσι κλῖναι καὶ τράπεζαι.
πῶς δʼ οὔ;
ἀλλὰ ἰδέαι γέ που περὶ ταῦτα τὰ σκεύη δύο, μία μὲν κλίνης, μία δὲ τραπέζης.
ναί.
οὐκοῦν καὶ εἰώθαμεν λέγειν ὅτι ὁ δημιουργὸς ἑκατέρου τοῦ σκεύους πρὸς τὴν ἰδέαν βλέπων οὕτω ποιεῖ ὁ μὲν τὰς κλίνας, ὁ δὲ τὰς τραπέζας, αἷς ἡμεῖς χρώμεθα, καὶ τἆλλα κατὰ ταὐτά; οὐ γάρ που τήν γε ἰδέαν αὐτὴν δημιουργεῖ οὐδεὶς τῶν δημιουργῶν· πῶς γάρ;
οὐδαμῶς.
ἀλλʼ ὅρα δὴ καὶ τόνδε τίνα καλεῖς τὸν δημιουργόν. [596c]
τὸν ποῖον;
ὃς πάντα ποιεῖ, ὅσαπερ εἷς ἕκαστος τῶν χειροτεχνῶν.
δεινόν τινα λέγεις καὶ θαυμαστὸν ἄνδρα.
οὔπω γε, ἀλλὰ τάχα μᾶλλον φήσεις. ὁ αὐτὸς γὰρ οὗτος χειροτέχνης οὐ μόνον πάντα οἷός τε σκεύη ποιῆσαι, ἀλλὰ καὶ τὰ ἐκ τῆς γῆς φυόμενα ἅπαντα ποιεῖ καὶ ζῷα πάντα ἐργάζεται, τά τε ἄλλα καὶ ἑαυτόν, καὶ πρὸς τούτοις γῆν καὶ οὐρανὸν καὶ θεοὺς καὶ πάντα τὰ ἐν οὐρανῷ καὶ τὰ ἐν Ἅιδου ὑπὸ γῆς ἅπαντα ἐργάζεται. [596d]
πάνυ θαυμαστόν, ἔφη, λέγεις σοφιστήν.
ἀπιστεῖς; ἦν δʼ ἐγώ. καί μοι εἰπέ, τὸ παράπαν οὐκ ἄν σοι δοκεῖ εἶναι τοιοῦτος δημιουργός, ἢ τινὶ μὲν τρόπῳ γενέσθαι ἂν τούτων ἁπάντων ποιητής, τινὶ δὲ οὐκ ἄν; ἢ οὐκ αἰσθάνῃ ὅτι κἂν αὐτὸς οἷός τʼ εἴης πάντα ταῦτα ποιῆσαι τρόπῳ γέ τινι;
καὶ τίς, ἔφη, ὁ τρόπος οὗτος;
οὐ χαλεπός, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἀλλὰ πολλαχῇ καὶ ταχὺ δημιουργούμενος, τάχιστα δέ που, εἰ ʼθέλεις λαβὼν κάτοπτρον [596e] περιφέρειν πανταχῇ· ταχὺ μὲν ἥλιον ποιήσεις καὶ τὰ ἐν τῷ οὐρανῷ, ταχὺ δὲ γῆν, ταχὺ δὲ σαυτόν τε καὶ τἆλλα ζῷα καὶ σκεύη καὶ φυτὰ καὶ πάντα ὅσα νυνδὴ ἐλέγετο.
ναί, ἔφη, φαινόμενα, οὐ μέντοι ὄντα γέ που τῇ ἀληθείᾳ.
καλῶς, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, καὶ εἰς δέον ἔρχῃ τῷ λόγῳ. τῶν τοιούτων γὰρ οἶμαι δημιουργῶν καὶ ὁ ζωγράφος ἐστίν. ἦ γάρ;
πῶς γὰρ οὔ;
ἀλλὰ φήσεις οὐκ ἀληθῆ οἶμαι αὐτὸν ποιεῖν ἃ ποιεῖ. καίτοι τρόπῳ γέ τινι καὶ ὁ ζωγράφος κλίνην ποιεῖ· ἢ οὔ;
ναί, ἔφη, φαινομένην γε καὶ οὗτος.

[597a]
τί δὲ ὁ κλινοποιός; οὐκ ἄρτι μέντοι ἔλεγες ὅτι οὐ τὸ εἶδος ποιεῖ, ὃ δή φαμεν εἶναι ὃ ἔστι κλίνη, ἀλλὰ κλίνην τινά;
ἔλεγον γάρ.
οὐκοῦν εἰ μὴ ὃ ἔστιν ποιεῖ, οὐκ ἂν τὸ ὂν ποιοῖ, ἀλλά τι τοιοῦτον οἷον τὸ ὄν, ὂν δὲ οὔ· τελέως δὲ εἶναι ὂν τὸ τοῦ κλινουργοῦ ἔργον ἢ ἄλλου τινὸς χειροτέχνου εἴ τις φαίη, κινδυνεύει οὐκ ἂν ἀληθῆ λέγειν;
οὔκουν, ἔφη, ὥς γʼ ἂν δόξειεν τοῖς περὶ τοὺς τοιούσδε λόγους διατρίβουσιν.
μηδὲν ἄρα θαυμάζωμεν εἰ καὶ τοῦτο ἀμυδρόν τι τυγχάνει ὂν πρὸς ἀλήθειαν. [597b]
μὴ γάρ.
βούλει οὖν, ἔφην, ἐπʼ αὐτῶν τούτων ζητήσωμεν τὸν μιμητὴν τοῦτον, τίς ποτʼ ἐστίν;
εἰ βούλει, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν τριτταί τινες κλῖναι αὗται γίγνονται· μία μὲν ἡ ἐν τῇ φύσει οὖσα, ἣν φαῖμεν ἄν, ὡς ἐγᾦμαι, θεὸν ἐργάσασθαι. ἢ τίνʼ ἄλλον;
οὐδένα, οἶμαι.
μία δέ γε ἣν ὁ τέκτων.
ναί, ἔφη.
μία δὲ ἣν ὁ ζωγράφος. ἦ γάρ;
ἔστω.
ζωγράφος δή, κλινοποιός, θεός, τρεῖς οὗτοι ἐπιστάται τρισὶν εἴδεσι κλινῶν.
ναὶ τρεῖς. [597c]
ὁ μὲν δὴ θεός, εἴτε οὐκ ἐβούλετο, εἴτε τις ἀνάγκη ἐπῆν μὴ πλέον ἢ μίαν ἐν τῇ φύσει ἀπεργάσασθαι αὐτὸν κλίνην, οὕτως ἐποίησεν μίαν μόνον αὐτὴν ἐκείνην ὃ ἔστιν κλίνη· δύο δὲ τοιαῦται ἢ πλείους οὔτε ἐφυτεύθησαν ὑπὸ τοῦ θεοῦ οὔτε μὴ φυῶσιν.
πῶς δή; ἔφη.
ὅτι, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, εἰ δύο μόνας ποιήσειεν, πάλιν ἂν μία ἀναφανείη ἧς ἐκεῖναι ἂν αὖ ἀμφότεραι τὸ εἶδος ἔχοιεν, καὶ εἴη ἂν ὃ ἔστιν κλίνη ἐκείνη ἀλλʼ οὐχ αἱ δύο.
ὀρθῶς, ἔφη. [597d]
ταῦτα δὴ οἶμαι εἰδὼς ὁ θεός, βουλόμενος εἶναι ὄντως κλίνης ποιητὴς ὄντως οὔσης, ἀλλὰ μὴ κλίνης τινὸς μηδὲ κλινοποιός τις, μίαν φύσει αὐτὴν ἔφυσεν.
ἔοικεν.
βούλει οὖν τοῦτον μὲν φυτουργὸν τούτου προσαγορεύωμεν, ἤ τι τοιοῦτον;
δίκαιον γοῦν, ἔφη, ἐπειδήπερ φύσει γε καὶ τοῦτο καὶ τἆλλα πάντα πεποίηκεν.
τί δὲ τὸν τέκτονα; ἆρʼ οὐ δημιουργὸν κλίνης;
ναί.
ἦ καὶ τὸν ζωγράφον δημιουργὸν καὶ ποιητὴν τοῦ τοιούτου;
οὐδαμῶς.
ἀλλὰ τί αὐτὸν κλίνης φήσεις εἶναι; [597e]
τοῦτο, ἦ δʼ ὅς, ἔμοιγε δοκεῖ μετριώτατʼ ἂν προσαγορεύεσθαι, μιμητὴς οὗ ἐκεῖνοι δημιουργοί.
εἶεν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ· τὸν τοῦ τρίτου ἄρα γεννήματος ἀπὸ τῆς φύσεως μιμητὴν καλεῖς;
πάνυ μὲν οὖν, ἔφη.
τοῦτʼ ἄρα ἔσται καὶ ὁ τραγῳδοποιός, εἴπερ μιμητής ἐστι, τρίτος τις ἀπὸ βασιλέως καὶ τῆς ἀληθείας πεφυκώς, καὶ πάντες οἱ ἄλλοι μιμηταί.
κινδυνεύει.
τὸν μὲν δὴ μιμητὴν ὡμολογήκαμεν. εἰπὲ δέ μοι περὶ

[598a]
τοῦ ζωγράφου τόδε· πότερα ἐκεῖνο αὐτὸ τὸ ἐν τῇ φύσει ἕκαστον δοκεῖ σοι ἐπιχειρεῖν μιμεῖσθαι ἢ τὰ τῶν δημιουργῶν ἔργα;
τὰ τῶν δημιουργῶν, ἔφη.
ἆρα οἷα ἔστιν ἢ οἷα φαίνεται; τοῦτο γὰρ ἔτι διόρισον.
πῶς λέγεις; ἔφη.
ὧδε· κλίνη, ἐάντε ἐκ πλαγίου αὐτὴν θεᾷ ἐάντε καταντικρὺ ἢ ὁπῃοῦν, μή τι διαφέρει αὐτὴ ἑαυτῆς, ἢ διαφέρει μὲν οὐδέν, φαίνεται δὲ ἀλλοία; καὶ τἆλλα ὡσαύτως;
οὕτως, ἔφη· φαίνεται, διαφέρει δʼ οὐδέν. [598b]
τοῦτο δὴ αὐτὸ σκόπει· πρὸς πότερον ἡ γραφικὴ πεποίηται περὶ ἕκαστον; πότερα πρὸς τὸ ὄν, ὡς ἔχει, μιμήσασθαι, ἢ πρὸς τὸ φαινόμενον, ὡς φαίνεται, φαντάσματος ἢ ἀληθείας οὖσα μίμησις;
φαντάσματος, ἔφη.
πόρρω ἄρα που τοῦ ἀληθοῦς ἡ μιμητική ἐστιν καί, ὡς ἔοικεν, διὰ τοῦτο πάντα ἀπεργάζεται, ὅτι σμικρόν τι ἑκάστου ἐφάπτεται, καὶ τοῦτο εἴδωλον. οἷον ὁ ζωγράφος, φαμέν, ζωγραφήσει ἡμῖν σκυτοτόμον, τέκτονα, τοὺς ἄλλους δημιουργούς, [598c] περὶ οὐδενὸς τούτων ἐπαΐων τῶν τεχνῶν· ἀλλʼ ὅμως παῖδάς γε καὶ ἄφρονας ἀνθρώπους, εἰ ἀγαθὸς εἴη ζωγράφος, γράψας ἂν τέκτονα καὶ πόρρωθεν ἐπιδεικνὺς ἐξαπατῷ ἂν τῷ δοκεῖν ὡς ἀληθῶς τέκτονα εἶναι.
τί δʼ οὔ;
ἀλλὰ γὰρ οἶμαι ὦ φίλε, τόδε δεῖ περὶ πάντων τῶν τοιούτων διανοεῖσθαι· ἐπειδάν τις ἡμῖν ἀπαγγέλλῃ περί του, ὡς ἐνέτυχεν ἀνθρώπῳ πάσας ἐπισταμένῳ τὰς δημιουργίας καὶ τἆλλα πάντα ὅσα εἷς ἕκαστος οἶδεν, οὐδὲν ὅτι οὐχὶ [598d] ἀκριβέστερον ὁτουοῦν ἐπισταμένῳ, ὑπολαμβάνειν δεῖ τῷ τοιούτῳ ὅτι εὐήθης τις ἄνθρωπος, καί, ὡς ἔοικεν, ἐντυχὼν γόητί τινι καὶ μιμητῇ ἐξηπατήθη, ὥστε ἔδοξεν αὐτῷ πάσσοφος εἶναι, διὰ τὸ αὐτὸς μὴ οἷός τʼ εἶναι ἐπιστήμην καὶ ἀνεπιστημοσύνην καὶ μίμησιν ἐξετάσαι.
ἀληθέστατα, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, μετὰ τοῦτο ἐπισκεπτέον τήν τε τραγῳδίαν καὶ τὸν ἡγεμόνα αὐτῆς Ὅμηρον, ἐπειδή τινων [598e] ἀκούομεν ὅτι οὗτοι πάσας μὲν τέχνας ἐπίστανται, πάντα δὲ τὰ ἀνθρώπεια τὰ πρὸς ἀρετὴν καὶ κακίαν, καὶ τά γε θεῖα· ἀνάγκη γὰρ τὸν ἀγαθὸν ποιητήν, εἰ μέλλει περὶ ὧν ἂν ποιῇ καλῶς ποιήσειν, εἰδότα ἄρα ποιεῖν, ἢ μὴ οἷόν τε εἶναι ποιεῖν.
δεῖ δὴ ἐπισκέψασθαι πότερον μιμηταῖς τούτοις οὗτοι ἐντυχόντες ἐξηπάτηνται καὶ τὰ ἔργα αὐτῶν ὁρῶντες

[599a]
οὐκ αἰσθάνονται τριττὰ ἀπέχοντα τοῦ ὄντος καὶ ῥᾴδια ποιεῖν μὴ εἰδότι τὴν ἀλήθειαν—φαντάσματα γὰρ ἀλλʼ οὐκ ὄντα ποιοῦσιν—ἤ τι καὶ λέγουσιν καὶ τῷ ὄντι οἱ ἀγαθοὶ ποιηταὶ ἴσασιν περὶ ὧν δοκοῦσιν τοῖς πολλοῖς εὖ λέγειν.
πάνυ μὲν οὖν, ἔφη, ἐξεταστέον.
οἴει οὖν, εἴ τις ἀμφότερα δύναιτο ποιεῖν, τό τε μιμηθησόμενον καὶ τὸ εἴδωλον, ἐπὶ τῇ τῶν εἰδώλων δημιουργίᾳ ἑαυτὸν ἀφεῖναι ἂν σπουδάζειν καὶ τοῦτο προστήσασθαι τοῦ [599b] ἑαυτοῦ βίου ὡς βέλτιστον ἔχοντα;
οὐκ ἔγωγε.
ἀλλʼ εἴπερ γε οἶμαι ἐπιστήμων εἴη τῇ ἀληθείᾳ τούτων πέρι ἅπερ καὶ μιμεῖται, πολὺ πρότερον ἐν τοῖς ἔργοις ἂν σπουδάσειεν ἢ ἐπὶ τοῖς μιμήμασι, καὶ πειρῷτο ἂν πολλὰ καὶ καλὰ ἔργα ἑαυτοῦ καταλιπεῖν μνημεῖα, καὶ εἶναι προθυμοῖτʼ ἂν μᾶλλον ὁ ἐγκωμιαζόμενος ἢ ὁ ἐγκωμιάζων.
οἶμαι, ἔφη· οὐ γὰρ ἐξ ἴσου ἥ τε τιμὴ καὶ ἡ ὠφελία.
τῶν μὲν τοίνυν ἄλλων πέρι μὴ ἀπαιτῶμεν λόγον Ὅμηρον [599c] ἢ ἄλλον ὁντινοῦν τῶν ποιητῶν, ἐρωτῶντες εἰ ἰατρικὸς ἦν τις αὐτῶν ἀλλὰ μὴ μιμητὴς μόνον ἰατρικῶν λόγων, τίνας ὑγιεῖς ποιητής τις τῶν παλαιῶν ἢ τῶν νέων λέγεται πεποιηκέναι, ὥσπερ Ἀσκληπιός, ἢ τίνας μαθητὰς ἰατρικῆς κατελίπετο, ὥσπερ ἐκεῖνος τοὺς ἐκγόνους, μηδʼ αὖ περὶ τὰς ἄλλας τέχνας αὐτοὺς ἐρωτῶμεν, ἀλλʼ ἐῶμεν· περὶ δὲ ὧν μεγίστων τε καὶ καλλίστων ἐπιχειρεῖ λέγειν Ὅμηρος, πολέμων τε πέρι καὶ στρατηγιῶν καὶ διοικήσεων πόλεων, καὶ [599d] παιδείας πέρι ἀνθρώπου, δίκαιόν που ἐρωτᾶν αὐτὸν πυνθανομένους· ὦ φίλε Ὅμηρε, εἴπερ μὴ τρίτος ἀπὸ τῆς ἀληθείας εἶ ἀρετῆς πέρι, εἰδώλου δημιουργός, ὃν δὴ μιμητὴν ὡρισάμεθα, ἀλλὰ καὶ δεύτερος, καὶ οἷός τε ἦσθα γιγνώσκειν ποῖα ἐπιτηδεύματα βελτίους ἢ χείρους ἀνθρώπους ποιεῖ ἰδίᾳ καὶ δημοσίᾳ, λέγε ἡμῖν τίς τῶν πόλεων διὰ σὲ βέλτιον ᾤκησεν, ὥσπερ διὰ Λυκοῦργον Λακεδαίμων καὶ διʼ ἄλλους πολλοὺς [599e] πολλαὶ μεγάλαι τε καὶ σμικραί; σὲ δὲ τίς αἰτιᾶται πόλις νομοθέτην ἀγαθὸν γεγονέναι καὶ σφᾶς ὠφεληκέναι; Χαρώνδαν μὲν γὰρ Ἰταλία καὶ Σικελία, καὶ ἡμεῖς Σόλωνα· σὲ δὲ τίς; ἕξει τινὰ εἰπεῖν;
οὐκ οἶμαι, ἔφη ὁ Γλαύκων· οὔκουν λέγεταί γε οὐδʼ ὑπʼ αὐτῶν Ὁμηριδῶν.

[600a]
ἀλλὰ δή τις πόλεμος ἐπὶ Ὁμήρου ὑπʼ ἐκείνου ἄρχοντος ἢ συμβουλεύοντος εὖ πολεμηθεὶς μνημονεύεται;
οὐδείς.
ἀλλʼ οἷα δὴ εἰς τὰ ἔργα σοφοῦ ἀνδρὸς πολλαὶ ἐπίνοιαι καὶ εὐμήχανοι εἰς τέχνας ἤ τινας ἄλλας πράξεις λέγονται, ὥσπερ αὖ Θάλεώ τε πέρι τοῦ Μιλησίου καὶ Ἀναχάρσιος τοῦ Σκύθου;
οὐδαμῶς τοιοῦτον οὐδέν.
ἀλλὰ δὴ εἰ μὴ δημοσίᾳ, ἰδίᾳ τισὶν ἡγεμὼν παιδείας αὐτὸς ζῶν λέγεται Ὅμηρος γενέσθαι, οἳ ἐκεῖνον ἠγάπων ἐπὶ [600b] συνουσίᾳ καὶ τοῖς ὑστέροις ὁδόν τινα παρέδοσαν βίου Ὁμηρικήν, ὥσπερ Πυθαγόρας αὐτός τε διαφερόντως ἐπὶ τούτῳ ἠγαπήθη, καὶ οἱ ὕστεροι ἔτι καὶ νῦν Πυθαγόρειον τρόπον ἐπονομάζοντες τοῦ βίου διαφανεῖς πῃ δοκοῦσιν εἶναι ἐν τοῖς ἄλλοις;
οὐδʼ αὖ, ἔφη, τοιοῦτον οὐδὲν λέγεται. ὁ γὰρ Κρεώφυλος, ὦ Σώκρατες, ἴσως, ὁ τοῦ Ὁμήρου ἑταῖρος, τοῦ ὀνόματος ἂν γελοιότερος ἔτι πρὸς παιδείαν φανείη, εἰ τὰ λεγόμενα περὶ Ὁμήρου ἀληθῆ. λέγεται γὰρ ὡς πολλή τις ἀμέλεια περὶ [600c] αὐτὸν ἦν ἐπʼ αὐτοῦ ἐκείνου, ὅτε ἔζη.
λέγεται γὰρ οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ. ἀλλʼ οἴει, ὦ Γλαύκων, εἰ τῷ ὄντι οἷός τʼ ἦν παιδεύειν ἀνθρώπους καὶ βελτίους ἀπεργάζεσθαι Ὅμηρος, ἅτε περὶ τούτων οὐ μιμεῖσθαι ἀλλὰ γιγνώσκειν δυνάμενος, οὐκ ἄρʼ ἂν πολλοὺς ἑταίρους ἐποιήσατο καὶ ἐτιμᾶτο καὶ ἠγαπᾶτο ὑπʼ αὐτῶν, ἀλλὰ Πρωταγόρας μὲν ἄρα ὁ Ἀβδηρίτης καὶ Πρόδικος ὁ Κεῖος καὶ ἄλλοι πάμπολλοι δύνανται τοῖς ἐφʼ ἑαυτῶν παριστάναι ἰδίᾳ συγγιγνόμενοι [600d] ὡς οὔτε οἰκίαν οὔτε πόλιν τὴν αὑτῶν διοικεῖν οἷοί τʼ ἔσονται, ἐὰν μὴ σφεῖς αὐτῶν ἐπιστατήσωσιν τῆς παιδείας, καὶ ἐπὶ ταύτῃ τῇ σοφίᾳ οὕτω σφόδρα φιλοῦνται, ὥστε μόνον οὐκ ἐπὶ ταῖς κεφαλαῖς περιφέρουσιν αὐτοὺς οἱ ἑταῖροι· Ὅμηρον δʼ ἄρα οἱ ἐπʼ ἐκείνου, εἴπερ οἷός τʼ ἦν πρὸς ἀρετὴν ὀνῆσαι ἀνθρώπους, ἢ Ἡσίοδον ῥαψῳδεῖν ἂν περιιόντας εἴων, καὶ οὐχὶ μᾶλλον ἂν αὐτῶν ἀντείχοντο ἢ τοῦ χρυσοῦ καὶ [600e] ἠνάγκαζον παρὰ σφίσιν οἴκοι εἶναι, ἢ εἰ μὴ ἔπειθον, αὐτοὶ ἂν ἐπαιδαγώγουν ὅπῃ ᾖσαν, ἕως ἱκανῶς παιδείας μεταλάβοιεν;
παντάπασιν, ἔφη, δοκεῖς μοι, ὦ Σώκρατες, ἀληθῆ λέγειν.
οὐκοῦν τιθῶμεν ἀπὸ Ὁμήρου ἀρξαμένους πάντας τοὺς ποιητικοὺς μιμητὰς εἰδώλων ἀρετῆς εἶναι καὶ τῶν ἄλλων περὶ ὧν ποιοῦσιν, τῆς δὲ ἀληθείας οὐχ ἅπτεσθαι, ἀλλʼ ὥσπερ νυνδὴ ἐλέγομεν, ὁ ζωγράφος σκυτοτόμον ποιήσει δοκοῦντα

[601a]
εἶναι, αὐτός τε οὐκ ἐπαΐων περὶ σκυτοτομίας καὶ τοῖς μὴ ἐπαΐουσιν, ἐκ τῶν χρωμάτων δὲ καὶ σχημάτων θεωροῦσιν;
πάνυ μὲν οὖν.
οὕτω δὴ οἶμαι καὶ τὸν ποιητικὸν φήσομεν χρώματα ἄττα ἑκάστων τῶν τεχνῶν τοῖς ὀνόμασι καὶ ῥήμασιν ἐπιχρωματίζειν αὐτὸν οὐκ ἐπαΐοντα ἀλλʼ ἢ μιμεῖσθαι, ὥστε ἑτέροις τοιούτοις ἐκ τῶν λόγων θεωροῦσι δοκεῖν, ἐάντε περὶ σκυτοτομίας τις λέγῃ ἐν μέτρῳ καὶ ῥυθμῷ καὶ ἁρμονίᾳ, πάνυ εὖ δοκεῖν λέγεσθαι, ἐάντε περὶ στρατηγίας ἐάντε περὶ ἄλλου [601b] ὁτουοῦν· οὕτω φύσει αὐτὰ ταῦτα μεγάλην τινὰ κήλησιν ἔχειν. ἐπεὶ γυμνωθέντα γε τῶν τῆς μουσικῆς χρωμάτων τὰ τῶν ποιητῶν, αὐτὰ ἐφʼ αὑτῶν λεγόμενα, οἶμαί σε εἰδέναι οἷα φαίνεται. τεθέασαι γάρ που.
ἔγωγʼ, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἔοικεν τοῖς τῶν ὡραίων προσώποις, καλῶν δὲ μή, οἷα γίγνεται ἰδεῖν ὅταν αὐτὰ τὸ ἄνθος προλίπῃ;
παντάπασιν, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
ἴθι δή, τόδε ἄθρει· ὁ τοῦ εἰδώλου ποιητής, ὁ μιμητής, φαμέν, τοῦ μὲν ὄντος οὐδὲν ἐπαΐει, τοῦ δὲ φαινομένου· οὐχ [601c] οὕτως;
ναί.
μὴ τοίνυν ἡμίσεως αὐτὸ καταλίπωμεν ῥηθέν, ἀλλʼ ἱκανῶς ἴδωμεν.
λέγε, ἔφη.
ζωγράφος, φαμέν, ἡνίας τε γράψει καὶ χαλινόν;
ναί.
ποιήσει δέ γε σκυτοτόμος καὶ χαλκεύς;
πάνυ γε.
ἆρʼ οὖν ἐπαΐει οἵας δεῖ τὰς ἡνίας εἶναι καὶ τὸν χαλινὸν ὁ γραφεύς; ἢ οὐδʼ ὁ ποιήσας, ὅ τε χαλκεὺς καὶ ὁ σκυτεύς, ἀλλʼ ἐκεῖνος ὅσπερ τούτοις ἐπίσταται χρῆσθαι, μόνος ὁ ἱππικός;
ἀληθέστατα.
ἆρʼ οὖν οὐ περὶ πάντα οὕτω φήσομεν ἔχειν;
πῶς; [601d]
περὶ ἕκαστον ταύτας τινὰς τρεῖς τέχνας εἶναι, χρησομένην, ποιήσουσαν, μιμησομένην;
ναί.
οὐκοῦν ἀρετὴ καὶ κάλλος καὶ ὀρθότης ἑκάστου σκεύους καὶ ζῴου καὶ πράξεως οὐ πρὸς ἄλλο τι ἢ τὴν χρείαν ἐστίν, πρὸς ἣν ἂν ἕκαστον ᾖ πεποιημένον ἢ πεφυκός;
οὕτως.
πολλὴ ἄρα ἀνάγκη τὸν χρώμενον ἑκάστῳ ἐμπειρότατόν τε εἶναι καὶ ἄγγελον γίγνεσθαι τῷ ποιητῇ οἷα ἀγαθὰ ἢ κακὰ ποιεῖ ἐν τῇ χρείᾳ ᾧ χρῆται· οἷον αὐλητής που αὐλοποιῷ [601e] ἐξαγγέλλει περὶ τῶν αὐλῶν, οἳ ἂν ὑπηρετῶσιν ἐν τῷ αὐλεῖν, καὶ ἐπιτάξει οἵους δεῖ ποιεῖν, ὁ δʼ ὑπηρετήσει.
πῶς δʼ οὔ;
οὐκοῦν ὁ μὲν εἰδὼς ἐξαγγέλλει περὶ χρηστῶν καὶ πονηρῶν αὐλῶν, ὁ δὲ πιστεύων ποιήσει;
ναί.
τοῦ αὐτοῦ ἄρα σκεύους ὁ μὲν ποιητὴς πίστιν ὀρθὴν ἕξει περὶ κάλλους τε καὶ πονηρίας, συνὼν τῷ εἰδότι καὶ ἀναγκαζόμενος

[602a]
ἀκούειν παρὰ τοῦ εἰδότος, ὁ δὲ χρώμενος ἐπιστήμην.
πάνυ γε.
ὁ δὲ μιμητὴς πότερον ἐκ τοῦ χρῆσθαι ἐπιστήμην ἕξει περὶ ὧν ἂν γράφῃ, εἴτε καλὰ καὶ ὀρθὰ εἴτε μή, ἢ δόξαν ὀρθὴν διὰ τὸ ἐξ ἀνάγκης συνεῖναι τῷ εἰδότι καὶ ἐπιτάττεσθαι οἷα χρὴ γράφειν;
οὐδέτερα.
οὔτε ἄρα εἴσεται οὔτε ὀρθὰ δοξάσει ὁ μιμητὴς περὶ ὧν ἂν μιμῆται πρὸς κάλλος ἢ πονηρίαν.
οὐκ ἔοικεν.
χαρίεις ἂν εἴη ὁ ἐν τῇ ποιήσει μιμητικὸς πρὸς σοφίαν περὶ ὧν ἂν ποιῇ.
οὐ πάνυ. [602b]
ἀλλʼ οὖν δὴ ὅμως γε μιμήσεται, οὐκ εἰδὼς περὶ ἑκάστου ὅπῃ πονηρὸν ἢ χρηστόν· ἀλλʼ, ὡς ἔοικεν, οἷον φαίνεται καλὸν εἶναι τοῖς πολλοῖς τε καὶ μηδὲν εἰδόσιν, τοῦτο μιμήσεται.
τί γὰρ ἄλλο;
ταῦτα μὲν δή, ὥς γε φαίνεται, ἐπιεικῶς ἡμῖν διωμολόγηται, τόν τε μιμητικὸν μηδὲν εἰδέναι ἄξιον λόγου περὶ ὧν μιμεῖται, ἀλλʼ εἶναι παιδιάν τινα καὶ οὐ σπουδὴν τὴν μίμησιν, τούς τε τῆς τραγικῆς ποιήσεως ἁπτομένους ἐν ἰαμβείοις καὶ ἐν ἔπεσι πάντας εἶναι μιμητικοὺς ὡς οἷόν τε μάλιστα.
πάνυ μὲν οὖν. [602c]
πρὸς Διός, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τὸ δὲ δὴ μιμεῖσθαι τοῦτο οὐ περὶ τρίτον μέν τί ἐστιν ἀπὸ τῆς ἀληθείας; ἦ γάρ;
ναί.
πρὸς δὲ δὴ ποῖόν τί ἐστιν τῶν τοῦ ἀνθρώπου ἔχον τὴν δύναμιν ἣν ἔχει;
τοῦ ποίου τινὸς πέρι λέγεις;
τοῦ τοιοῦδε· ταὐτόν που ἡμῖν μέγεθος ἐγγύθεν τε καὶ πόρρωθεν διὰ τῆς ὄψεως οὐκ ἴσον φαίνεται.
οὐ γάρ.
καὶ ταὐτὰ καμπύλα τε καὶ εὐθέα ἐν ὕδατί τε θεωμένοις καὶ ἔξω, καὶ κοῖλά τε δὴ καὶ ἐξέχοντα διὰ τὴν περὶ τὰ χρώματα αὖ πλάνην τῆς ὄψεως, καὶ πᾶσά τις ταραχὴ δήλη [602d] ἡμῖν ἐνοῦσα αὕτη ἐν τῇ ψυχῇ· ᾧ δὴ ἡμῶν τῷ παθήματι τῆς φύσεως ἡ σκιαγραφία ἐπιθεμένη γοητείας οὐδὲν ἀπολείπει, καὶ ἡ θαυματοποιία καὶ αἱ ἄλλαι πολλαὶ τοιαῦται μηχαναί.
ἀληθῆ.
ἆρʼ οὖν οὐ τὸ μετρεῖν καὶ ἀριθμεῖν καὶ ἱστάναι βοήθειαι χαριέσταται πρὸς αὐτὰ ἐφάνησαν, ὥστε μὴ ἄρχειν ἐν ἡμῖν τὸ φαινόμενον μεῖζον ἢ ἔλαττον ἢ πλέον ἢ βαρύτερον, ἀλλὰ τὸ λογισάμενον καὶ μετρῆσαν ἢ καὶ στῆσαν;
πῶς γὰρ οὔ; [602e]
ἀλλὰ μὴν τοῦτό γε τοῦ λογιστικοῦ ἂν εἴη τοῦ ἐν ψυχῇ ἔργον.
τούτου γὰρ οὖν.
τούτῳ δὲ πολλάκις μετρήσαντι καὶ σημαίνοντι μείζω ἄττα εἶναι ἢ ἐλάττω ἕτερα ἑτέρων ἢ ἴσα τἀναντία φαίνεται ἅμα περὶ ταὐτά.
ναί.
οὐκοῦν ἔφαμεν τῷ αὐτῷ ἅμα περὶ ταὐτὰ ἐναντία δοξάζειν ἀδύνατον εἶναι;
καὶ ὀρθῶς γʼ ἔφαμεν.

### Book X, 603–610

[603a]
τὸ παρὰ τὰ μέτρα ἄρα δοξάζον τῆς ψυχῆς τῷ κατὰ τὰ μέτρα οὐκ ἂν εἴη ταὐτόν.
οὐ γὰρ οὖν.
ἀλλὰ μὴν τὸ μέτρῳ γε καὶ λογισμῷ πιστεῦον βέλτιστον ἂν εἴη τῆς ψυχῆς.
τί μήν;
τὸ ἄρα τούτῳ ἐναντιούμενον τῶν φαύλων ἄν τι εἴη ἐν ἡμῖν.
ἀνάγκη.
τοῦτο τοίνυν διομολογήσασθαι βουλόμενος ἔλεγον ὅτι ἡ γραφικὴ καὶ ὅλως ἡ μιμητικὴ πόρρω μὲν τῆς ἀληθείας ὂν τὸ αὑτῆς ἔργον ἀπεργάζεται, πόρρω δʼ αὖ φρονήσεως ὄντι τῷ [603b] ἐν ἡμῖν προσομιλεῖ τε καὶ ἑταίρα καὶ φίλη ἐστὶν ἐπʼ οὐδενὶ ὑγιεῖ οὐδʼ ἀληθεῖ.
παντάπασιν, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
φαύλη ἄρα φαύλῳ συγγιγνομένη φαῦλα γεννᾷ ἡ μιμητική.
ἔοικεν.
πότερον, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἡ κατὰ τὴν ὄψιν μόνον, ἢ καὶ κατὰ τὴν ἀκοήν, ἣν δὴ ποίησιν ὀνομάζομεν;
εἰκός γʼ, ἔφη, καὶ ταύτην.
μὴ τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τῷ εἰκότι μόνον πιστεύσωμεν ἐκ τῆς γραφικῆς, ἀλλὰ καὶ ἐπʼ αὐτὸ αὖ ἔλθωμεν τῆς διανοίας [603c] τοῦτο ᾧ προσομιλεῖ ἡ τῆς ποιήσεως μιμητική, καὶ ἴδωμεν φαῦλον ἢ σπουδαῖόν ἐστιν.
ἀλλὰ χρή.
ὧδε δὴ προθώμεθα· πράττοντας, φαμέν, ἀνθρώπους μιμεῖται ἡ μιμητικὴ βιαίους ἢ ἑκουσίας πράξεις, καὶ ἐκ τοῦ πράττειν ἢ εὖ οἰομένους ἢ κακῶς πεπραγέναι, καὶ ἐν τούτοις δὴ πᾶσιν ἢ λυπουμένους ἢ χαίροντας. μή τι ἄλλο ἦν παρὰ ταῦτα;
οὐδέν.
ἆρʼ οὖν ἐν ἅπασι τούτοις ὁμονοητικῶς ἄνθρωπος διάκειται; [603d] ἢ ὥσπερ κατὰ τὴν ὄψιν ἐστασίαζεν καὶ ἐναντίας εἶχεν ἐν ἑαυτῷ δόξας ἅμα περὶ τῶν αὐτῶν, οὕτω καὶ ἐν ταῖς πράξεσι στασιάζει τε καὶ μάχεται αὐτὸς αὑτῷ; ἀναμιμνῄσκομαι δὲ ὅτι τοῦτό γε νῦν οὐδὲν δεῖ ἡμᾶς διομολογεῖσθαι· ἐν γὰρ τοῖς ἄνω λόγοις ἱκανῶς πάντα ταῦτα διωμολογησάμεθα, ὅτι μυρίων τοιούτων ἐναντιωμάτων ἅμα γιγνομένων ἡ ψυχὴ γέμει ἡμῶν.
ὀρθῶς, ἔφη.
ὀρθῶς γάρ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ· ἀλλʼ ὃ τότε ἀπελίπομεν, νῦν μοι [603e] δοκεῖ ἀναγκαῖον εἶναι διεξελθεῖν.
τὸ ποῖον; ἔφη.
ἀνήρ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἐπιεικὴς τοιᾶσδε τύχης μετασχών, ὑὸν ἀπολέσας ἤ τι ἄλλο ὧν περὶ πλείστου ποιεῖται, ἐλέγομέν που καὶ τότε ὅτι ῥᾷστα οἴσει τῶν ἄλλων.
πάνυ γε.
νῦν δέ γε τόδʼ ἐπισκεψώμεθα, πότερον οὐδὲν ἀχθέσεται, ἢ τοῦτο μὲν ἀδύνατον, μετριάσει δέ πως πρὸς λύπην.
οὕτω μᾶλλον, ἔφη, τό γε ἀληθές.

[604a]
τόδε νῦν μοι περὶ αὐτοῦ εἰπέ· πότερον μᾶλλον αὐτὸν οἴει τῇ λύπῃ μαχεῖσθαί τε καὶ ἀντιτείνειν, ὅταν ὁρᾶται ὑπὸ τῶν ὁμοίων, ἢ ὅταν ἐν ἐρημίᾳ μόνος αὐτὸς καθʼ αὑτὸν γίγνηται;
πολύ που, ἔφη, διοίσει, ὅταν ὁρᾶται.
μονωθεὶς δέ γε οἶμαι πολλὰ μὲν τολμήσει φθέγξασθαι, ἃ εἴ τις αὐτοῦ ἀκούοι αἰσχύνοιτʼ ἄν, πολλὰ δὲ ποιήσει, ἃ οὐκ ἂν δέξαιτό τινα ἰδεῖν δρῶντα.
οὕτως ἔχει, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν τὸ μὲν ἀντιτείνειν διακελευόμενον λόγος καὶ νόμος [604b] ἐστίν, τὸ δὲ ἕλκον ἐπὶ τὰς λύπας αὐτὸ τὸ πάθος;
ἀληθῆ.
ἐναντίας δὲ ἀγωγῆς γιγνομένης ἐν τῷ ἀνθρώπῳ περὶ τὸ αὐτὸ ἅμα, δύο φαμὲν αὐτὼ ἀναγκαῖον εἶναι.
πῶς δʼ οὔ;
οὐκοῦν τὸ μὲν ἕτερον τῷ νόμῳ ἕτοιμον πείθεσθαι, ᾗ ὁ νόμος ἐξηγεῖται;
πῶς;
λέγει που ὁ νόμος ὅτι κάλλιστον ὅτι μάλιστα ἡσυχίαν ἄγειν ἐν ταῖς συμφοραῖς καὶ μὴ ἀγανακτεῖν, ὡς οὔτε δήλου ὄντος τοῦ ἀγαθοῦ τε καὶ κακοῦ τῶν τοιούτων, οὔτε εἰς τὸ πρόσθεν οὐδὲν προβαῖνον τῷ χαλεπῶς φέροντι, οὔτε τι τῶν [604c] ἀνθρωπίνων ἄξιον ὂν μεγάλης σπουδῆς, ὅ τε δεῖ ἐν αὐτοῖς ὅτι τάχιστα παραγίγνεσθαι ἡμῖν, τούτῳ ἐμποδὼν γιγνόμενον τὸ λυπεῖσθαι.
τίνι, ἦ δʼ ὅς, λέγεις;
τῷ βουλεύεσθαι, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, περὶ τὸ γεγονὸς καὶ ὥσπερ ἐν πτώσει κύβων πρὸς τὰ πεπτωκότα τίθεσθαι τὰ αὑτοῦ πράγματα, ὅπῃ ὁ λόγος αἱρεῖ βέλτιστʼ ἂν ἔχειν, ἀλλὰ μὴ προσπταίσαντας καθάπερ παῖδας ἐχομένους τοῦ πληγέντος ἐν τῷ βοᾶν διατρίβειν, ἀλλʼ ἀεὶ ἐθίζειν τὴν ψυχὴν ὅτι [604d] τάχιστα γίγνεσθαι πρὸς τὸ ἰᾶσθαί τε καὶ ἐπανορθοῦν τὸ πεσόν τε καὶ νοσῆσαν, ἰατρικῇ θρηνῳδίαν ἀφανίζοντα.
ὀρθότατα γοῦν ἄν τις, ἔφη, πρὸς τὰς τύχας οὕτω προσφέροιτο.
οὐκοῦν, φαμέν, τὸ μὲν βέλτιστον τούτῳ τῷ λογισμῷ ἐθέλει ἕπεσθαι.
δῆλον δή.
τὸ δὲ πρὸς τὰς ἀναμνήσεις τε τοῦ πάθους καὶ πρὸς τοὺς ὀδυρμοὺς ἄγον καὶ ἀπλήστως ἔχον αὐτῶν ἆρʼ οὐκ ἀλόγιστόν τε φήσομεν εἶναι καὶ ἀργὸν καὶ δειλίας φίλον;
φήσομεν μὲν οὖν. [604e]
οὐκοῦν τὸ μὲν πολλὴν μίμησιν καὶ ποικίλην ἔχει, τὸ ἀγανακτητικόν, τὸ δὲ φρόνιμόν τε καὶ ἡσύχιον ἦθος, παραπλήσιον ὂν ἀεὶ αὐτὸ αὑτῷ, οὔτε ῥᾴδιον μιμήσασθαι οὔτε μιμουμένου εὐπετὲς καταμαθεῖν, ἄλλως τε καὶ πανηγύρει καὶ παντοδαποῖς ἀνθρώποις εἰς θέατρα συλλεγομένοις· ἀλλοτρίου γάρ που πάθους ἡ μίμησις αὐτοῖς γίγνεται.

[605a]
παντάπασι μὲν οὖν.
ὁ δὴ μιμητικὸς ποιητὴς δῆλον ὅτι οὐ πρὸς τὸ τοιοῦτον τῆς ψυχῆς πέφυκέ τε καὶ ἡ σοφία αὐτοῦ τούτῳ ἀρέσκειν πέπηγεν, εἰ μέλλει εὐδοκιμήσειν ἐν τοῖς πολλοῖς, ἀλλὰ πρὸς τὸ ἀγανακτητικόν τε καὶ ποικίλον ἦθος διὰ τὸ εὐμίμητον εἶναι.
δῆλον.
οὐκοῦν δικαίως ἂν αὐτοῦ ἤδη ἐπιλαμβανοίμεθα, καὶ τιθεῖμεν ἀντίστροφον αὐτὸν τῷ ζωγράφῳ· καὶ γὰρ τῷ φαῦλα ποιεῖν πρὸς ἀλήθειαν ἔοικεν αὐτῷ, καὶ τῷ πρὸς ἕτερον τοιοῦτον [605b] ὁμιλεῖν τῆς ψυχῆς ἀλλὰ μὴ πρὸς τὸ βέλτιστον, καὶ ταύτῃ ὡμοίωται. καὶ οὕτως ἤδη ἂν ἐν δίκῃ οὐ παραδεχοίμεθα εἰς μέλλουσαν εὐνομεῖσθαι πόλιν, ὅτι τοῦτο ἐγείρει τῆς ψυχῆς καὶ τρέφει καὶ ἰσχυρὸν ποιῶν ἀπόλλυσι τὸ λογιστικόν, ὥσπερ ἐν πόλει ὅταν τις μοχθηροὺς ἐγκρατεῖς ποιῶν παραδιδῷ τὴν πόλιν, τοὺς δὲ χαριεστέρους φθείρῃ· ταὐτὸν καὶ τὸν μιμητικὸν ποιητὴν φήσομεν κακὴν πολιτείαν ἰδίᾳ ἑκάστου τῇ ψυχῇ ἐμποιεῖν, τῷ ἀνοήτῳ αὐτῆς [605c] χαριζόμενον καὶ οὔτε τὰ μείζω οὔτε τὰ ἐλάττω διαγιγνώσκοντι, ἀλλὰ τὰ αὐτὰ τοτὲ μὲν μεγάλα ἡγουμένῳ, τοτὲ δὲ σμικρά, εἴδωλα εἰδωλοποιοῦντα, τοῦ δὲ ἀληθοῦς πόρρω πάνυ ἀφεστῶτα.
πάνυ μὲν οὖν.
οὐ μέντοι πω τό γε μέγιστον κατηγορήκαμεν αὐτῆς. τὸ γὰρ καὶ τοὺς ἐπιεικεῖς ἱκανὴν εἶναι λωβᾶσθαι, ἐκτὸς πάνυ τινῶν ὀλίγων, πάνδεινόν που.
τί δʼ οὐ μέλλει, εἴπερ γε δρᾷ αὐτό;
ἀκούων σκόπει. οἱ γάρ που βέλτιστοι ἡμῶν ἀκροώμενοι Ὁμήρου ἢ ἄλλου τινὸς τῶν τραγῳδοποιῶν μιμουμένου [605d] τινὰ τῶν ἡρώων ἐν πένθει ὄντα καὶ μακρὰν ῥῆσιν ἀποτείνοντα ἐν τοῖς ὀδυρμοῖς ἢ καὶ ᾄδοντάς τε καὶ κοπτομένους, οἶσθʼ ὅτι χαίρομέν τε καὶ ἐνδόντες ἡμᾶς αὐτοὺς ἑπόμεθα συμπάσχοντες καὶ σπουδάζοντες ἐπαινοῦμεν ὡς ἀγαθὸν ποιητήν, ὃς ἂν ἡμᾶς ὅτι μάλιστα οὕτω διαθῇ.
οἶδα· πῶς δʼ οὔ;
ὅταν δὲ οἰκεῖόν τινι ἡμῶν κῆδος γένηται, ἐννοεῖς αὖ ὅτι ἐπὶ τῷ ἐναντίῳ καλλωπιζόμεθα, ἂν δυνώμεθα ἡσυχίαν ἄγειν [605e] καὶ καρτερεῖν, ὡς τοῦτο μὲν ἀνδρὸς ὄν, ἐκεῖνο δὲ γυναικός, ὃ τότε ἐπῃνοῦμεν.
ἐννοῶ, ἔφη.
ἦ καλῶς οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, οὗτος ὁ ἔπαινος ἔχει, τὸ ὁρῶντα τοιοῦτον ἄνδρα, οἷον ἑαυτόν τις μὴ ἀξιοῖ εἶναι ἀλλʼ αἰσχύνοιτο ἄν, μὴ βδελύττεσθαι ἀλλὰ χαίρειν τε καὶ ἐπαινεῖν;
οὐ μὰ τὸν Δίʼ, ἔφη, οὐκ εὐλόγῳ ἔοικεν.

[606a]
ναί, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, εἰ ἐκείνῃ γʼ αὐτὸ σκοποίης.
πῇ;
εἰ ἐνθυμοῖο ὅτι τὸ βίᾳ κατεχόμενον τότε ἐν ταῖς οἰκείαις συμφοραῖς καὶ πεπεινηκὸς τοῦ δακρῦσαί τε καὶ ἀποδύρασθαι ἱκανῶς καὶ ἀποπλησθῆναι, φύσει ὂν τοιοῦτον οἷον τούτων ἐπιθυμεῖν, τότʼ ἐστὶν τοῦτο τὸ ὑπὸ τῶν ποιητῶν πιμπλάμενον καὶ χαῖρον· τὸ δὲ φύσει βέλτιστον ἡμῶν, ἅτε οὐχ ἱκανῶς πεπαιδευμένον λόγῳ οὐδὲ ἔθει, ἀνίησιν τὴν φυλακὴν τοῦ [606b] θρηνώδους τούτου, ἅτε ἀλλότρια πάθη θεωροῦν καὶ ἑαυτῷ οὐδὲν αἰσχρὸν ὂν εἰ ἄλλος ἀνὴρ ἀγαθὸς φάσκων εἶναι ἀκαίρως πενθεῖ, τοῦτον ἐπαινεῖν καὶ ἐλεεῖν, ἀλλʼ ἐκεῖνο κερδαίνειν ἡγεῖται, τὴν ἡδονήν, καὶ οὐκ ἂν δέξαιτο αὐτῆς στερηθῆναι καταφρονήσας ὅλου τοῦ ποιήματος. λογίζεσθαι γὰρ οἶμαι ὀλίγοις τισὶν μέτεστιν ὅτι ἀπολαύειν ἀνάγκη ἀπὸ τῶν ἀλλοτρίων εἰς τὰ οἰκεῖα· θρέψαντα γὰρ ἐν ἐκείνοις ἰσχυρὸν τὸ ἐλεινὸν οὐ ῥᾴδιον ἐν τοῖς αὑτοῦ πάθεσι κατέχειν. [606c]
ἀληθέστατα, ἔφη.
ἆρʼ οὖν οὐχ ὁ αὐτὸς λόγος καὶ περὶ τοῦ γελοίου; ὅτι, ἃν αὐτὸς αἰσχύνοιο γελωτοποιῶν, ἐν μιμήσει δὲ κωμῳδικῇ ἢ καὶ ἰδίᾳ ἀκούων σφόδρα χαρῇς καὶ μὴ μισῇς ὡς πονηρά, ταὐτὸν ποιεῖς ὅπερ ἐν τοῖς ἐλέοις; ὃ γὰρ τῷ λόγῳ αὖ κατεῖχες ἐν σαυτῷ βουλόμενον γελωτοποιεῖν, φοβούμενος δόξαν βωμολοχίας, τότʼ αὖ ἀνιεῖς, καὶ ἐκεῖ νεανικὸν ποιήσας ἔλαθες πολλάκις ἐν τοῖς οἰκείοις ἐξενεχθεὶς ὥστε κωμῳδοποιὸς γενέσθαι.
καὶ μάλα, ἔφη. [606d]
καὶ περὶ ἀφροδισίων δὴ καὶ θυμοῦ καὶ περὶ πάντων τῶν ἐπιθυμητικῶν τε καὶ λυπηρῶν καὶ ἡδέων ἐν τῇ ψυχῇ, ἃ δή φαμεν πάσῃ πράξει ἡμῖν ἕπεσθαι, ὅτι τοιαῦτα ἡμᾶς ἡ ποιητικὴ μίμησις ἐργάζεται· τρέφει γὰρ ταῦτα ἄρδουσα, δέον αὐχμεῖν, καὶ ἄρχοντα ἡμῖν καθίστησιν, δέον ἄρχεσθαι αὐτὰ ἵνα βελτίους τε καὶ εὐδαιμονέστεροι ἀντὶ χειρόνων καὶ ἀθλιωτέρων γιγνώμεθα.
οὐκ ἔχω ἄλλως φάναι, ἦ δʼ ὅς. [606e]
οὐκοῦν, εἶπον, ὦ Γλαύκων, ὅταν Ὁμήρου ἐπαινέταις ἐντύχῃς λέγουσιν ὡς τὴν Ἑλλάδα πεπαίδευκεν οὗτος ὁ ποιητὴς καὶ πρὸς διοίκησίν τε καὶ παιδείαν τῶν ἀνθρωπίνων πραγμάτων ἄξιος ἀναλαβόντι μανθάνειν τε καὶ κατὰ τοῦτον τὸν ποιητὴν πάντα τὸν αὑτοῦ βίον κατασκευασάμενον ζῆν,

[607a]
φιλεῖν μὲν χρὴ καὶ ἀσπάζεσθαι ὡς ὄντας βελτίστους εἰς ὅσον δύνανται, καὶ συγχωρεῖν Ὅμηρον ποιητικώτατον εἶναι καὶ πρῶτον τῶν τραγῳδοποιῶν, εἰδέναι δὲ ὅτι ὅσον μόνον ὕμνους θεοῖς καὶ ἐγκώμια τοῖς ἀγαθοῖς ποιήσεως παραδεκτέον εἰς πόλιν·
εἰ δὲ τὴν ἡδυσμένην Μοῦσαν παραδέξῃ ἐν μέλεσιν ἢ ἔπεσιν, ἡδονή σοι καὶ λύπη ἐν τῇ πόλει βασιλεύσετον ἀντὶ νόμου τε καὶ τοῦ κοινῇ ἀεὶ δόξαντος εἶναι βελτίστου λόγου.
ἀληθέστατα, ἔφη. [607b]
ταῦτα δή, ἔφην, ἀπολελογήσθω ἡμῖν ἀναμνησθεῖσιν περὶ ποιήσεως, ὅτι εἰκότως ἄρα τότε αὐτὴν ἐκ τῆς πόλεως ἀπεστέλλομεν τοιαύτην οὖσαν· ὁ γὰρ λόγος ἡμᾶς ᾕρει. προσείπωμεν δὲ αὐτῇ, μὴ καί τινα σκληρότητα ἡμῶν καὶ ἀγροικίαν καταγνῷ, ὅτι παλαιὰ μέν τις διαφορὰ φιλοσοφίᾳ τε καὶ ποιητικῇ· καὶ γὰρ ἡ λακέρυζα πρὸς δεσπόταν κύων ἐκείνη κραυγάζουσα καὶ μέγας ἐν ἀφρόνων κενεαγορίαισι [607c] καὶ ὁ τῶν διασόφων ὄχλος κρατῶν καὶ οἱ λεπτῶς μεριμνῶντες, ὅτι ἄρα πένονται, καὶ ἄλλα μυρία σημεῖα παλαιᾶς ἐναντιώσεως τούτων. ὅμως δὲ εἰρήσθω ὅτι ἡμεῖς γε, εἴ τινα ἔχοι λόγον εἰπεῖν ἡ πρὸς ἡδονὴν ποιητικὴ καὶ ἡ μίμησις, ὡς χρὴ αὐτὴν εἶναι ἐν πόλει εὐνομουμένῃ, ἅσμενοι ἂν καταδεχοίμεθα, ὡς σύνισμέν γε ἡμῖν αὐτοῖς κηλουμένοις ὑπʼ αὐτῆς· ἀλλὰ γὰρ τὸ δοκοῦν ἀληθὲς οὐχ ὅσιον προδιδόναι. ἦ γάρ, ὦ φίλε, οὐ κηλῇ ὑπʼ αὐτῆς [607d] καὶ σύ, καὶ μάλιστα ὅταν διʼ Ὁμήρου θεωρῇς αὐτήν;
πολύ γε.
οὐκοῦν δικαία ἐστὶν οὕτω κατιέναι, ἀπολογησαμένη ἐν μέλει ἤ τινι ἄλλῳ μέτρῳ;
πάνυ μὲν οὖν.
δοῖμεν δέ γέ που ἂν καὶ τοῖς προστάταις αὐτῆς, ὅσοι μὴ ποιητικοί, φιλοποιηταὶ δέ, ἄνευ μέτρου λόγον ὑπὲρ αὐτῆς εἰπεῖν, ὡς οὐ μόνον ἡδεῖα ἀλλὰ καὶ ὠφελίμη πρὸς τὰς πολιτείας καὶ τὸν βίον τὸν ἀνθρώπινόν ἐστιν· καὶ εὐμενῶς ἀκουσόμεθα. [607e] κερδανοῦμεν γάρ που ἐὰν μὴ μόνον ἡδεῖα φανῇ ἀλλὰ καὶ ὠφελίμη.
πῶς δʼ οὐ μέλλομεν, ἔφη, κερδαίνειν;
εἰ δέ γε μή, ὦ φίλε ἑταῖρε, ὥσπερ οἱ ποτέ του ἐρασθέντες, ἐὰν ἡγήσωνται μὴ ὠφέλιμον εἶναι τὸν ἔρωτα, βίᾳ μέν, ὅμως δὲ ἀπέχονται, καὶ ἡμεῖς οὕτως, διὰ τὸν ἐγγεγονότα μὲν ἔρωτα τῆς τοιαύτης ποιήσεως ὑπὸ τῆς τῶν καλῶν πολιτειῶν

[608a]
τροφῆς, εὖνοι μὲν ἐσόμεθα φανῆναι αὐτὴν ὡς βελτίστην καὶ ἀληθεστάτην, ἕως δʼ ἂν μὴ οἵα τʼ ᾖ ἀπολογήσασθαι, ἀκροασόμεθʼ αὐτῆς ἐπᾴδοντες ἡμῖν αὐτοῖς τοῦτον τὸν λόγον, ὃν λέγομεν, καὶ ταύτην τὴν ἐπῳδήν, εὐλαβούμενοι πάλιν ἐμπεσεῖν εἰς τὸν παιδικόν τε καὶ τὸν τῶν πολλῶν ἔρωτα. ᾀσόμεθα δʼ οὖν ὡς οὐ σπουδαστέον ἐπὶ τῇ τοιαύτῃ ποιήσει ὡς ἀληθείας τε ἁπτομένῃ καὶ σπουδαίᾳ, ἀλλʼ εὐλαβητέον [608b] αὐτὴν ὂν τῷ ἀκροωμένῳ, περὶ τῆς ἐν αὑτῷ πολιτείας δεδιότι, καὶ νομιστέα ἅπερ εἰρήκαμεν περὶ ποιήσεως.
παντάπασιν, ἦ δʼ ὅς, σύμφημι.
μέγας γάρ, ἔφην, ὁ ἀγών, ὦ φίλε Γλαύκων, μέγας, οὐχ ὅσος δοκεῖ, τὸ χρηστὸν ἢ κακὸν γενέσθαι, ὥστε οὔτε τιμῇ ἐπαρθέντα οὔτε χρήμασιν οὔτε ἀρχῇ οὐδεμιᾷ οὐδέ γε ποιητικῇ ἄξιον ἀμελῆσαι δικαιοσύνης τε καὶ τῆς ἄλλης ἀρετῆς.
σύμφημί σοι, ἔφη, ἐξ ὧν διεληλύθαμεν· οἶμαι δὲ καὶ ἄλλον ὁντινοῦν. [608c]
καὶ μήν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τά γε μέγιστα ἐπίχειρα ἀρετῆς καὶ προκείμενα ἆθλα οὐ διεληλύθαμεν.
ἀμήχανόν τι, ἔφη, λέγεις μέγεθος, εἰ τῶν εἰρημένων μείζω ἐστὶν ἄλλα.
τί δʼ ἄν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἔν γε ὀλίγῳ χρόνῳ μέγα γένοιτο; πᾶς γὰρ οὗτός γε ὁ ἐκ παιδὸς μέχρι πρεσβύτου χρόνος πρὸς πάντα ὀλίγος πού τις ἂν εἴη.
οὐδὲν μὲν οὖν, ἔφη.
τί οὖν; οἴει ἀθανάτῳ πράγματι ὑπὲρ τοσούτου δεῖν [608d] χρόνου ἐσπουδακέναι, ἀλλʼ οὐχ ὑπὲρ τοῦ παντός;
οἶμαι ἔγωγʼ, ἔφη· ἀλλὰ τί τοῦτο λέγεις;
οὐκ ᾔσθησαι, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὅτι ἀθάνατος ἡμῶν ἡ ψυχὴ καὶ οὐδέποτε ἀπόλλυται;
καὶ ὃς ἐμβλέψας μοι καὶ θαυμάσας εἶπε· μὰ Δίʼ, οὐκ ἔγωγε· σὺ δὲ τοῦτʼ ἔχεις λέγειν;
εἰ μὴ ἀδικῶ γʼ, ἔφην. οἶμαι δὲ καὶ σύ· οὐδὲν γὰρ χαλεπόν.
ἔμοιγʼ, ἔφη· σοῦ δʼ ἂν ἡδέως ἀκούσαιμι τὸ οὐ χαλεπὸν τοῦτο.
ἀκούοις ἄν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ.
λέγε μόνον, ἔφη.
ἀγαθόν τι, εἶπον, καὶ κακὸν καλεῖς;
ἔγωγε. [608e]
ἆρʼ οὖν ὥσπερ ἐγὼ περὶ αὐτῶν διανοῇ;
τὸ ποῖον;
τὸ μὲν ἀπολλύον καὶ διαφθεῖρον πᾶν τὸ κακὸν εἶναι, τὸ δὲ σῷζον καὶ ὠφελοῦν τὸ ἀγαθόν.
ἔγωγʼ, ἔφη.
τί δέ; κακὸν ἑκάστῳ τι καὶ ἀγαθὸν λέγεις; οἷον ὀφθαλμοῖς

[609a]
ὀφθαλμίαν καὶ σύμπαντι τῷ σώματι νόσον, σίτῳ τε ἐρυσίβην, σηπεδόνα τε ξύλοις, χαλκῷ δὲ καὶ σιδήρῳ ἰόν, καί, ὅπερ λέγω, σχεδὸν πᾶσι σύμφυτον ἑκάστῳ κακόν τε καὶ νόσημα;
ἔγωγʼ, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν ὅταν τῴ τι τούτων προσγένηται, πονηρόν τε ποιεῖ ᾧ προσεγένετο, καὶ τελευτῶν ὅλον διέλυσεν καὶ ἀπώλεσεν;
πῶς γὰρ οὔ;
τὸ σύμφυτον ἄρα κακὸν ἑκάστου καὶ ἡ πονηρία ἕκαστον ἀπόλλυσιν, ἢ εἰ μὴ τοῦτο ἀπολεῖ, οὐκ ἂν ἄλλο γε αὐτὸ ἔτι [609b] διαφθείρειεν. οὐ γὰρ τό γε ἀγαθὸν μή ποτέ τι ἀπολέσῃ, οὐδὲ αὖ τὸ μήτε κακὸν μήτε ἀγαθόν.
πῶς γὰρ ἄν; ἔφη.
ἐὰν ἄρα τι εὑρίσκωμεν τῶν ὄντων, ᾧ ἔστι μὲν κακὸν ὃ ποιεῖ αὐτὸ μοχθηρόν, τοῦτο μέντοι οὐχ οἷόν τε αὐτὸ λύειν ἀπολλύον, οὐκ ἤδη εἰσόμεθα ὅτι τοῦ πεφυκότος οὕτως ὄλεθρος οὐκ ἦν;
οὕτως, ἔφη, εἰκός.
τί οὖν; ἦν δʼ ἐγώ· ψυχῇ ἆρʼ οὐκ ἔστιν ὃ ποιεῖ αὐτὴν αὐτὴν κακήν;
καὶ μάλα, ἔφη· ἃ νυνδὴ διῇμεν πάντα, ἀδικία τε καὶ [609c] ἀκολασία καὶ δειλία καὶ ἀμαθία.
ἦ οὖν τι τούτων αὐτὴν διαλύει τε καὶ ἀπόλλυσι; καὶ ἐννόει μὴ ἐξαπατηθῶμεν οἰηθέντες τὸν ἄδικον ἄνθρωπον καὶ ἀνόητον, ὅταν ληφθῇ ἀδικῶν, τότε ἀπολωλέναι ὑπὸ τῆς ἀδικίας, πονηρίας οὔσης ψυχῆς. ἀλλʼ ὧδε ποίει· ὥσπερ σῶμα ἡ σώματος πονηρία νόσος οὖσα τήκει καὶ διόλλυσι καὶ ἄγει εἰς τὸ μηδὲ σῶμα εἶναι, καὶ ἃ νυνδὴ ἐλέγομεν [609d] ἅπαντα ὑπὸ τῆς οἰκείας κακίας, τῷ προσκαθῆσθαι καὶ ἐνεῖναι διαφθειρούσης, εἰς τὸ μὴ εἶναι ἀφικνεῖται—οὐχ οὕτω;
ναί.
ἴθι δή, καὶ ψυχὴν κατὰ τὸν αὐτὸν τρόπον σκόπει. ἆρα ἐνοῦσα ἐν αὐτῇ ἀδικία καὶ ἡ ἄλλη κακία τῷ ἐνεῖναι καὶ προσκαθῆσθαι φθείρει αὐτὴν καὶ μαραίνει, ἕως ἂν εἰς θάνατον ἀγαγοῦσα τοῦ σώματος χωρίσῃ;
οὐδαμῶς, ἔφη, τοῦτό γε.
ἀλλὰ μέντοι ἐκεῖνό γε ἄλογον, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τὴν μὲν ἄλλου πονηρίαν ἀπολλύναι τι, τὴν δὲ αὑτοῦ μή.
ἄλογον. [609e]
ἐννόει γάρ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὦ Γλαύκων, ὅτι οὐδʼ ὑπὸ τῆς τῶν σιτίων πονηρίας, ἣ ἂν ᾖ αὐτῶν ἐκείνων, εἴτε παλαιότης εἴτε σαπρότης εἴτε ἡτισοῦν οὖσα, οὐκ οἰόμεθα δεῖν σῶμα ἀπόλλυσθαι·
ἀλλʼ ἐὰν μὲν ἐμποιῇ ἡ αὐτῶν πονηρία τῶν σιτίων τῷ σώματι σώματος μοχθηρίαν, φήσομεν αὐτὸ διʼ ἐκεῖνα ὑπὸ τῆς αὑτοῦ κακίας νόσου οὔσης ἀπολωλέναι· ὑπὸ

[610a]
δὲ σιτίων πονηρίας ἄλλων ὄντων ἄλλο ὂν τὸ σῶμα, ὑπʼ ἀλλοτρίου κακοῦ μὴ ἐμποιήσαντος τὸ ἔμφυτον κακόν, οὐδέποτε ἀξιώσομεν διαφθείρεσθαι.
ὀρθότατʼ αὖ, ἔφη, λέγεις.
κατὰ τὸν αὐτὸν τοίνυν λόγον, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἐὰν μὴ σώματος πονηρία ψυχῇ ψυχῆς πονηρίαν ἐμποιῇ, μή ποτε ἀξιῶμεν ὑπὸ ἀλλοτρίου κακοῦ ἄνευ τῆς ἰδίας πονηρίας ψυχὴν ἀπόλλυσθαι, τῷ ἑτέρου κακῷ ἕτερον.
ἔχει γάρ, ἔφη, λόγον.
ἢ τοίνυν ταῦτα ἐξελέγξωμεν ὅτι οὐ καλῶς λέγομεν, ἢ [610b] ἕως ἂν ᾖ ἀνέλεγκτα, μή ποτε φῶμεν ὑπὸ πυρετοῦ μηδʼ αὖ ὑπʼ ἄλλης νόσου μηδʼ αὖ ὑπὸ σφαγῆς, μηδʼ εἴ τις ὅτι σμικρότατα ὅλον τὸ σῶμα κατατέμοι, ἕνεκα τούτων μηδὲν μᾶλλόν ποτε ψυχὴν ἀπόλλυσθαι, πρὶν ἄν τις ἀποδείξῃ ὡς διὰ ταῦτα τὰ παθήματα τοῦ σώματος αὐτὴ ἐκείνη ἀδικωτέρα καὶ ἀνοσιωτέρα γίγνεται· ἀλλοτρίου δὲ κακοῦ ἐν ἄλλῳ γιγνομένου, τοῦ δὲ ἰδίου ἑκάστῳ μὴ ἐγγιγνομένου, [610c] μήτε ψυχὴν μήτε ἄλλο μηδὲν ἐῶμεν φάναι τινὰ ἀπόλλυσθαι.
ἀλλὰ μέντοι, ἔφη, τοῦτό γε οὐδείς ποτε δείξει, ὡς τῶν ἀποθνῃσκόντων ἀδικώτεραι αἱ ψυχαὶ διὰ τὸν θάνατον γίγνονται.
ἐὰν δέ γέ τις, ἔφην ἐγώ, ὁμόσε τῷ λόγῳ τολμᾷ ἰέναι καὶ λέγειν ὡς πονηρότερος καὶ ἀδικώτερος γίγνεται ὁ ἀποθνῄσκων, ἵνα δὴ μὴ ἀναγκάζηται ἀθανάτους τὰς ψυχὰς ὁμολογεῖν, ἀξιώσομέν που, εἰ ἀληθῆ λέγει ὁ ταῦτα λέγων, τὴν ἀδικίαν εἶναι θανάσιμον τῷ ἔχοντι ὥσπερ νόσον, καὶ ὑπʼ [610d] αὐτοῦ, τοῦ ἀποκτεινύντος τῇ ἑαυτοῦ φύσει, ἀποθνῄσκειν τοὺς λαμβάνοντας αὐτό, τοὺς μὲν μάλιστα θᾶττον, τοὺς δʼ ἧττον σχολαίτερον, ἀλλὰ μὴ ὥσπερ νῦν διὰ τοῦτο ὑπʼ ἄλλων δίκην ἐπιτιθέντων ἀποθνῄσκουσιν οἱ ἄδικοι.
μὰ Δίʼ, ἦ δʼ ὅς, οὐκ ἄρα πάνδεινον φανεῖται ἡ ἀδικία, εἰ θανάσιμον ἔσται τῷ λαμβάνοντι—ἀπαλλαγὴ γὰρ ἂν εἴη κακῶν—ἀλλὰ μᾶλλον οἶμαι αὐτὴν φανήσεσθαι πᾶν τοὐναντίον [610e] τοὺς ἄλλους ἀποκτεινῦσαν, εἴπερ οἷόν τε, τὸν δʼ ἔχοντα καὶ μάλα ζωτικὸν παρέχουσαν, καὶ πρός γʼ ἔτι τῷ ζωτικῷ ἄγρυπνον· οὕτω πόρρω που, ὡς ἔοικεν, ἐσκήνηται τοῦ θανάσιμος εἶναι.
καλῶς, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, λέγεις. ὁπότε γὰρ δὴ μὴ ἱκανὴ ἥ γε οἰκεία πονηρία καὶ τὸ οἰκεῖον κακὸν ἀποκτεῖναι καὶ ἀπολέσαι ψυχήν, σχολῇ τό γε ἐπʼ ἄλλου ὀλέθρῳ τεταγμένον κακὸν ψυχὴν ἤ τι ἄλλο ἀπολεῖ, πλὴν ἐφʼ ᾧ τέτακται.
σχολῇ γʼ, ἔφη, ὥς γε τὸ εἰκός.
οὐκοῦν ὁπότε μηδʼ ὑφʼ ἑνὸς ἀπόλλυται κακοῦ, μήτε

### Book X, 611–618

[611a]
οἰκείου μήτε ἀλλοτρίου, δῆλον ὅτι ἀνάγκη αὐτὸ ἀεὶ ὂν εἶναι· εἰ δʼ ἀεὶ ὄν, ἀθάνατον.
ἀνάγκη, ἔφη.
τοῦτο μὲν τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, οὕτως ἐχέτω· εἰ δʼ ἔχει, ἐννοεῖς ὅτι ἀεὶ ἂν εἶεν αἱ αὐταί. οὔτε γὰρ ἄν που ἐλάττους γένοιντο μηδεμιᾶς ἀπολλυμένης, οὔτε αὖ πλείους· εἰ γὰρ ὁτιοῦν τῶν ἀθανάτων πλέον γίγνοιτο, οἶσθʼ ὅτι ἐκ τοῦ θνητοῦ ἂν γίγνοιτο καὶ πάντα ἂν εἴη τελευτῶντα ἀθάνατα.
ἀληθῆ λέγεις.
ἀλλʼ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, μήτε τοῦτο οἰώμεθα—ὁ γὰρ λόγος οὐκ [611b] ἐάσει—μήτε γε αὖ τῇ ἀληθεστάτῃ φύσει τοιοῦτον εἶναι ψυχήν, ὥστε πολλῆς ποικιλίας καὶ ἀνομοιότητός τε καὶ διαφορᾶς γέμειν αὐτὸ πρὸς αὑτό.
πῶς λέγεις; ἔφη.
οὐ ῥᾴδιον, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἀίδιον εἶναι σύνθετόν τε ἐκ πολλῶν καὶ μὴ τῇ καλλίστῃ κεχρημένον συνθέσει, ὡς νῦν ἡμῖν ἐφάνη ἡ ψυχή.
οὔκουν εἰκός γε.
ὅτι μὲν τοίνυν ἀθάνατον ψυχή, καὶ ὁ ἄρτι λόγος καὶ οἱ ἄλλοι ἀναγκάσειαν ἄν· οἷον δʼ ἐστὶν τῇ ἀληθείᾳ, οὐ λελωβημένον [611c] δεῖ αὐτὸ θεάσασθαι ὑπό τε τῆς τοῦ σώματος κοινωνίας καὶ ἄλλων κακῶν, ὥσπερ νῦν ἡμεῖς θεώμεθα, ἀλλʼ οἷόν ἐστιν καθαρὸν γιγνόμενον, τοιοῦτον ἱκανῶς λογισμῷ διαθεατέον, καὶ πολύ γε κάλλιον αὐτὸ εὑρήσει καὶ ἐναργέστερον δικαιοσύνας τε καὶ ἀδικίας διόψεται καὶ πάντα ἃ νῦν διήλθομεν. νῦν δὲ εἴπομεν μὲν ἀληθῆ περὶ αὐτοῦ, οἷον ἐν τῷ παρόντι φαίνεται· τεθεάμεθα μέντοι διακείμενον αὐτό, ὥσπερ οἱ τὸν [611d] θαλάττιον Γλαῦκον ὁρῶντες οὐκ ἂν ἔτι ῥᾳδίως αὐτοῦ ἴδοιεν τὴν ἀρχαίαν φύσιν, ὑπὸ τοῦ τά τε παλαιὰ τοῦ σώματος μέρη τὰ μὲν ἐκκεκλάσθαι, τὰ δὲ συντετρῖφθαι καὶ πάντως λελωβῆσθαι ὑπὸ τῶν κυμάτων, ἄλλα δὲ προσπεφυκέναι, ὄστρεά τε καὶ φυκία καὶ πέτρας, ὥστε παντὶ μᾶλλον θηρίῳ ἐοικέναι ἢ οἷος ἦν φύσει, οὕτω καὶ τὴν ψυχὴν ἡμεῖς θεώμεθα διακειμένην ὑπὸ μυρίων κακῶν. ἀλλὰ δεῖ, ὦ Γλαύκων, ἐκεῖσε βλέπειν.
ποῖ; ἦ δʼ ὅς. [611e]
εἰς τὴν φιλοσοφίαν αὐτῆς, καὶ ἐννοεῖν ὧν ἅπτεται καὶ οἵων ἐφίεται ὁμιλιῶν, ὡς συγγενὴς οὖσα τῷ τε θείῳ καὶ ἀθανάτῳ καὶ τῷ ἀεὶ ὄντι, καὶ οἵα ἂν γένοιτο τῷ τοιούτῳ πᾶσα ἐπισπομένη καὶ ὑπὸ ταύτης τῆς ὁρμῆς ἐκκομισθεῖσα ἐκ τοῦ πόντου ἐν ᾧ νῦν ἐστίν, καὶ περικρουσθεῖσα πέτρας

[612a]
τε καὶ ὄστρεα ἃ νῦν αὐτῇ, ἅτε γῆν ἑστιωμένῃ, γεηρὰ καὶ πετρώδη πολλὰ καὶ ἄγρια περιπέφυκεν ὑπὸ τῶν εὐδαιμόνων λεγομένων ἑστιάσεων.
καὶ τότʼ ἄν τις ἴδοι αὐτῆς τὴν ἀληθῆ φύσιν, εἴτε πολυειδὴς εἴτε μονοειδής, εἴτε ὅπῃ ἔχει καὶ ὅπως· νῦν δὲ τὰ ἐν τῷ ἀνθρωπίνῳ βίῳ πάθη τε καὶ εἴδη, ὡς ἐγᾦμαι, ἐπιεικῶς αὐτῆς διεληλύθαμεν.
παντάπασι μὲν οὖν, ἔφη.
οὐκοῦν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, τά τε ἄλλα ἀπελυσάμεθα ἐν τῷ λόγῳ, [612b] καὶ οὐ τοὺς μισθοὺς οὐδὲ τὰς δόξας δικαιοσύνης ἐπῃνέκαμεν, ὥσπερ Ἡσίοδόν τε καὶ Ὅμηρον ὑμεῖς ἔφατε, ἀλλʼ αὐτὸ δικαιοσύνην αὐτῇ ψυχῇ ἄριστον ηὕρομεν, καὶ ποιητέον εἶναι αὐτῇ τὰ δίκαια, ἐάντʼ ἔχῃ τὸν Γύγου δακτύλιον, ἐάντε μή, καὶ πρὸς τοιούτῳ δακτυλίῳ τὴν Ἄιδος κυνῆν;
ἀληθέστατα, ἔφη, λέγεις.
ἆρʼ οὖν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὦ Γλαύκων, νῦν ἤδη ἀνεπίφθονόν ἐστιν πρὸς ἐκείνοις καὶ τοὺς μισθοὺς τῇ δικαιοσύνῃ καὶ τῇ [612c] ἄλλῃ ἀρετῇ ἀποδοῦναι, ὅσους τε καὶ οἵους τῇ ψυχῇ παρέχει παρʼ ἀνθρώπων τε καὶ θεῶν, ζῶντός τε ἔτι τοῦ ἀνθρώπου καὶ ἐπειδὰν τελευτήσῃ;
παντάπασι μὲν οὖν, ἦ δʼ ὅς.
ἆρʼ οὖν ἀποδώσετέ μοι ἃ ἐδανείσασθε ἐν τῷ λόγῳ;
τί μάλιστα;
ἔδωκα ὑμῖν τὸν δίκαιον δοκεῖν ἄδικον εἶναι καὶ τὸν ἄδικον δίκαιον· ὑμεῖς γὰρ ᾐτεῖσθε, κἂν εἰ μὴ δυνατὸν εἴη ταῦτα λανθάνειν καὶ θεοὺς καὶ ἀνθρώπους, ὅμως δοτέον εἶναι τοῦ λόγου ἕνεκα, ἵνα αὐτὴ δικαιοσύνη πρὸς ἀδικίαν αὐτὴν [612d] κριθείη. ἢ οὐ μνημονεύεις;
ἀδικοίην μεντἄν, ἔφη, εἰ μή.
ἐπειδὴ τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, κεκριμέναι εἰσί, πάλιν ἀπαιτῶ ὑπὲρ δικαιοσύνης, ὥσπερ ἔχει δόξης καὶ παρὰ θεῶν καὶ παρʼ ἀνθρώπων, καὶ ἡμᾶς ὁμολογεῖν περὶ αὐτῆς δοκεῖσθαι οὕτω, ἵνα καὶ τὰ νικητήρια κομίσηται, ἀπὸ τοῦ δοκεῖν κτωμένη ἃ δίδωσι τοῖς ἔχουσιν αὐτήν, ἐπειδὴ καὶ τὰ ἀπὸ τοῦ εἶναι ἀγαθὰ διδοῦσα ἐφάνη καὶ οὐκ ἐξαπατῶσα τοὺς τῷ ὄντι λαμβάνοντας αὐτήν. [612e]
δίκαια, ἔφη, αἰτῇ.
οὐκοῦν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, πρῶτον μὲν τοῦτο ἀποδώσετε, ὅτι θεούς γε οὐ λανθάνει ἑκάτερος αὐτῶν οἷός ἐστιν;
ἀποδώσομεν, ἔφη.
εἰ δὲ μὴ λανθάνετον, ὁ μὲν θεοφιλὴς ἂν εἴη, ὁ δὲ θεομισής, ὥσπερ καὶ κατʼ ἀρχὰς ὡμολογοῦμεν.
ἔστι ταῦτα.
τῷ δὲ θεοφιλεῖ οὐχ ὁμολογήσομεν, ὅσα γε ἀπὸ θεῶν

[613a]
γίγνεται, πάντα γίγνεσθαι ὡς οἷόν τε ἄριστα, εἰ μή τι ἀναγκαῖον αὐτῷ κακὸν ἐκ προτέρας ἁμαρτίας ὑπῆρχεν;
πάνυ μὲν οὖν.
οὕτως ἄρα ὑποληπτέον περὶ τοῦ δικαίου ἀνδρός, ἐάντʼ ἐν πενίᾳ γίγνηται ἐάντʼ ἐν νόσοις ἤ τινι ἄλλῳ τῶν δοκούντων κακῶν, ὡς τούτῳ ταῦτα εἰς ἀγαθόν τι τελευτήσει ζῶντι ἢ καὶ ἀποθανόντι. οὐ γὰρ δὴ ὑπό γε θεῶν ποτε ἀμελεῖται ὃς ἂν προθυμεῖσθαι ἐθέλῃ δίκαιος γίγνεσθαι καὶ ἐπιτηδεύων [613b] ἀρετὴν εἰς ὅσον δυνατὸν ἀνθρώπῳ ὁμοιοῦσθαι θεῷ.
εἰκός γʼ, ἔφη, τὸν τοιοῦτον μὴ ἀμελεῖσθαι ὑπὸ τοῦ ὁμοίου.
οὐκοῦν περὶ τοῦ ἀδίκου τἀναντία τούτων δεῖ διανοεῖσθαι;
σφόδρα γε.
τὰ μὲν δὴ παρὰ θεῶν τοιαῦτʼ ἄττʼ ἂν εἴη νικητήρια τῷ δικαίῳ.
κατὰ γοῦν ἐμὴν δόξαν, ἔφη.
τί δέ, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, παρʼ ἀνθρώπων; ἆρʼ οὐχ ὧδε ἔχει, εἰ δεῖ τὸ ὂν τιθέναι; οὐχ οἱ μὲν δεινοί τε καὶ ἄδικοι δρῶσιν ὅπερ οἱ δρομῆς ὅσοι ἂν θέωσιν εὖ ἀπὸ τῶν κάτω, ἀπὸ δὲ τῶν ἄνω μή; τὸ μὲν πρῶτον ὀξέως ἀποπηδῶσιν, τελευτῶντες [613c] δὲ καταγέλαστοι γίγνονται, τὰ ὦτα ἐπὶ τῶν ὤμων ἔχοντες καὶ ἀστεφάνωτοι ἀποτρέχοντες· οἱ δὲ τῇ ἀληθείᾳ δρομικοὶ εἰς τέλος ἐλθόντες τά τε ἆθλα λαμβάνουσιν καὶ στεφανοῦνται. οὐχ οὕτω καὶ περὶ τῶν δικαίων τὸ πολὺ συμβαίνει; πρὸς τὸ τέλος ἑκάστης πράξεως καὶ ὁμιλίας καὶ τοῦ βίου εὐδοκιμοῦσί τε καὶ τὰ ἆθλα παρὰ τῶν ἀνθρώπων φέρονται;
καὶ μάλα.
ἀνέξῃ ἄρα λέγοντος ἐμοῦ περὶ τούτων ἅπερ αὐτὸς ἔλεγες [613d] περὶ τῶν ἀδίκων; ἐρῶ γὰρ δὴ ὅτι οἱ μὲν δίκαιοι, ἐπειδὰν πρεσβύτεροι γένωνται, ἐν τῇ αὑτῶν πόλει ἄρχουσί τε ἂν βούλωνται τὰς ἀρχάς, γαμοῦσί τε ὁπόθεν ἂν βούλωνται, ἐκδιδόασί τε εἰς οὓς ἂν ἐθέλωσι· καὶ πάντα ἃ σὺ περὶ ἐκείνων, ἐγὼ νῦν λέγω περὶ τῶνδε. καὶ αὖ καὶ περὶ τῶν ἀδίκων, ὅτι οἱ πολλοὶ αὐτῶν, καὶ ἐὰν νέοι ὄντες λάθωσιν, ἐπὶ τέλους τοῦ δρόμου αἱρεθέντες καταγέλαστοί εἰσιν καὶ γέροντες γιγνόμενοι ἄθλιοι προπηλακίζονται ὑπὸ ξένων τε [613e] καὶ ἀστῶν, μαστιγούμενοι καὶ ἃ ἄγροικα ἔφησθα σὺ εἶναι, ἀληθῆ λέγων—εἶτα στρεβλώσονται καὶ ἐκκαυθήσονται— πάντα ἐκεῖνα οἴου καὶ ἐμοῦ ἀκηκοέναι ὡς πάσχουσιν. ἀλλʼ ὃ λέγω, ὅρα εἰ ἀνέξῃ.
καὶ πάνυ, ἔφη· δίκαια γὰρ λέγεις.
ἃ μὲν τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ζῶντι τῷ δικαίῳ παρὰ θεῶν τε

[614a]
καὶ ἀνθρώπων ἆθλά τε καὶ μισθοὶ καὶ δῶρα γίγνεται πρὸς ἐκείνοις τοῖς ἀγαθοῖς οἷς αὐτὴ παρείχετο ἡ δικαιοσύνη, τοιαῦτʼ ἂν εἴη.
καὶ μάλʼ, ἔφη, καλά τε καὶ βέβαια.
ταῦτα τοίνυν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, οὐδέν ἐστι πλήθει οὐδὲ μεγέθει πρὸς ἐκεῖνα ἃ τελευτήσαντα ἑκάτερον περιμένει· χρὴ δʼ αὐτὰ ἀκοῦσαι, ἵνα τελέως ἑκάτερος αὐτῶν ἀπειλήφῃ τὰ ὑπὸ τοῦ λόγου ὀφειλόμενα ἀκοῦσαι. [614b]
λέγοις ἄν, ἔφη, ὡς οὐ πολλὰ ἄλλʼ ἥδιον ἀκούοντι.
ἀλλʼ οὐ μέντοι σοι, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, Ἀλκίνου γε ἀπόλογον ἐρῶ, ἀλλʼ ἀλκίμου μὲν ἀνδρός, Ἠρὸς τοῦ Ἀρμενίου, τὸ γένος Παμφύλου· ὅς ποτε ἐν πολέμῳ τελευτήσας, ἀναιρεθέντων δεκαταίων τῶν νεκρῶν ἤδη διεφθαρμένων, ὑγιὴς μὲν ἀνῃρέθη, κομισθεὶς δʼ οἴκαδε μέλλων θάπτεσθαι δωδεκαταῖος ἐπὶ τῇ πυρᾷ κείμενος ἀνεβίω, ἀναβιοὺς δʼ ἔλεγεν ἃ ἐκεῖ ἴδοι. ἔφη δέ, ἐπειδὴ οὗ ἐκβῆναι, τὴν ψυχὴν πορεύεσθαι [614c] μετὰ πολλῶν, καὶ ἀφικνεῖσθαι σφᾶς εἰς τόπον τινὰ δαιμόνιον, ἐν ᾧ τῆς τε γῆς δύʼ εἶναι χάσματα ἐχομένω ἀλλήλοιν καὶ τοῦ οὐρανοῦ αὖ ἐν τῷ ἄνω ἄλλα καταντικρύ. δικαστὰς δὲ μεταξὺ τούτων καθῆσθαι, οὕς, ἐπειδὴ διαδικάσειαν, τοὺς μὲν δικαίους κελεύειν πορεύεσθαι τὴν εἰς δεξιάν τε καὶ ἄνω διὰ τοῦ οὐρανοῦ, σημεῖα περιάψαντας τῶν δεδικασμένων ἐν τῷ πρόσθεν, τοὺς δὲ ἀδίκους τὴν εἰς ἀριστεράν τε καὶ κάτω, ἔχοντας καὶ τούτους ἐν τῷ ὄπισθεν σημεῖα πάντων ὧν [614d] ἔπραξαν. ἑαυτοῦ δὲ προσελθόντος εἰπεῖν ὅτι δέοι αὐτὸν ἄγγελον ἀνθρώποις γενέσθαι τῶν ἐκεῖ καὶ διακελεύοιντό οἱ ἀκούειν τε καὶ θεᾶσθαι πάντα τὰ ἐν τῷ τόπῳ. ὁρᾶν δὴ ταύτῃ μὲν καθʼ ἑκάτερον τὸ χάσμα τοῦ οὐρανοῦ τε καὶ τῆς γῆς ἀπιούσας τὰς ψυχάς, ἐπειδὴ αὐταῖς δικασθείη, κατὰ δὲ τὼ ἑτέρω ἐκ μὲν τοῦ ἀνιέναι ἐκ τῆς γῆς μεστὰς αὐχμοῦ τε καὶ κόνεως, ἐκ δὲ τοῦ ἑτέρου καταβαίνειν ἑτέρας ἐκ τοῦ [614e] οὐρανοῦ καθαράς. καὶ τὰς ἀεὶ ἀφικνουμένας ὥσπερ ἐκ πολλῆς πορείας φαίνεσθαι ἥκειν, καὶ ἁσμένας εἰς τὸν λειμῶνα ἀπιούσας οἷον ἐν πανηγύρει κατασκηνᾶσθαι, καὶ ἀσπάζεσθαί τε ἀλλήλας ὅσαι γνώριμαι, καὶ πυνθάνεσθαι τάς τε ἐκ τῆς γῆς ἡκούσας παρὰ τῶν ἑτέρων τὰ ἐκεῖ καὶ τὰς ἐκ τοῦ οὐρανοῦ τὰ παρʼ ἐκείναις.
διηγεῖσθαι δὲ ἀλλήλαις τὰς

[615a]
μὲν ὀδυρομένας τε καὶ κλαούσας, ἀναμιμνῃσκομένας ὅσα τε καὶ οἷα πάθοιεν καὶ ἴδοιεν ἐν τῇ ὑπὸ γῆς πορείᾳ—εἶναι δὲ τὴν πορείαν χιλιέτη—τὰς δʼ αὖ ἐκ τοῦ οὐρανοῦ εὐπαθείας διηγεῖσθαι καὶ θέας ἀμηχάνους τὸ κάλλος. τὰ μὲν οὖν πολλά, ὦ Γλαύκων, πολλοῦ χρόνου διηγήσασθαι· τὸ δʼ οὖν κεφάλαιον ἔφη τόδε εἶναι, ὅσα πώποτέ τινα ἠδίκησαν καὶ ὅσους ἕκαστοι, ὑπὲρ ἁπάντων δίκην δεδωκέναι ἐν μέρει, ὑπὲρ ἑκάστου δεκάκις—τοῦτο δʼ εἶναι κατὰ ἑκατονταετηρίδα [615b] ἑκάστην, ὡς βίου ὄντος τοσούτου τοῦ ἀνθρωπίνου—ἵνα δεκαπλάσιον τὸ ἔκτεισμα τοῦ ἀδικήματος ἐκτίνοιεν, καὶ οἷον εἴ τινες πολλοῖς θανάτων ἦσαν αἴτιοι, ἢ πόλεις προδόντες ἢ στρατόπεδα, καὶ εἰς δουλείας ἐμβεβληκότες ἤ τινος ἄλλης κακουχίας μεταίτιοι, πάντων τούτων δεκαπλασίας ἀλγηδόνας ὑπὲρ ἑκάστου κομίσαιντο, καὶ αὖ εἴ τινας εὐεργεσίας εὐεργετηκότες καὶ δίκαιοι καὶ ὅσιοι γεγονότες εἶεν, κατὰ ταὐτὰ [615c] τὴν ἀξίαν κομίζοιντο. τῶν δὲ εὐθὺς γενομένων καὶ ὀλίγον χρόνον βιούντων πέρι ἄλλα ἔλεγεν οὐκ ἄξια μνήμης. εἰς δὲ θεοὺς ἀσεβείας τε καὶ εὐσεβείας καὶ γονέας καὶ αὐτόχειρος φόνου μείζους ἔτι τοὺς μισθοὺς διηγεῖτο.
ἔφη γὰρ δὴ παραγενέσθαι ἐρωτωμένῳ ἑτέρῳ ὑπὸ ἑτέρου ὅπου εἴη Ἀρδιαῖος ὁ μέγας. ὁ δὲ Ἀρδιαῖος οὗτος τῆς Παμφυλίας ἔν τινι πόλει τύραννος ἐγεγόνει, ἤδη χιλιοστὸν ἔτος εἰς ἐκεῖνον τὸν χρόνον, γέροντά τε πατέρα ἀποκτείνας [615d] καὶ πρεσβύτερον ἀδελφόν, καὶ ἄλλα δὴ πολλά τε καὶ ἀνόσια εἰργασμένος, ὡς ἐλέγετο. ἔφη οὖν τὸν ἐρωτώμενον εἰπεῖν, οὐχ ἥκει, φάναι, οὐδʼ ἂν ἥξει δεῦρο. ἐθεασάμεθα γὰρ οὖν δὴ καὶ τοῦτο τῶν δεινῶν θεαμάτων· ἐπειδὴ ἐγγὺς τοῦ στομίου ἦμεν μέλλοντες ἀνιέναι καὶ τἆλλα πάντα πεπονθότες, ἐκεῖνόν τε κατείδομεν ἐξαίφνης καὶ ἄλλους—σχεδόν τι αὐτῶν τοὺς πλείστους τυράννους· ἦσαν δὲ καὶ ἰδιῶταί τινες τῶν [615e] μεγάλα ἡμαρτηκότων—οὓς οἰομένους ἤδη ἀναβήσεσθαι οὐκ ἐδέχετο τὸ στόμιον, ἀλλʼ ἐμυκᾶτο ὁπότε τις τῶν οὕτως ἀνιάτως ἐχόντων εἰς πονηρίαν ἢ μὴ ἱκανῶς δεδωκὼς δίκην ἐπιχειροῖ ἀνιέναι.
ἐνταῦθα δὴ ἄνδρες, ἔφη, ἄγριοι, διάπυροι ἰδεῖν, παρεστῶτες καὶ καταμανθάνοντες τὸ φθέγμα, τοὺς μὲν διαλαβόντες ἦγον, τὸν δὲ Ἀρδιαῖον καὶ ἄλλους συμποδίσαντες

[616a]
χεῖράς τε καὶ πόδας καὶ κεφαλήν, καταβαλόντες καὶ ἐκδείραντες, εἷλκον παρὰ τὴν ὁδὸν ἐκτὸς ἐπʼ ἀσπαλάθων κνάμπτοντες, καὶ τοῖς ἀεὶ παριοῦσι σημαίνοντες ὧν ἕνεκά τε καὶ ὅτι εἰς τὸν Τάρταρον ἐμπεσούμενοι ἄγοιντο. ἔνθα δὴ φόβων, ἔφη, πολλῶν καὶ παντοδαπῶν σφίσι γεγονότων, τοῦτον ὑπερβάλλειν, μὴ γένοιτο ἑκάστῳ τὸ φθέγμα ὅτε ἀναβαίνοι, καὶ ἁσμενέστατα ἕκαστον σιγήσαντος ἀναβῆναι. καὶ τὰς μὲν δὴ δίκας τε καὶ τιμωρίας τοιαύτας τινὰς [616b] εἶναι, καὶ αὖ τὰς εὐεργεσίας ταύταις ἀντιστρόφους. ἐπειδὴ δὲ τοῖς ἐν τῷ λειμῶνι ἑκάστοις ἑπτὰ ἡμέραι γένοιντο, ἀναστάντας ἐντεῦθεν δεῖν τῇ ὀγδόῃ πορεύεσθαι, καὶ ἀφικνεῖσθαι τεταρταίους ὅθεν καθορᾶν ἄνωθεν διὰ παντὸς τοῦ οὐρανοῦ καὶ γῆς τεταμένον φῶς εὐθύ, οἷον κίονα, μάλιστα τῇ ἴριδι προσφερῆ, λαμπρότερον δὲ καὶ καθαρώτερον· εἰς ὃ ἀφικέσθαι προελθόντες ἡμερησίαν ὁδόν, καὶ ἰδεῖν αὐτόθι κατὰ [616c] μέσον τὸ φῶς ἐκ τοῦ οὐρανοῦ τὰ ἄκρα αὐτοῦ τῶν δεσμῶν τεταμένα—εἶναι γὰρ τοῦτο τὸ φῶς σύνδεσμον τοῦ οὐρανοῦ, οἷον τὰ ὑποζώματα τῶν τριήρων, οὕτω πᾶσαν συνέχον τὴν περιφοράν—ἐκ δὲ τῶν ἄκρων τεταμένον ἀνάγκης ἄτρακτον, διʼ οὗ πάσας ἐπιστρέφεσθαι τὰς περιφοράς· οὗ τὴν μὲν ἠλακάτην τε καὶ τὸ ἄγκιστρον εἶναι ἐξ ἀδάμαντος, τὸν δὲ σφόνδυλον μεικτὸν ἔκ τε τούτου καὶ ἄλλων γενῶν. τὴν δὲ [616d] τοῦ σφονδύλου φύσιν εἶναι τοιάνδε· τὸ μὲν σχῆμα οἵαπερ ἡ τοῦ ἐνθάδε, νοῆσαι δὲ δεῖ ἐξ ὧν ἔλεγεν τοιόνδε αὐτὸν εἶναι, ὥσπερ ἂν εἰ ἐν ἑνὶ μεγάλῳ σφονδύλῳ κοίλῳ καὶ ἐξεγλυμμένῳ διαμπερὲς ἄλλος τοιοῦτος ἐλάττων ἐγκέοιτο ἁρμόττων, καθάπερ οἱ κάδοι οἱ εἰς ἀλλήλους ἁρμόττοντες, καὶ οὕτω δὴ τρίτον ἄλλον καὶ τέταρτον καὶ ἄλλους τέτταρας. ὀκτὼ γὰρ εἶναι τοὺς σύμπαντας σφονδύλους, ἐν ἀλλήλοις ἐγκειμένους, [616e] κύκλους ἄνωθεν τὰ χείλη φαίνοντας, νῶτον συνεχὲς ἑνὸς σφονδύλου ἀπεργαζομένους περὶ τὴν ἠλακάτην· ἐκείνην δὲ διὰ μέσου τοῦ ὀγδόου διαμπερὲς ἐληλάσθαι. τὸν μὲν οὖν πρῶτόν τε καὶ ἐξωτάτω σφόνδυλον πλατύτατον τὸν τοῦ χείλους κύκλον ἔχειν, τὸν δὲ τοῦ ἕκτου δεύτερον, τρίτον δὲ τὸν τοῦ τετάρτου, τέταρτον δὲ τὸν τοῦ ὀγδόου, πέμπτον δὲ τὸν τοῦ ἑβδόμου, ἕκτον δὲ τὸν τοῦ πέμπτου, ἕβδομον δὲ τὸν τοῦ τρίτου, ὄγδοον δὲ τὸν τοῦ δευτέρου.
καὶ τὸν μὲν τοῦ μεγίστου ποικίλον, τὸν δὲ τοῦ ἑβδόμου λαμπρότατον, τὸν δὲ

[617a]
τοῦ ὀγδόου τὸ χρῶμα ἀπὸ τοῦ ἑβδόμου ἔχειν προσλάμποντος, τὸν δὲ τοῦ δευτέρου καὶ πέμπτου παραπλήσια ἀλλήλοις, ξανθότερα ἐκείνων, τρίτον δὲ λευκότατον χρῶμα ἔχειν, τέταρτον δὲ ὑπέρυθρον, δεύτερον δὲ λευκότητι τὸν ἕκτον. κυκλεῖσθαι δὲ δὴ στρεφόμενον τὸν ἄτρακτον ὅλον μὲν τὴν αὐτὴν φοράν, ἐν δὲ τῷ ὅλῳ περιφερομένῳ τοὺς μὲν ἐντὸς ἑπτὰ κύκλους τὴν ἐναντίαν τῷ ὅλῳ ἠρέμα περιφέρεσθαι, αὐτῶν δὲ τούτων τάχιστα μὲν ἰέναι τὸν ὄγδοον, δευτέρους δὲ καὶ ἅμα [617b] ἀλλήλοις τόν τε ἕβδομον καὶ ἕκτον καὶ πέμπτον· [τὸν] τρίτον δὲ φορᾷ ἰέναι, ὡς σφίσι φαίνεσθαι, ἐπανακυκλούμενον τὸν τέταρτον, τέταρτον δὲ τὸν τρίτον καὶ πέμπτον τὸν δεύτερον. στρέφεσθαι δὲ αὐτὸν ἐν τοῖς τῆς ἀνάγκης γόνασιν. ἐπὶ δὲ τῶν κύκλων αὐτοῦ ἄνωθεν ἐφʼ ἑκάστου βεβηκέναι Σειρῆνα συμπεριφερομένην, φωνὴν μίαν ἱεῖσαν, ἕνα τόνον· ἐκ πασῶν δὲ ὀκτὼ οὐσῶν μίαν ἁρμονίαν συμφωνεῖν. ἄλλας δὲ καθημένας [617c] πέριξ διʼ ἴσου τρεῖς, ἐν θρόνῳ ἑκάστην, θυγατέρας τῆς ἀνάγκης, Μοίρας, λευχειμονούσας, στέμματα ἐπὶ τῶν κεφαλῶν ἐχούσας, Λάχεσίν τε καὶ Κλωθὼ καὶ Ἄτροπον, ὑμνεῖν πρὸς τὴν τῶν Σειρήνων ἁρμονίαν, Λάχεσιν μὲν τὰ γεγονότα, Κλωθὼ δὲ τὰ ὄντα, Ἄτροπον δὲ τὰ μέλλοντα. καὶ τὴν μὲν Κλωθὼ τῇ δεξιᾷ χειρὶ ἐφαπτομένην συνεπιστρέφειν τοῦ ἀτράκτου τὴν ἔξω περιφοράν, διαλείπουσαν χρόνον, τὴν δὲ Ἄτροπον τῇ ἀριστερᾷ τὰς ἐντὸς αὖ ὡσαύτως· τὴν δὲ Λάχεσιν [617d] ἐν μέρει ἑκατέρας ἑκατέρᾳ τῇ χειρὶ ἐφάπτεσθαι. σφᾶς οὖν, ἐπειδὴ ἀφικέσθαι, εὐθὺς δεῖν ἰέναι πρὸς τὴν Λάχεσιν. προφήτην οὖν τινα σφᾶς πρῶτον μὲν ἐν τάξει διαστῆσαι, ἔπειτα λαβόντα ἐκ τῶν τῆς Λαχέσεως γονάτων κλήρους τε καὶ βίων παραδείγματα, ἀναβάντα ἐπί τι βῆμα ὑψηλὸν εἰπεῖν—
ἀνάγκης θυγατρὸς κόρης Λαχέσεως λόγος. Ψυχαὶ ἐφήμεροι, ἀρχὴ ἄλλης περιόδου θνητοῦ γένους θανατηφόρου. [617e] οὐχ ὑμᾶς δαίμων λήξεται, ἀλλʼ ὑμεῖς δαίμονα αἱρήσεσθε. πρῶτος δʼ ὁ λαχὼν πρῶτος αἱρείσθω βίον ᾧ συνέσται ἐξ ἀνάγκης. ἀρετὴ δὲ ἀδέσποτον, ἣν τιμῶν καὶ ἀτιμάζων πλέον καὶ ἔλαττον αὐτῆς ἕκαστος ἕξει. αἰτία ἑλομένου· θεὸς ἀναίτιος.
ταῦτα εἰπόντα ῥῖψαι ἐπὶ πάντας τοὺς κλήρους, τὸν δὲ παρʼ αὑτὸν πεσόντα ἕκαστον ἀναιρεῖσθαι πλὴν οὗ, ἓ δὲ οὐκ ἐᾶν· τῷ δὲ ἀνελομένῳ δῆλον εἶναι ὁπόστος εἰλήχει.

[618a]
μετὰ δὲ τοῦτο αὖθις τὰ τῶν βίων παραδείγματα εἰς τὸ πρόσθεν σφῶν θεῖναι ἐπὶ τὴν γῆν, πολὺ πλείω τῶν παρόντων. εἶναι δὲ παντοδαπά· ζῴων τε γὰρ πάντων βίους καὶ δὴ καὶ τοὺς ἀνθρωπίνους ἅπαντας. τυραννίδας τε γὰρ ἐν αὐτοῖς εἶναι, τὰς μὲν διατελεῖς, τὰς δὲ καὶ μεταξὺ διαφθειρομένας καὶ εἰς πενίας τε καὶ φυγὰς καὶ εἰς πτωχείας τελευτώσας· εἶναι δὲ καὶ δοκίμων ἀνδρῶν βίους, τοὺς μὲν ἐπὶ εἴδεσιν καὶ κατὰ κάλλη καὶ τὴν ἄλλην ἰσχύν [618b] τε καὶ ἀγωνίαν, τοὺς δʼ ἐπὶ γένεσιν καὶ προγόνων ἀρεταῖς, καὶ ἀδοκίμων κατὰ ταῦτα, ὡσαύτως δὲ καὶ γυναικῶν. ψυχῆς δὲ τάξιν οὐκ ἐνεῖναι διὰ τὸ ἀναγκαίως ἔχειν ἄλλον ἑλομένην βίον ἀλλοίαν γίγνεσθαι· τὰ δʼ ἄλλα ἀλλήλοις τε καὶ πλούτοις καὶ πενίαις, τὰ δὲ νόσοις, τὰ δʼ ὑγιείαις μεμεῖχθαι, τὰ δὲ καὶ μεσοῦν τούτων. ἔνθα δή, ὡς ἔοικεν, ὦ φίλε Γλαύκων, ὁ πᾶς κίνδυνος ἀνθρώπῳ, καὶ διὰ ταῦτα μάλιστα [618c] ἐπιμελητέον ὅπως ἕκαστος ἡμῶν τῶν ἄλλων μαθημάτων ἀμελήσας τούτου τοῦ μαθήματος καὶ ζητητὴς καὶ μαθητὴς ἔσται, ἐάν ποθεν οἷός τʼ ᾖ μαθεῖν καὶ ἐξευρεῖν τίς αὐτὸν ποιήσει δυνατὸν καὶ ἐπιστήμονα, βίον καὶ χρηστὸν καὶ πονηρὸν διαγιγνώσκοντα, τὸν βελτίω ἐκ τῶν δυνατῶν ἀεὶ πανταχοῦ αἱρεῖσθαι· ἀναλογιζόμενον πάντα τὰ νυνδὴ ῥηθέντα καὶ συντιθέμενα ἀλλήλοις καὶ διαιρούμενα πρὸς ἀρετὴν βίου πῶς ἔχει, εἰδέναι τί κάλλος πενίᾳ ἢ πλούτῳ κραθὲν καὶ [618d] μετὰ ποίας τινὸς ψυχῆς ἕξεως κακὸν ἢ ἀγαθὸν ἐργάζεται, καὶ τί εὐγένειαι καὶ δυσγένειαι καὶ ἰδιωτεῖαι καὶ ἀρχαὶ καὶ ἰσχύες καὶ ἀσθένειαι καὶ εὐμαθίαι καὶ δυσμαθίαι καὶ πάντα τὰ τοιαῦτα τῶν φύσει περὶ ψυχὴν ὄντων καὶ τῶν ἐπικτήτων τί συγκεραννύμενα πρὸς ἄλληλα ἐργάζεται, ὥστε ἐξ ἁπάντων αὐτῶν δυνατὸν εἶναι συλλογισάμενον αἱρεῖσθαι, πρὸς τὴν τῆς ψυχῆς φύσιν ἀποβλέποντα, τόν τε χείρω καὶ τὸν ἀμείνω [618e] βίον, χείρω μὲν καλοῦντα ὃς αὐτὴν ἐκεῖσε ἄξει, εἰς τὸ ἀδικωτέραν γίγνεσθαι, ἀμείνω δὲ ὅστις εἰς τὸ δικαιοτέραν. τὰ δὲ ἄλλα πάντα χαίρειν ἐάσει· ἑωράκαμεν γὰρ ὅτι ζῶντί τε καὶ τελευτήσαντι αὕτη κρατίστη αἵρεσις.
ἀδαμαντίνως δὴ

### Book X, 619–621

[619a]
δεῖ ταύτην τὴν δόξαν ἔχοντα εἰς Ἅιδου ἰέναι, ὅπως ἂν ᾖ καὶ ἐκεῖ ἀνέκπληκτος ὑπὸ πλούτων τε καὶ τῶν τοιούτων κακῶν, καὶ μὴ ἐμπεσὼν εἰς τυραννίδας καὶ ἄλλας τοιαύτας πράξεις πολλὰ μὲν ἐργάσηται καὶ ἀνήκεστα κακά, ἔτι δὲ αὐτὸς μείζω πάθῃ, ἀλλὰ γνῷ τὸν μέσον ἀεὶ τῶν τοιούτων βίον αἱρεῖσθαι καὶ φεύγειν τὰ ὑπερβάλλοντα ἑκατέρωσε καὶ ἐν τῷδε τῷ βίῳ κατὰ τὸ δυνατὸν καὶ ἐν παντὶ τῷ ἔπειτα· οὕτω γὰρ [619b] εὐδαιμονέστατος γίγνεται ἄνθρωπος.
καὶ δὴ οὖν καὶ τότε ὁ ἐκεῖθεν ἄγγελος ἤγγελλε τὸν μὲν προφήτην οὕτως εἰπεῖν· καὶ τελευταίῳ ἐπιόντι, ξὺν νῷ ἑλομένῳ, συντόνως ζῶντι κεῖται βίος ἀγαπητός, οὐ κακός. μήτε ὁ ἄρχων αἱρέσεως ἀμελείτω μήτε ὁ τελευτῶν ἀθυμείτω.
εἰπόντος δὲ ταῦτα τὸν πρῶτον λαχόντα ἔφη εὐθὺς ἐπιόντα τὴν μεγίστην τυραννίδα ἑλέσθαι, καὶ ὑπὸ ἀφροσύνης τε καὶ λαιμαργίας οὐ πάντα ἱκανῶς ἀνασκεψάμενον ἑλέσθαι, ἀλλʼ [619c] αὐτὸν λαθεῖν ἐνοῦσαν εἱμαρμένην παίδων αὑτοῦ βρώσεις καὶ ἄλλα κακά· ἐπειδὴ δὲ κατὰ σχολὴν σκέψασθαι, κόπτεσθαί τε καὶ ὀδύρεσθαι τὴν αἵρεσιν, οὐκ ἐμμένοντα τοῖς προρρηθεῖσιν ὑπὸ τοῦ προφήτου· οὐ γὰρ ἑαυτὸν αἰτιᾶσθαι τῶν κακῶν, ἀλλὰ τύχην τε καὶ δαίμονας καὶ πάντα μᾶλλον ἀνθʼ ἑαυτοῦ. εἶναι δὲ αὐτὸν τῶν ἐκ τοῦ οὐρανοῦ ἡκόντων, ἐν τεταγμένῃ πολιτείᾳ ἐν τῷ προτέρῳ βίῳ βεβιωκότα, ἔθει [619d] ἄνευ φιλοσοφίας ἀρετῆς μετειληφότα. ὡς δὲ καὶ εἰπεῖν, οὐκ ἐλάττους εἶναι ἐν τοῖς τοιούτοις ἁλισκομένους τοὺς ἐκ τοῦ οὐρανοῦ ἥκοντας, ἅτε πόνων ἀγυμνάστους· τῶν δʼ ἐκ τῆς γῆς τοὺς πολλούς, ἅτε αὐτούς τε πεπονηκότας ἄλλους τε ἑωρακότας, οὐκ ἐξ ἐπιδρομῆς τὰς αἱρέσεις ποιεῖσθαι. διὸ δὴ καὶ μεταβολὴν τῶν κακῶν καὶ τῶν ἀγαθῶν ταῖς πολλαῖς τῶν ψυχῶν γίγνεσθαι καὶ διὰ τὴν τοῦ κλήρου τύχην· ἐπεὶ εἴ τις ἀεί, ὁπότε εἰς τὸν ἐνθάδε βίον ἀφικνοῖτο, ὑγιῶς φιλοσοφοῖ [619e] καὶ ὁ κλῆρος αὐτῷ τῆς αἱρέσεως μὴ ἐν τελευταίοις πίπτοι, κινδυνεύει ἐκ τῶν ἐκεῖθεν ἀπαγγελλομένων οὐ μόνον ἐνθάδε εὐδαιμονεῖν ἄν, ἀλλὰ καὶ τὴν ἐνθένδε ἐκεῖσε καὶ δεῦρο πάλιν πορείαν οὐκ ἂν χθονίαν καὶ τραχεῖαν πορεύεσθαι, ἀλλὰ λείαν τε καὶ οὐρανίαν.
ταύτην γὰρ δὴ ἔφη τὴν θέαν ἀξίαν εἶναι ἰδεῖν, ὡς ἕκασται

[620a]
αἱ ψυχαὶ ᾑροῦντο τοὺς βίους· ἐλεινήν τε γὰρ ἰδεῖν εἶναι καὶ γελοίαν καὶ θαυμασίαν. κατὰ συνήθειαν γὰρ τοῦ προτέρου βίου τὰ πολλὰ αἱρεῖσθαι. ἰδεῖν μὲν γὰρ ψυχὴν ἔφη τήν ποτε Ὀρφέως γενομένην κύκνου βίον αἱρουμένην, μίσει τοῦ γυναικείου γένους διὰ τὸν ὑπʼ ἐκείνων θάνατον οὐκ ἐθέλουσαν ἐν γυναικὶ γεννηθεῖσαν γενέσθαι· ἰδεῖν δὲ τὴν Θαμύρου ἀηδόνος ἑλομένην· ἰδεῖν δὲ καὶ κύκνον μεταβάλλοντα εἰς ἀνθρωπίνου βίου αἵρεσιν, καὶ ἄλλα ζῷα μουσικὰ ὡσαύτως. [620b] εἰκοστὴν δὲ λαχοῦσαν ψυχὴν ἑλέσθαι λέοντος βίον· εἶναι δὲ τὴν Αἴαντος τοῦ Τελαμωνίου, φεύγουσαν ἄνθρωπον γενέσθαι, μεμνημένην τῆς τῶν ὅπλων κρίσεως. τὴν δʼ ἐπὶ τούτῳ Ἀγαμέμνονος· ἔχθρᾳ δὲ καὶ ταύτην τοῦ ἀνθρωπίνου γένους διὰ τὰ πάθη ἀετοῦ διαλλάξαι βίον. ἐν μέσοις δὲ λαχοῦσαν τὴν Ἀταλάντης ψυχήν, κατιδοῦσαν μεγάλας τιμὰς ἀθλητοῦ ἀνδρός, οὐ δύνασθαι παρελθεῖν, ἀλλὰ λαβεῖν. μετὰ [620c] δὲ ταύτην ἰδεῖν τὴν Ἐπειοῦ τοῦ Πανοπέως εἰς τεχνικῆς γυναικὸς ἰοῦσαν φύσιν· πόρρω δʼ ἐν ὑστάτοις ἰδεῖν τὴν τοῦ γελωτοποιοῦ Θερσίτου πίθηκον ἐνδυομένην. κατὰ τύχην δὲ τὴν Ὀδυσσέως λαχοῦσαν πασῶν ὑστάτην αἱρησομένην ἰέναι, μνήμῃ δὲ τῶν προτέρων πόνων φιλοτιμίας λελωφηκυῖαν ζητεῖν περιιοῦσαν χρόνον πολὺν βίον ἀνδρὸς ἰδιώτου ἀπράγμονος, καὶ μόγις εὑρεῖν κείμενόν που καὶ παρημελημένον [620d] ὑπὸ τῶν ἄλλων, καὶ εἰπεῖν ἰδοῦσαν ὅτι τὰ αὐτὰ ἂν ἔπραξεν καὶ πρώτη λαχοῦσα, καὶ ἁσμένην ἑλέσθαι. καὶ ἐκ τῶν ἄλλων δὴ θηρίων ὡσαύτως εἰς ἀνθρώπους ἰέναι καὶ εἰς ἄλληλα, τὰ μὲν ἄδικα εἰς τὰ ἄγρια, τὰ δὲ δίκαια εἰς τὰ ἥμερα μεταβάλλοντα, καὶ πάσας μείξεις μείγνυσθαι.
ἐπειδὴ δʼ οὖν πάσας τὰς ψυχὰς τοὺς βίους ᾑρῆσθαι, ὥσπερ ἔλαχον ἐν τάξει προσιέναι πρὸς τὴν Λάχεσιν· ἐκείνην δʼ ἑκάστῳ ὃν εἵλετο δαίμονα, τοῦτον φύλακα συμπέμπειν [620e] τοῦ βίου καὶ ἀποπληρωτὴν τῶν αἱρεθέντων. ὃν πρῶτον μὲν ἄγειν αὐτὴν πρὸς τὴν Κλωθὼ ὑπὸ τὴν ἐκείνης χεῖρά τε καὶ ἐπιστροφὴν τῆς τοῦ ἀτράκτου δίνης, κυροῦντα ἣν λαχὼν εἵλετο μοῖραν· ταύτης δʼ ἐφαψάμενον αὖθις ἐπὶ τὴν τῆς Ἀτρόπου ἄγειν νῆσιν, ἀμετάστροφα τὰ ἐπικλωσθέντα ποιοῦντα·
ἐντεῦθεν δὲ δὴ ἀμεταστρεπτὶ ὑπὸ τὸν τῆς

[621a]
ἀνάγκης ἰέναι θρόνον, καὶ διʼ ἐκείνου διεξελθόντα, ἐπειδὴ καὶ οἱ ἄλλοι διῆλθον, πορεύεσθαι ἅπαντας εἰς τὸ τῆς Λήθης πεδίον διὰ καύματός τε καὶ πνίγους δεινοῦ· καὶ γὰρ εἶναι αὐτὸ κενὸν δένδρων τε καὶ ὅσα γῆ φύει. σκηνᾶσθαι οὖν σφᾶς ἤδη ἑσπέρας γιγνομένης παρὰ τὸν Ἀμέλητα ποταμόν, οὗ τὸ ὕδωρ ἀγγεῖον οὐδὲν στέγειν. μέτρον μὲν οὖν τι τοῦ ὕδατος πᾶσιν ἀναγκαῖον εἶναι πιεῖν, τοὺς δὲ φρονήσει μὴ σῳζομένους πλέον πίνειν τοῦ μέτρου· τὸν δὲ ἀεὶ πιόντα [621b] πάντων ἐπιλανθάνεσθαι. ἐπειδὴ δὲ κοιμηθῆναι καὶ μέσας νύκτας γενέσθαι, βροντήν τε καὶ σεισμὸν γενέσθαι, καὶ ἐντεῦθεν ἐξαπίνης ἄλλον ἄλλῃ φέρεσθαι ἄνω εἰς τὴν γένεσιν, ᾄττοντας ὥσπερ ἀστέρας. αὐτὸς δὲ τοῦ μὲν ὕδατος κωλυθῆναι πιεῖν· ὅπῃ μέντοι καὶ ὅπως εἰς τὸ σῶμα ἀφίκοιτο, οὐκ εἰδέναι, ἀλλʼ ἐξαίφνης ἀναβλέψας ἰδεῖν ἕωθεν αὑτὸν κείμενον ἐπὶ τῇ πυρᾷ.
καὶ οὕτως, ὦ Γλαύκων, μῦθος ἐσώθη καὶ οὐκ ἀπώλετο, [621c] καὶ ἡμᾶς ἂν σώσειεν, ἂν πειθώμεθα αὐτῷ, καὶ τὸν τῆς Λήθης ποταμὸν εὖ διαβησόμεθα καὶ τὴν ψυχὴν οὐ μιανθησόμεθα. ἀλλʼ ἂν ἐμοὶ πειθώμεθα, νομίζοντες ἀθάνατον ψυχὴν καὶ δυνατὴν πάντα μὲν κακὰ ἀνέχεσθαι, πάντα δὲ ἀγαθά, τῆς ἄνω ὁδοῦ ἀεὶ ἑξόμεθα καὶ δικαιοσύνην μετὰ φρονήσεως παντὶ τρόπῳ ἐπιτηδεύσομεν, ἵνα καὶ ἡμῖν αὐτοῖς φίλοι ὦμεν καὶ τοῖς θεοῖς, αὐτοῦ τε μένοντες ἐνθάδε, καὶ ἐπειδὰν τὰ ἆθλα [621d] αὐτῆς κομιζώμεθα, ὥσπερ οἱ νικηφόροι περιαγειρόμενοι, καὶ ἐνθάδε καὶ ἐν τῇ χιλιέτει πορείᾳ, ἣν διεληλύθαμεν, εὖ πράττωμεν.

## Translation — Mouseia

> Mouseia’s complete machine-assisted Musean translation, made directly from all ten books of the Greek (John Burnet’s Oxford edition, Perseus Digital Library) for fidelity, Platonic dialogue and imagery, and modern clarity.

### Book I, 327–334

[327a]
Yesterday I went down to the Piraeus with Glaucon, son of Ariston, to offer a prayer to the goddess and also to see how they would conduct the festival, since this was its first celebration. I thought the procession of the local people was beautiful; yet the procession the Thracians held seemed no less splendid. [327b] After praying and watching the spectacle, we set off toward the city. Polemarchus, son of Cephalus, caught sight of us from a distance as we started home, and sent his servant running to ask us to wait for him. The servant caught hold of my cloak from behind and said, “Polemarchus asks you to wait.” I turned around and asked where he was. “He is coming up behind us,” he said. “Please wait.” “We will wait,” said Glaucon.
[327c] A little later Polemarchus arrived, along with Adeimantus, Glaucon’s brother, Niceratus, son of Nicias, and several others coming from the procession.
Polemarchus said, “Socrates, you seem to be heading for the city on your way home.”
“You are not mistaken,” I said.
“Do you see how many of us there are?” he asked.
“How could I not?”
“Then either prove stronger than all of us,” he said, “or stay here.”
“But,” I said, “there is another possibility: we might persuade you to let us go.”
“Could you persuade us,” he asked, “if we refused to listen?”
“Not at all,” said Glaucon.
“Then you had better understand that we will not listen.”

[328a]
“And besides,” Adeimantus said, “don’t you know there will be a torch race on horseback for the goddess this evening?”
“On horseback?” I said. “That is new. Will they ride in a race passing torches from one to another? Is that what you mean?”
“Yes,” said Polemarchus. “And they will hold an all-night festival, too, well worth seeing. We will get up after dinner and watch it, meet a great many of the young men there, and talk with them. So stay [328b] and do not think of doing otherwise.”
“Well, it seems we must stay,” said Glaucon.
“If that is how it seems,” I said, “then that is what we must do.”
So we went to Polemarchus’ house. There we found his brothers Lysias and Euthydemus, and also Thrasymachus of Chalcedon, Charmantides of Paeania, and Clitophon, son of Aristonymus. Polemarchus’ father Cephalus was inside as well. He seemed very old to me, for it had been a long time since [328c] I had seen him. He sat crowned with a wreath upon a cushioned chair; he had just performed a sacrifice in the courtyard. We sat down beside him, for chairs were set there in a circle.
As soon as Cephalus saw me, he welcomed me and said, “Socrates, you do not come down to visit us in the Piraeus often enough. You ought to. If I still had the strength to make the journey into the city easily, you would have no need to come [328d] here; we would come to you. But as things are, you must visit us more frequently. Be assured that as my other pleasures, those of the body, fade away, my longing and pleasure in conversation grow in equal measure. So do not refuse: spend time with these young men, and visit us here as friends who are very close to you.”
“Indeed, Cephalus,” I said, “I enjoy talking [328e] with the very old. I think we should learn from them, as from people who have traveled ahead on a road that we too may have to take: whether it is rough and difficult, or easy and passable. And I would gladly hear what you have to say about it, now that you have reached what the poets call the threshold of old age. Is this a difficult time of life, or how do you describe it?”

[329a]
“By Zeus, Socrates,” he said, “I will tell you how it seems to me. Some of us of roughly the same age often gather together, keeping up the old proverb. Most of us, when we meet, lament their lost youthful pleasures, recalling love affairs, drinking parties, feasts, and all that goes with them. They are distressed, as though robbed of something great, as though then they lived well and now they hardly live at all. [329b] Others complain of insults they suffer from their own families on account of their age, and rehearse all the evils for which they hold old age responsible. But I think, Socrates, they are blaming the wrong cause. If age were responsible, I would have suffered the same things by virtue of my age, as would everyone else who had reached it. Yet I have met others who feel quite differently. Once I was with the poet Sophocles when someone asked him, ‘How are things [329c] with love, Sophocles? Can you still sleep with a woman?’ He answered, ‘Hush, man! I am delighted to have escaped from that, as though I had fled a savage, frenzied master.’ I thought his answer excellent then, and think so no less now. In old age, at least where such things are concerned, there comes a profound peace and freedom. When desires stop straining at us and relax their hold, Sophocles’ words come entirely true: [329d] it is an escape from a host of mad masters. But in these matters, and in troubles with family too, there is one cause, Socrates, and it is not old age but a person’s character. For those who are orderly and contented, even old age is only moderately burdensome; without those qualities, Socrates, both youth and age prove hard to bear.”
I admired what he said and, wanting to encourage him [329e] to speak further, said, “Cephalus, I imagine that when you say this, most people do not accept it. They suppose you bear old age easily not because of your character but because you possess considerable wealth; the rich, they say, have many consolations.”
“You are right,” he said. “They do not accept it. There is something in what they say, but not so much as they think. The answer Themistocles gave was apt: when a man from Seriphus insulted him and said

[330a]
that his fame came not from himself but from his city, he replied that he would not have become famous if he had been a Seriphian, nor would the other man if he had been an Athenian. The same answer serves those who are poor and find old age hard: a decent person could not bear old age with poverty very easily, while an indecent person, even if rich, could never be at ease with himself.”
“Cephalus,” I said, “did you inherit most of what you own, or did you acquire it yourself?” [330b]
“What did I acquire, Socrates?” he said. “As a moneymaker, I stand somewhere between my grandfather and my father. My grandfather, whose name I bear, inherited about as much as I own now and made it many times greater. My father Lysanias made it smaller still than it is now. I will be satisfied if I can leave these sons of mine not less, but a little more than I inherited.”
“The reason I asked,” I said, “is that you do not seem [330c] particularly attached to money. That is generally true of people who have not made it themselves. Those who have earned it love it twice as much as others do. Just as poets love their poems and fathers their children, people who have made money care for it as their own work, besides valuing it for its use as others do. They are difficult company, because they will praise nothing but wealth.”
“That is true,” he said. [330d]
“Indeed it is,” I said. “But tell me one thing more: what do you think is the greatest good you have gained from possessing considerable wealth?”
“One that I may not convince many people of when I tell them,” he said. “You must know, Socrates, that when a man thinks he is close to death, fears and concerns come upon him that never troubled him before. The stories told about Hades, that anyone who has done wrong here must pay [330e] for it there, which he has laughed at until now, then begin to trouble his soul: what if they are true? And he himself—whether from the weakness of age or because, nearing that place, he sees it more clearly—becomes full of suspicion and dread, and starts to reflect and examine whether he has wronged anyone.
The man who finds his life filled with wrongs often wakes from sleep in fear like a child,

[331a]
and lives in fearful expectation. But the man who knows he has done no wrong always has sweet hope at his side, a kindly nurse of old age, as Pindar says. For he put it beautifully, Socrates, when he said that a man who has lived in justice and reverence
sweet to his heart,
cherishing nurse of age, hope attends him;
she above all steers the shifting
mind of mortal men.
How wonderfully right he was. And it is chiefly with this in mind that I count the possession of wealth of the highest value—not [331b] for every man, but for the decent and orderly man. Wealth contributes greatly to his not deceiving or lying to anyone, even unwillingly, and not departing for that other place afraid because he owes sacrifices to a god or money to a person. It has many other uses as well; but weighing one against another, Socrates, I would count this not the least of the ways in which wealth is useful to a man of sense.” [331c]
“That is beautifully said, Cephalus,” I said. “But as for this very thing, justice: shall we say it is simply telling the truth and returning what one has taken from another? Or can these very acts sometimes be just and sometimes unjust? I mean something like this: everyone would agree that if a man borrowed weapons from a friend who was in his right mind, and the friend went mad and demanded them back, he should not return them. The man who did would not be just, nor would a man who chose to tell someone in that condition the whole truth.” [331d]
“You are right,” he said.
“So telling the truth and returning what one has taken is not the definition of justice.”
“It most certainly is, Socrates,” Polemarchus broke in, “if Simonides is to be believed.”
“Then I hand over the argument to you,” said Cephalus. “It is time for me to attend to the sacrifices.”
“Is Polemarchus, then,” I asked, “your heir?”
“He certainly is,” he said with a laugh, and went off to the sacrifices. [331e]
“Tell me, then,” I said, “you who inherit the argument: what did Simonides say about justice that you think is right?”
“That it is just to give each person what is owed to him. In saying that, I think he speaks well.”
“Well, it is not easy to disbelieve Simonides, a wise and inspired man. But what he means by this, Polemarchus, you may understand, while I do not. Clearly he cannot mean what we were just saying, that one should return something deposited with one by anyone who demands it when he is not in his right mind.

[332a]
And yet the thing deposited is presumably owed to him, is it not?”
“Yes.”
“But it must not be returned at all when someone demands it in a state of madness?”
“True,” he said.
“Then Simonides evidently means something else when he says it is just to return what is owed.”
“By Zeus, he certainly does,” he said. “He thinks friends owe friends good deeds, never harm.”
“I see,” I said. “A man does not return what is owed if he returns gold someone deposited with him when both its return [332b] and its receipt would be harmful, though the man receiving it and the man returning it are friends. Is that what you say Simonides means?”
“Exactly.”
“And what of enemies? Should one give them back whatever one happens to owe them?”
“Certainly,” he said, “whatever is owed to them. And what one enemy owes another, I imagine, is what is fitting for him: some harm.”
“So Simonides spoke in riddles, [332c] in the manner of a poet, about what justice is,” I said. “For he apparently meant that justice was giving each person what befits him, and called that what is owed.”
“What else could he have meant?” he asked.
“By Zeus,” I said, “suppose someone asked him, ‘Simonides, what art is called medicine because it gives to what things what is owed and fitting?’ What do you think he would answer?”
“Clearly,” he said, “the art that gives bodies drugs, food, and drink.”
“And what art is called cookery because it gives to what things what is owed and fitting?” [332d]
“The art that gives seasoning to dishes.”
“Very well. Then what art would be called justice because it gives what things to what people?”
“If we are to follow what was said before, Socrates,” he replied, “the art that gives benefits to friends and injuries to enemies.”
“Then does he call doing good to friends and harm to enemies justice?”
“I think so.”
“Who is best able to do good to sick friends and harm to enemies in matters of disease and health?”
“A doctor.” [332e]
“And who can do so for those at sea, facing its dangers?”
“A ship’s captain.”
“And the just man? In what activity and for what work is he best able to benefit friends and harm enemies?”
“In fighting alongside friends and against enemies, I think.”
“Very well. Yet a doctor is useless to people who are not sick, my dear Polemarchus.”
“True.”
“And a captain to people who are not at sea.”
“Yes.”
“Is the just man, then, useless to people who are not at war?”
“I do not think so at all.”
“So justice is useful in peacetime too?”

[333a]
“It is.”
“And so is farming, is it not?”
“Yes.”
“For producing crops?”
“Yes.”
“And shoemaking too?”
“Yes.”
“For producing shoes, you would say, I suppose?”
“Certainly.”
“Then tell me: for what use or acquisition in peacetime would you say justice is useful?”
“For contracts, Socrates.”
“By contracts do you mean partnerships, or something else?”
“Partnerships, of course.” [333b]
“Then is a just man a good and useful partner in placing pieces on a game board, or is a skilled player?”
“The skilled player.”
“But in setting bricks and stones, is the just man a more useful and better partner than a builder?”
“Not at all.”
“Then in what partnership is the just man a better partner than a builder or a lyre player, just as the lyre player is better than the just man at playing music?”
“In dealing with money, I think.”
“Except perhaps, Polemarchus, when the money is to be used: when money must be spent jointly to buy or sell a horse, then [333c] I think the horseman is better. Is that so?”
“So it seems.”
“And when it is a ship, the shipbuilder or captain?”
“Apparently.”
“Then when gold or silver must be used jointly in what circumstances is the just man more useful than the others?”
“When it must be deposited for safekeeping, Socrates.”
“You mean when we do not need to use it, but let it lie idle?”
“Exactly.”
“So when money is useless, justice is useful in relation to it?” [333d]
“It seems so.”
“And when a pruning knife must be stored, justice is useful to people jointly and individually; but when it must be used, the art of tending vines is useful?”
“So it seems.”
“And you will say that when a shield or a lyre must be stored rather than used, justice is useful; but when it must be used, the arts of war and music are useful?”
“I must.”
“And in every other case, justice is useless in the use of a thing, useful when the thing is not in use?”
“So it seems.” [333e]
“Then, my friend, justice could hardly be of much importance if it is useful only for things that are useless. But let us consider this: is not the man most capable of striking a blow in a fight, whether a boxing match or any other sort, also most capable of guarding against one?”
“Certainly.”
“And is not the man best able to ward off a disease also best able to bring it on undetected?”
“I think so.”

[334a]
“And is not the best guardian of an army camp the very man best able to steal the enemy’s plans and other operations?”
“Certainly.”
“So wherever a man is a clever guardian, he is also a clever thief.”
“Apparently.”
“Then if the just man is clever at guarding money, he is clever at stealing it.”
“So the argument indicates,” he said.
“Then the just man, it seems, has turned out to be a kind of thief, and you may have learned this from Homer. For Homer loves Autolycus, Odysseus’ grandfather on his mother’s side, [334b] and says that he surpassed all men in thievery and in swearing oaths. According to you, Homer, and Simonides, then, justice seems to be a kind of thievery, though for the benefit of friends and the injury of enemies. Is that not what you meant?”
“No, by Zeus,” he said. “I no longer know what I meant. But I still believe justice benefits friends and harms enemies.” [334c]
“Do you call friends those who seem good to each person, or those who really are good even if they do not seem so? And the same question for enemies.”
“A man is likely,” he said, “to love those he thinks good and hate those he thinks bad.”
“But do people not make mistakes about this, so that many seem good who are not, and many seem the opposite?”
“They do.”
“Then for such people, the good are enemies and the bad are friends?”
“Certainly.”
“Yet for them it would then be just to benefit the bad [334d] and harm the good?”
“Apparently.”
“But the good are just and incapable of doing wrong?”
“True.”
“So by your account it is just to harm those who have done no wrong.”
“By no means, Socrates,” he said. “That account seems wicked.”
“Then is it just to harm the unjust and benefit the just?” I asked.
“That seems better than the other account.”
“So for many people who have made mistakes, Polemarchus, it will follow [334e] that it is just to harm their friends, since those friends are bad, and benefit their enemies, since those enemies are good. Then we will say exactly the opposite of what we said Simonides meant.”
“Yes,” he said, “that is precisely the consequence. But let us revise our definition, for it seems we have not defined friend and enemy correctly.”
“How did we define them, Polemarchus?”
“We said that someone who seems good is a friend.”
“How shall we revise it now?” I asked.
“The man who both seems good and is good,” he said, “is a friend;

### Book I, 335–341

[335a] but one who seems good without being good only seems to be a friend, and is not one. The same definition applies to an enemy.”
“On this account, it seems, the good man will be a friend and the bad man an enemy.”
“Yes.”
“Do you ask us, then, to add to our account of justice? At first we said it was just to do good to a friend and harm to an enemy. Shall we now say, in addition, that it is just to do good to a friend who is good and to harm an enemy who is bad?” [335b]
“Certainly,” he said. “That would be well said, in my opinion.”
“Then,” I asked, “is it the part of a just man to harm any human being at all?”
“Of course,” he said. “The bad, who are his enemies, must be harmed.”
“When horses are harmed, do they become better or worse?”
“Worse.”
“In the excellence proper to dogs, or in that proper to horses?”
“In that proper to horses.”
“And dogs, when harmed, become worse in the excellence proper to dogs, not to horses?”
“They must.” [335c]
“And must we not say, my friend, that people who are harmed become worse in human excellence?”
“Certainly.”
“But is justice not a human excellence?”
“That too is undeniable.”
“Then people who are harmed, my friend, must become more unjust.”
“So it seems.”
“Can musicians use music to make people unmusical?”
“Impossible.”
“Can horsemen use horsemanship to make people unskilled with horses?”
“No.”
“Then can just men use justice to make people unjust? Or, [335d] in general, can good men use excellence to make people bad?”
“Impossible.”
“For it is not the work of heat to cool things, I imagine, but of its opposite.”
“Yes.”
“Nor of dryness to moisten things, but of its opposite.”
“Certainly.”
“Nor, then, of the good to harm, but of its opposite.”
“So it appears.”
“And the just man is good?”
“Certainly.”
“So it is not the work of the just man, Polemarchus, to harm a friend or anyone else. It is the work of his opposite, the unjust man.”
“I think you are entirely right, Socrates,” he said. [335e]
“Then if someone says justice is giving each person what is owed, and by that he means that a just man owes injury to enemies and benefits to friends, the man who said it was not wise. For what he said was untrue: we have found that it is never just to harm anyone.”
“I agree,” he said.
“Then you and I will fight together,” I said, “if anyone claims that Simonides, Bias, Pittacus, or any other wise and blessed man said it.”
“I am ready, for my part,” he said, “to join in the fight.”

[336a]
“But do you know,” I asked, “who I think is responsible for the saying that justice consists in benefiting friends and harming enemies?”
“Who?” he asked.
“I think it was Periander, or Perdiccas, or Xerxes, or Ismenias the Theban, or some other wealthy man who thought himself immensely powerful.”
“What you say,” he replied, “is absolutely true.”
“Very well,” I said. “Since justice and what is just have proved to be neither of these things, what else could one say justice is?” [336b]
Several times during our conversation Thrasymachus had begun to leap in and seize the argument, but the people sitting beside him restrained him because they wanted to hear it through. Once we had paused and I had spoken these last words, he could no longer keep quiet. Coiling himself like a wild beast, he sprang upon us as if to tear us apart.
Polemarchus and I were startled out of our wits. Thrasymachus broke in before us: “What nonsense [336c] has possessed you all this time, Socrates? Why do you play the fool together, bowing and scraping to each other? If you truly want to know what justice is, stop merely asking questions and seeking glory by refuting anyone who answers, knowing as you do that it is easier to ask than to answer. Give an answer yourself: say what you claim the just is. And do not tell me that it is [336d] what is required, or beneficial, or profitable, or lucrative, or advantageous. Tell me clearly and precisely what you mean, because I will not accept such drivel from you.”
I was stunned when I heard him, and looking at him I was afraid. I believe that if I had not looked at him before he looked at me, I would have lost my voice. But when he first began to grow savage at the course of the argument, I had looked at him first, [336e] and so I was able to answer him. Trembling a little, I said, “Thrasymachus, do not be hard on us. If my friend and I go wrong in examining these arguments, you may be sure we do so unwillingly. Do not imagine that if we were searching for gold, we would willingly bow and scrape to each other in the search and ruin our chance of finding it, yet, when searching for justice—a thing worth far more than any quantity of gold—we would be so foolish as to give way to each other rather than make every effort to bring it to light. Surely you do not think so, my friend. I believe, rather, that we lack the power. It is much more fitting

[337a]
for experts like you to pity us than to be angry.”
At this he gave a harsh, derisive laugh and said, “By Heracles! Here is the usual irony of Socrates. I knew it, and I told these people in advance: you would refuse to answer, play the innocent, and do anything rather than answer a question.”
“You are a wise man, Thrasymachus,” I said. “You knew perfectly well that if you asked someone what twelve is, and prefaced the question [337b] by saying, ‘Mind you do not tell me, sir, that twelve is twice six, or three times four, or six times two, or four times three, because I will not accept such nonsense from you,’ no one would answer a question asked that way. But suppose he said to you, ‘Thrasymachus, what do you mean? Must I not give any of the answers you have forbidden? Even if one of them is true, my remarkable friend, am I to say something [337c] other than the truth? Or what do you mean?’ What would you say in reply?”
“Well!” he said. “As though the two cases were alike.”
“Nothing prevents them from being so,” I said. “But even if they are not alike, and they seem so to the person questioned, do you think he will be any less likely to answer as it seems right to him, whether we forbid it or not?”
“Is that what you will do, then?” he asked. “Will you give one of the answers I have forbidden?”
“I would not be surprised,” I said, “if that is what I decide after considering the question.” [337d]
“And what if I show you an answer about justice different from all of these and better than they are? What penalty do you think you deserve?”
“What else,” I said, “but the penalty appropriate to someone who does not know? Surely it is appropriate for him to learn from someone who does. That is the penalty I think I deserve.”
“How charming,” he said. “But besides learning, you must pay me money.”
“Once I have some,” I said.
“But he does,” Glaucon said. “Speak, Thrasymachus, if money is the issue: all of us will pay for Socrates.” [337e]
“Oh yes, I am sure,” he said. “Then Socrates can do what he always does: give no answer himself, but catch hold of someone else’s answer and refute it.”
“How could anyone answer, my good man,” I said, “when, first, he does not know and does not claim to know, and, second, even if he has an opinion, a man of no mean ability has forbidden him to say anything he thinks? It is far more fitting that you should speak: you claim to know and to have an answer.

[338a]
Please do not refuse, but do me the favor of answering, and do not begrudge Glaucon and the others a chance to learn.”
When I had said this, Glaucon and the others urged him to speak. Thrasymachus plainly wanted to speak and win admiration, convinced he had a splendid answer; but he pretended to insist that I must be the one to answer. At last he yielded, [338b] and then said, “This is Socrates’ famous wisdom: he refuses to teach anything himself, but goes about learning from others without even paying them thanks.”
“It is true that I learn from others, Thrasymachus,” I said, “but when you say I pay them no thanks, that is false. I pay as much as I can: I can offer praise, though I have no money. You will know at once how readily I offer it when someone seems to speak well, as soon as you answer. For I expect you to speak well.” [338c]
“Then listen,” he said. “I say that the just is nothing other than the advantage of the stronger. Why do you not praise me? You will not, of course.”
“Not until I learn what you mean,” I said. “As yet I do not know. You say the advantage of the stronger is just. But what do you mean by this, Thrasymachus? Surely you do not mean, for instance, that if the wrestler Polydamas is stronger than we are and beef is advantageous for his body, that food is [338d] advantageous and just for us too, who are weaker than he is.”
“You are repulsive, Socrates,” he said, “and you seize on the interpretation that will do the greatest damage to the argument.”
“Not at all, my good man,” I said. “Only make your meaning clearer.”
“Do you not know,” he said, “that some cities are ruled by tyrants, some by democracies, and others by aristocracies?”
“Of course.”
“And in each city, the ruling power is the stronger?”
“Certainly.” [338e]
“Each ruling power makes laws for its own advantage: a democracy makes democratic laws, a tyranny tyrannical laws, and the rest do likewise. Once they have made them, they declare that what is advantageous to themselves is just for their subjects, and punish anyone who departs from it as a lawbreaker and a wrongdoer. This, my good man, is what I mean when I say that in all cities justice is the same thing:

[339a]
the advantage of the established government. That government has the power, so anyone who reasons correctly must conclude that justice everywhere is the same: the advantage of the stronger.”
“Now I understand what you mean,” I said, “but I will try to find out whether it is true. So you too, Thrasymachus, have answered that justice is something advantageous—though you forbade me to give that answer—with the addition of ‘to the stronger.’” [339b]
“A small addition, perhaps,” he said.
“It is not yet clear whether it is small. What is clear is that we must examine whether what you say is true. For I agree that justice is something advantageous, but you add that it is advantageous to the stronger, and that is something I do not know. We must examine it.”
“Examine it,” he said.
“I shall,” I said. “Tell me: do you not also say it is just to obey the rulers?”
“I do.” [339c]
“Are the rulers in every city incapable of error, or can they make mistakes?”
“Surely they can make mistakes,” he said.
“Then when they undertake to make laws, they make some correctly and some incorrectly?”
“I suppose so.”
“By making them correctly, do you mean making laws advantageous to themselves, and by making them incorrectly, ones that are disadvantageous? Or what do you mean?”
“That is what I mean.”
“And whatever laws they make, their subjects must obey; that is what is just?”
“Of course.” [339d]
“Then, by your account, it is just not only to do what is advantageous to the stronger, but also its opposite: what is disadvantageous.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“I think I mean what you mean, but let us look more closely. Have we not agreed that rulers, in commanding their subjects to do certain things, sometimes mistake what is best for themselves, and that it is just for their subjects to do whatever their rulers command? Have we not agreed to that?”
“I think we have,” he said. [339e]
“Then consider,” I said, “that you have also agreed it is just to do what is disadvantageous to rulers, the stronger party, whenever they unintentionally command things harmful to themselves and you say it is just for their subjects to do what they command. Does it not then follow of necessity, most wise Thrasymachus, that it is just to do the opposite of what you say? For the weaker are surely commanded to do what is disadvantageous to the stronger.”

[340a]
“Yes, by Zeus, Socrates,” Polemarchus said, “that is perfectly clear.”
“If you testify for him,” Clitophon interjected.
“And why,” said Polemarchus, “does he need a witness? Thrasymachus himself agrees that rulers sometimes command things harmful to themselves, and that it is just for their subjects to obey.”
“What Thrasymachus laid down as just, Polemarchus,” said Clitophon, “was doing what rulers command.”
“And what he laid down as just, Clitophon,” said Polemarchus, “was the advantage of the stronger. [340b] After laying down both, he agreed that the stronger sometimes command their weaker subjects to do what is disadvantageous to themselves. From these admissions, the advantage of the stronger would be no more just than its disadvantage.”
“But,” said Clitophon, “by the advantage of the stronger he meant what the stronger believed to be advantageous to himself. That is what the weaker must do, and that is what he called just.”
“That is not how it was said,” replied Polemarchus. [340c]
“No matter, Polemarchus,” I said. “If that is what Thrasymachus now means, let us accept it that way. Tell me, Thrasymachus: was this what you meant by justice—the thing the stronger believes advantageous to himself, whether it really is or not? Shall we say that is your meaning?”
“Certainly not,” he said. “Do you suppose I call a man stronger when he makes a mistake, at the moment he is making it?”
“I did think you meant that,” I said, “when you conceded that rulers are not incapable of error but can make mistakes.” [340d]
“You are a cheat in argument, Socrates,” he said. “For instance, do you call a man a doctor, precisely insofar as he makes a mistake about a patient? Or a man skilled in calculation, when he makes a mistake in calculation, at the moment of his mistake and in virtue of that mistake? I suppose we use expressions such as ‘the doctor made a mistake,’ or ‘the calculator made a mistake,’ or ‘the teacher made a mistake.’ But in my view, each of these, insofar as he is [340e] what we call him, never makes a mistake. So, to speak precisely, since you insist on precision, no practitioner of an art makes a mistake. The man who errs does so when his knowledge fails him, and at that point he is no practitioner. No practitioner, wise man, or ruler makes a mistake insofar as he is a ruler, though everyone will say that the doctor made a mistake or the ruler made a mistake.
“That, then, is how you should take the answer I gave you just now. To speak with utmost precision, a ruler, insofar

[341a]
as he is a ruler, does not make mistakes; being free of error, he makes laws for what is best for himself, and his subject must obey them. So, as I said from the start, I call it just to do what is advantageous to the stronger.”
“Very well, Thrasymachus,” I said. “Do I seem to you to cheat?”
“Absolutely,” he said.
“You think I asked what I asked as part of a plot to trip you up in the argument?”
“I am sure of it,” he said. “And it will do you no good: [341b] you will not trick me without my noticing, nor, once I notice, will you be able to overpower me in argument.”
“I would not even try, blessed man,” I said. “But to prevent this from happening again, define for us whether you mean ‘ruler’ and ‘stronger’ in the common way of speaking, or in the precise sense you just described, whose advantage it will be just for the weaker to promote.”
“I mean ruler in the most precise sense,” he said. “Now use your tricks and cheat if you can; I give you no quarter. But you will not be able to.” [341c]
“Do you think,” I asked, “I am mad enough to try to shave a lion and trick Thrasymachus?”
“You just tried,” he said, “though you are no match for it.”
“Enough of that,” I said. “Tell me: the doctor in the precise sense you spoke of just now—is he a moneymaker or a healer of the sick? Speak of someone who really is a doctor.”
“A healer of the sick,” he said.
“And a captain? Is a captain in the true sense a ruler of sailors or a sailor?”
“A ruler of sailors.” [341d]
“We should not count the fact that he sails aboard the ship, I imagine, nor should we call him a sailor. He is called captain not because he sails, but because of his art and his command over the sailors.”
“True,” he said.
“Then is there something advantageous to each of these people?”
“Certainly.”
“And is not each art,” I asked, “by its very nature devoted to seeking out and providing what is advantageous to its object?”
“It is,” he said.
“Is there any advantage to each art itself beyond being as complete as possible?” [341e]
“What do you mean by that question?”
“Suppose you asked me,” I said, “whether a body is sufficient simply by being a body, or whether it needs something further. I would say it certainly needs something further. That is why the art of medicine has now been discovered: the body is deficient, and its condition alone is not enough. The art was established to provide what benefits it. Would you say I was right to put it this way, or not?”
“Yes,” he said.

### Book I, 342–349

[342a] “But tell me: is medicine itself defective? Or is there any craft that needs some excellence added to it—as eyes need sight and ears hearing, and for that reason need a craft to examine and provide what benefits them? Is there some defect within the craft itself, so that each craft needs another to examine what benefits it, and the examining craft needs another in turn, without end? [342b] Or will it examine what benefits itself? Or does it need neither itself nor another craft to examine what benefits it against its own defect, since no craft has any defect or error, and it is not a craft's business to seek the benefit of anything but that of which it is the craft? In itself it is sound and whole, so long as each craft is precisely and entirely what it is. Examine it in that strict sense. Is this so or otherwise?”

“So it seems,” he said. [342c]

“Then medicine,” I said, “examines what benefits the body, not medicine.”

“Yes.”

“Nor does horsemanship examine what benefits horsemanship, but what benefits horses. No other craft examines its own benefit either—it has no need—but the benefit of that of which it is the craft.”

“So it seems,” he said.

“And yet, Thrasymachus, the crafts rule and have authority over the things of which they are crafts.”

At this he conceded, though with great reluctance.

“No branch of knowledge, then, examines or commands what benefits the stronger, but what benefits the weaker, the thing ruled [342d] by it.”

In the end he agreed to this too, though he tried to fight it. Once he had agreed, I said, “Then surely no doctor, insofar as he is a doctor, examines or commands what benefits the doctor, but what benefits the patient? For we have agreed that the doctor in the strict sense is a ruler of bodies, not a moneymaker. Haven't we?”

He assented.

“And that the ship's captain in the strict sense is a ruler of sailors, not a sailor?” [342e]

“We have.”

“Then such a captain and ruler will examine and command not what benefits the captain, but what benefits the sailor, the one under his command.”

He reluctantly assented.

“Then, Thrasymachus,” I said, “no one else in any position of rule, insofar as he is a ruler, examines or commands what benefits himself, but what benefits the one he rules and for whom he practices his craft. He looks to that person and to what is beneficial and fitting for that person in everything he says and everything he does.”

[343a] When we reached this point in the argument, and it was plain to everyone that our account of justice had turned into its opposite, Thrasymachus, instead of answering, said, “Tell me, Socrates, do you have a nurse?”

“What? Shouldn't you answer rather than ask questions like that?” I said.

“Because she lets you go about with a runny nose without wiping it when you need it; she hasn't even taught you to tell sheep from shepherds.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked. [343b]

“Because you imagine that shepherds and herdsmen look to the good of their sheep or cattle, and fatten and tend them with some end in view other than their masters' good and their own. And you imagine, too, that those who rule cities, the rulers in the true sense, feel toward their subjects any differently from a shepherd toward sheep, or think about anything day and night but the source [343c] of their own profit. You are so far from understanding justice and what is just, injustice and what is unjust, that you fail to see that justice and the just are in truth another person's good—the advantage of the stronger, the ruler—and a loss to the one who obeys and serves him. Injustice is the reverse: it rules over those who are truly simple and just. The subjects do what benefits the stronger man and, by serving [343d] him, make him happy, but themselves not in the least. You must look at it this way, most innocent Socrates: everywhere the just man gets less than the unjust man. First, in dealings between them, whenever such men enter into a partnership, you will never find the just man coming away from its dissolution with more than the unjust, but with less. Next, in dealings with the city: when there are taxes to pay, the just man pays more on the same resources and the unjust less; when there is money to receive, [343e] the just gets nothing and the unjust makes a great gain. When each of them holds office, the just man, even if he suffers no other loss, at least finds his own affairs in worse shape through neglect, while he gains nothing from public funds because he is just. Beyond this, he earns the hatred of family and acquaintances when he refuses to serve them against justice. For the unjust man everything is the opposite. I mean

[344a] the man I mentioned just now, the one capable of taking a vast advantage. Consider him if you wish to judge how much more profitable it is for a man personally to be unjust than just. You will see it most readily if you turn to injustice in its most complete form, which makes the perpetrator happiest and those who suffer it, and refuse to commit it themselves, most wretched. This is tyranny: it takes the property of others, sacred and profane, private and public, not bit by bit, covertly or by force, but [344b] all at once. When someone commits any one of these offenses and is caught, he is punished and subjected to the deepest disgrace. Those who commit these crimes one at a time are called temple robbers, enslavers, burglars, swindlers, and thieves. But when a man not only takes his fellow citizens' possessions but enslaves the citizens themselves, instead of receiving these shameful names he is called happy and blessed, [344c] not only by his fellow citizens but by everyone else who hears of the full extent of his injustice. For those who condemn injustice condemn it not because they fear doing wrong, but because they fear suffering it. Injustice, Socrates, when practiced on a sufficient scale, is stronger, freer, and more masterful than justice. And as I said at the outset, justice turns out to be the advantage of the stronger, while injustice profits and benefits the unjust man himself.” [344d]

After pouring this great flood of words into our ears like a bath attendant, Thrasymachus intended to leave. But the others would not let him go; they made him stay and give an account of what he had said. I too urged him earnestly. “Extraordinary Thrasymachus,” I said, “you fling an argument like that at us and mean to leave before you have adequately taught us, or learned yourself, whether it is so or otherwise? [344e] Do you think it a small matter you are trying to decide—the course of a whole life, the life each of us must lead to live to greatest advantage?”

“Do you think I believe it is otherwise?” said Thrasymachus.

“So it seems,” I said. “Either that, or you care nothing for us and have no concern whether we live better or worse lives in ignorance of what you claim to know. [345a] Please, my good man, make an effort to show us as well. A favor to so many of us would not be a bad investment for you. Speaking for myself, I am not convinced. I do not believe that injustice is more profitable than justice, even if it is given free rein to do whatever it wants. Let a man be unjust, my friend, and able to act unjustly, whether by escaping notice or by fighting off opposition; even then he does not convince me that injustice is more profitable than justice. [345b] Perhaps another of us feels this way, not just I. So convince us fully, my fortunate friend, that we are wrong to hold justice in higher esteem than injustice.”

“How am I to convince you?” he said. “If what I have just said has not persuaded you, what more can I do? Must I carry the argument and put it inside your soul?”

“No, by Zeus,” I said, “don't do that. First, stand by what you say; if you change your position, change it openly and do not deceive us. As it is, Thrasymachus, you can see—we must still examine what came before—that, having first defined the doctor in the true sense, [345c] you did not think it necessary afterward to keep to that definition strictly for the shepherd in the true sense. You think that insofar as he is a shepherd he fattens his sheep with a view not to what is best for them, but, like a diner anticipating a feast, to the pleasure of eating them, or else, like a moneymaker rather than a shepherd, [345d] to selling them. But the shepherd's craft surely has no concern except to provide the best for that over which it is set. Its own fitness to do its work is already sufficiently secured, as long as it lacks nothing that makes it the shepherd's craft. That is why I thought we had to agree just now that every form of rule, insofar as it is rule, considers what is best for nothing but what is ruled and cared for, [345e] whether the rule is civic or private. But do you think that the rulers in cities, the true rulers, are willing to rule?”

“No, by Zeus,” he said. “I know they aren't.”

“And consider other forms of rule, Thrasymachus,” I said. “Don't you see that no one willingly takes on the rule, but people ask for pay, because the benefit of ruling will go not to themselves but

[346a] to their subjects? Tell me this much: don't we say that each craft is distinct from every other precisely because it has a distinct power? And, my friend, don't answer against your own judgment; then we may make some progress.”

“Yes, that is what distinguishes it,” he said.

“Then each also gives us a benefit peculiar to itself, not one shared by them all: medicine gives health, the captain's craft safety at sea, and so with the others?”

“Certainly.” [346b]

“And the craft of earning wages gives wages? That is its power. Or do you call medicine and the captain's craft the same thing? If you wish to make strict distinctions, as you proposed, would you call the captain's craft medicine because a captain grows healthy while sailing, when a voyage agrees with him?”

“Certainly not,” he said.

“Nor, I think, would you call wage earning medicine if a person stays healthy while earning wages.”

“No.”

“Or medicine wage earning if a person receives pay while healing?” [346c]

“No,” he said.

“Then we have agreed that each craft has its own distinctive benefit?”

“Let it be so,” he said.

“Whatever benefit, then, all craftsmen receive in common, they plainly receive by making use of something common to them all.”

“So it seems,” he said.

“And we say that craftsmen gain the benefit of wages through their use of the craft of earning wages.”

He reluctantly assented. [346d]

“Then this benefit—the receipt of pay—does not come to each man from his own craft. To be precise, medicine produces health and wage earning produces wages; building produces a house, and the wage earning that accompanies it produces wages. All the other crafts likewise perform their own work and benefit that over which each is set. But if no pay is added, does the craftsman receive any benefit from his craft?”

“Apparently not,” he said. [346e]

“Yet does he confer no benefit when he works for nothing?”

“I think he does.”

“Then, Thrasymachus, this much is now clear: no craft or position of rule provides what benefits itself. Rather, as we have long been saying, it provides and commands what benefits its subject, looking to the advantage of that weaker party, not to that of the stronger. For this reason, my dear Thrasymachus, I said just now that no one willingly undertakes to rule and set right the troubles of others,

[347a] but asks for pay. For someone who means to practice his craft properly never acts or commands for his own benefit when he commands in accordance with his craft, but for the benefit of his subject. Therefore, it seems, those who are to be willing to rule must receive a wage: either money or honor, or a penalty if they refuse.”

“What do you mean, Socrates?” Glaucon asked. “I recognize the first two wages, but I don't understand what penalty you mean, or how you can have called it a kind of wage.”

“Then you do not understand the wage of the best people,” I said, “the one for which [347b] the most decent men rule, when they are willing to rule. Don't you know that loving honor and loving money are spoken of as disgraceful—and are disgraceful?”

“I do,” he said.

“This is why,” I said, “good men are unwilling to rule for money or honor. They do not wish to be called hirelings for openly demanding wages for office, or thieves for secretly taking them from office. Nor do they rule for honor: they are not lovers of honor. They must therefore be subject to compulsion and a penalty if they are to consent to rule. [347c] This may be why it has come to seem shameful to seek office willingly rather than wait for necessity. The greatest penalty is to be ruled by someone worse if one refuses to rule oneself. It is through fear of this, I think, that decent men rule when they do. Then they approach ruling not as something good or as a source of enjoyment, but as a necessity, since they cannot entrust it to people better than themselves, or even their equals. [347d] If there were a city of good men, I suspect that refusing to rule would be as fiercely contested there as ruling is now, and then it would become plain that the true ruler is by nature concerned not with his own advantage but with his subject's. So anyone with understanding would rather receive a benefit from another than have the trouble of benefiting another. Thus I cannot agree with Thrasymachus [347e] in any way that justice is the advantage of the stronger. We can examine that again another time. What Thrasymachus says now seems to me much more serious: he claims that the life of the unjust man is better than the life of the just. Which do you choose, Glaucon?” I asked. “Which claim seems truer to you?”

“That the just man's life is more profitable.”

[348a] “Did you hear all the benefits Thrasymachus just recounted for the unjust man's life?” I asked.

“I heard,” he said, “but I'm not convinced.”

“Then shall we try to persuade him, if we can find a way, that what he says is not true?”

“Of course,” he said.

“If we stretch out an opposing speech,” I said, “setting argument against argument and listing all the benefits of being just, and he replies, and we reply again, we will have to count and measure the benefits [348b] that each side names in each case, and we will need judges to decide between us. But if, as just now, we inquire while reaching agreement with one another, we will be both judges and advocates ourselves.”

“Exactly,” he said.

“Which way do you prefer?” I asked.

“That way,” he said.

“Come then, Thrasymachus,” I said, “answer us again from the beginning. Do you say that complete injustice is more profitable than complete justice?” [348c]

“I certainly do,” he said, “and I have given my reasons.”

“Now tell me how you describe them in this respect. You call one of the two a virtue, I take it, and the other a vice?”

“Of course.”

“Justice a virtue and injustice a vice?”

“That would be likely, wouldn't it, my delightful friend,” he said, “when I say injustice pays and justice doesn't?”

“Then what do you say?”

“The opposite,” he said.

“Justice a vice?”

“No, but a most noble simplicity.” [348d]

“Then you call injustice wickedness?”

“No, good judgment,” he said.

“And do you think unjust people intelligent and good, Thrasymachus?”

“Those who can commit injustice to the fullest extent,” he said, “who can bring cities and nations of people under their power. Perhaps you think I mean people who cut purses. Such things are profitable too, provided they go unnoticed. But they are not worth discussing; I mean what I spoke of just now.” [348e]

“I know what you mean,” I said. “But what surprised me is that you place injustice with virtue and wisdom, and justice among their opposites.”

“That is exactly where I place them.”

“That makes your position harder to shake, my friend, and it is no longer easy to know what to say. If you maintained that injustice is profitable but still admitted, as some do, that it is a vice or something shameful, we could appeal to conventional beliefs. But plainly you will call it noble and strong and assign it all the other qualities

[349a] that we assigned to justice, now that you have dared to put it among virtue and wisdom.”

“You have guessed quite correctly,” he said.

“Still, I must not shrink from following the argument wherever our inquiry leads, as long as I take you to be saying what you truly think. For I believe, Thrasymachus, that you are not joking now at all, but speaking your genuine view of the truth.”

“What difference does it make to you,” he said, “whether that is my view or not? Why don't you test the argument?” [349b]

“None at all,” I said. “But try to answer this in addition: do you think a just man would wish to get the better of another just man?”

“Not at all,” he said. “If he did, he would not be the well-mannered innocent he is.”

“What about getting the better of a just action?”

“Not of a just action either,” he said.

“But would he claim the right to get the better of an unjust man, and consider it just, or would he not?”

“He would think it just and claim the right,” he said, “but he would not be able to do it.”

“That isn't what I'm asking,” I said. “I'm asking whether the just man [349c] neither claims nor wants to get the better of another just man, but does want to get the better of an unjust man.”

“Yes, that is how it is,” he said.

“What about the unjust man? Does he claim the right to get the better of the just man and of just conduct?”

“How could he not,” he said, “when he claims the right to get the better of everyone?”

“Then the unjust man will try to get the better of another unjust man and unjust conduct too, competing to take the most of all.”

“That is so.”

“Let us put it this way,” I said. “The just man does not seek to outdo his like, but his unlike; the unjust man seeks to outdo both his like [349d] and his unlike.”

“Excellent,” he said. “You have put it well.”

“And the unjust man is intelligent and good, while the just man is neither?”

“That too is well put,” he said.

“Then does the unjust man also resemble the intelligent and good, while the just man does not?”

“Of course a man who has those qualities must resemble people who have them, while the other does not,” he said.

“Good. So each is the sort of person those he resembles are?”

“What else could he be?” he said.

“Very well, Thrasymachus. You call one person musical and another [349e] unmusical?”

“I do.”

“Which is intelligent and which unintelligent?”

“The musical man is intelligent, of course, and the unmusical unintelligent.”

“And in the respects in which he is intelligent he is good, while the unintelligent man is bad?”

“Yes.”

“And is it the same with someone skilled in medicine?”

“Yes.”

“Now do you think, my good man, that a musical man tuning a lyre wishes or claims the right to go further than another musical man in tightening and loosening its strings?”

“I do not.”

“But further than an unmusical man?”

“Necessarily,” he said.

### Book I, 350–354

[350a] “And someone skilled in medicine? When prescribing food or drink, would he wish to go further than another skilled doctor, or than that doctor's prescription?”

“Certainly not.”

“But further than someone without medical skill?”

“Yes.”

“Consider knowledge and ignorance in every field. Do you think any knowledgeable person would wish to choose to do or say more than another knowledgeable person does or says, rather than make the same choice as someone like himself in the same undertaking?”

“Perhaps,” he said, “that must be so.”

“What about the ignorant man? Wouldn't he want to get the better of both the knowledgeable [350b] and the ignorant alike?”

“Perhaps.”

“And the knowledgeable man is wise?”

“Yes.”

“And the wise man good?”

“Yes.”

“Then the good and wise man will not wish to get the better of his like, but of his unlike and opposite.”

“So it seems,” he said.

“And the bad and ignorant man wants to get the better of both his like and his opposite.”

“Apparently.”

“Now, Thrasymachus,” I said, “our unjust man seeks to get the better of both his like and his unlike. Isn't that what you said?”

“It is,” he said. [350c]

“But the just man will not seek to get the better of his like, only of his unlike?”

“Yes.”

“Then the just man resembles the wise and good man,” I said, “and the unjust resembles the bad and ignorant man.”

“It looks that way.”

“And yet we agreed that each is himself of the sort he resembles.”

“We did.”

“So the just man has proved to be good and wise, and the unjust man ignorant and bad.”

Thrasymachus conceded all this, [350d] not as easily as I recount it now, but dragged to it with difficulty, sweating profusely, as it was summer. It was then that I saw Thrasymachus blush, something I had never seen before. When we had thus agreed that justice was virtue and wisdom, and injustice vice and ignorance, I said, “Very well, let that stand. We also said, didn't we, that injustice was strong. Or have you forgotten, Thrasymachus?”

“I remember,” he said. “But I don't like what you are saying now either, and I have something to say about it. If I were to say it, I know you would accuse me of making a public speech. So either let me say all I want, or if you want to ask questions, ask them. And I will say ‘So be it’ to you as I would to old women telling stories, [350e] and nod or shake my head.”

“Never against your own judgment,” I said.

“To please you, then,” he said, “since you will not let me speak. What more do you want?”

“Nothing else, by Zeus,” I said. “But if you will do that, do it, and I will ask.”

“Ask away.”

“Then I ask what I asked a moment ago, so that we may pursue

[351a] the argument in order and see how justice stands in relation to injustice. It was said, I believe, that injustice is more powerful and stronger than justice. But now,” I said, “if justice is wisdom and virtue, I think it will readily prove stronger than injustice, since injustice is ignorance. No one could fail to see that. But I do not want to treat it quite so simply, Thrasymachus; I want to examine it this way. [351b] Would you say that a city might be unjust, try unjustly to enslave other cities, succeed in enslaving them, and hold many in subjection?”

“Of course,” he said. “And the best city will do that especially, if it is most perfectly unjust.”

“I understand that this was your argument,” I said. “But here is what I want to consider about it: will the city that grows stronger than another have this power without justice, or must it have justice?” [351c]

“If things are as you said just now, and justice is wisdom, it must have justice. But if they are as I said, it will have injustice.”

“I am delighted, Thrasymachus,” I said, “that you do not merely nod and shake your head, but give such fine answers.”

“I am doing it to please you,” he said.

“And well you do. Please grant me this too and tell me: do you think that a city, an army, a band of raiders or thieves, or any other group that undertakes some unjust act together could accomplish anything if its members wronged one another?” [351d]

“Certainly not,” he said.

“But if they did not wrong one another, could they do more?”

“Certainly.”

“For injustice, Thrasymachus, surely brings factions, hatred, and fights among them, while justice brings concord and friendship. Isn't that so?”

“Let it be so,” he said, “so that I don't quarrel with you.”

“You are very kind, my friend. Now tell me this: if it is the work of injustice to breed hatred wherever it arises, will it not also, when it arises among free people or slaves, make them hate one another, fall into factions, and become unable to act [351e] together?”

“Certainly.”

“And if it arises in two people, will they not disagree and hate each other and become enemies to each other and to the just?”

“They will,” he said.

“And if, astonishing man, injustice arises in a single person, will it lose its power, or retain it undiminished?”

“Let it retain it undiminished,” he said.

“Then its power appears to be this: wherever it arises, whether in a city, a people, an army, or

[352a] anything else, it first makes that thing incapable of acting in concert with itself because of faction and discord; and it makes it an enemy to itself, to everything opposed to it, and to what is just. Isn't that so?”

“Certainly.”

“And when it is present in one person, I think it will do the very things it is its nature to do. First, it will make him incapable of action by setting him against himself and robbing him of inner concord; then it will make him an enemy to himself and to just people. Isn't that so?”

“Yes.”

“And the gods, my friend, are just too, aren't they?”

“Let them be,” he said. [352b]

“Then the unjust man will be an enemy to the gods as well, Thrasymachus, and the just man their friend.”

“Feast confidently on your argument,” he said. “I will not oppose you, for fear of making enemies of our friends here.”

“Come, then,” I said, “complete the rest of the feast for me by answering as you have been doing. For the just appear to be wiser, better, and more capable of action, while the unjust cannot even act together. [352c] Indeed, when we speak of unjust people who have at times accomplished something together with force, we do not speak quite truly. If they had been utterly unjust, they would not have held back from wronging one another; plainly there was some justice in them, keeping them from wronging both one another and those they marched against at the same time. This enabled them to achieve what they achieved. They set out on their unjust enterprise only half-corrupted by injustice, for the wholly wicked and perfectly unjust are perfectly incapable of action. That, [352d] I understand, is how things are, not as you first proposed. But whether the just also live better than the unjust and are happier—the further question we set ourselves—we must examine. They seem to be, even now, from what we have said; still, we must examine it more carefully. For the subject of our discussion is no trivial matter, but how one ought to live.”

“Then examine it,” he said.

“I will,” I said. “Tell me, do you think a horse has a function?” [352e]

“I do.”

“Would you define the function of a horse, or of anything else, as what one can do with it alone, or do best with it?”

“I don't understand,” he said.

“Let me put it this way. Can you see with anything other than your eyes?”

“Certainly not.”

“And hear with anything other than your ears?”

“Not at all.”

“Then we are right to call these their functions?”

“Certainly.”

[353a] “But you could cut a vine shoot with a knife, a carving tool, and many other things?”

“Of course.”

“Yet I think you could do it best with a pruning hook made for that purpose.”

“True.”

“Then shall we call that its function?”

“We shall.”

“Now I think you may better understand what I asked just now, when I asked whether the function of each thing was what it alone, or better than anything else, accomplishes.”

“Yes,” he said, “I understand, and that seems to me to be the function of each [353b] thing.”

“Very well,” I said. “And do you think that each thing assigned a function has an excellence too? Let us return to the same examples: we say the eyes have a function?”

“They do.”

“Do the eyes also have an excellence?”

“They do.”

“And the ears had a function?”

“Yes.”

“And therefore an excellence?”

“An excellence too.”

“What of all the other things? Is it not the same?”

“The same.”

“Consider, then: could eyes ever perform their function well [353c] if they did not possess their own proper excellence, but had a defect instead?”

“How could they?” he said. “You mean blindness, perhaps, instead of sight.”

“Whatever their excellence may be,” I said. “I am not asking that yet, but whether things that act perform their own function well through their proper excellence, and badly through a defect.”

“That is true,” he said.

“And ears deprived of their own excellence will perform their function badly?”

“Certainly.” [353d]

“Shall we apply the same account to everything else?”

“I think so.”

“Now consider this next. Is there a function of the soul that you could not perform with anything else in existence? For example, caring for things, ruling, deliberating, and all such activities: could we rightly assign them to anything but the soul, and say they belong to it in particular?”

“To nothing else.”

“And what about living? Shall we not say that it is a function of the soul?”

“Above all,” he said.

“Then we say that the soul has an excellence too?”

“We do.” [353e]

“Could a soul ever perform its functions well, Thrasymachus, if deprived of its proper excellence? Or is that impossible?”

“Impossible.”

“Then a bad soul must rule and care for things badly, and a good soul must do all these things well.”

“It must.”

“And we agreed that justice is the soul's excellence, and injustice its defect?”

“We did.”

“Then the just soul and the just man will live well, and the unjust man badly.”

“So it seems,” he said, “by your argument.”

[354a] “And someone who lives well is blessed and happy, while someone who does not is the opposite.”

“Of course.”

“Then the just man is happy and the unjust man wretched.”

“Let it be so,” he said.

“But it does not pay to be wretched; it pays to be happy.”

“Of course.”

“So injustice, my fortunate Thrasymachus, is never more profitable than justice.”

“Let that be your feast at the festival of Bendis, Socrates,” he said.

“A feast supplied by you, Thrasymachus,” I said, “since you grew gentle with me and stopped being angry. Yet I have not feasted well, [354b] through my own fault, not yours. Like greedy diners who snatch a taste of each new dish as it is brought around before taking a proper share of the last, so I think I, before finding what we first set out to seek—what justice is—let that go and rushed on to examine whether it is vice and ignorance or wisdom and virtue. And when another argument came up afterward, that injustice is more profitable than justice, I could not keep from leaving the first question to pursue this one. So the result of our discussion is that I now know nothing. [354c] For if I do not know what justice is, I can hardly know whether it happens to be a virtue or not, or whether the person who possesses it is unhappy or happy.”

### Book II, 357–365

[357a] When I had said this, I thought I had escaped the discussion. But apparently it had only been a prelude. Glaucon is always exceedingly courageous in everything, and now too he would not accept Thrasymachus' surrender. “Socrates,” he said, “do you want us merely to seem persuaded, or to be [357b] truly persuaded that it is in every way better to be just than unjust?”

“Truly persuaded, if it were in my power,” I said.

“Then you are not doing what you want. Tell me this: do you think there is a kind of good we would welcome possessing, not for its consequences, but because we cherish it for itself—joy, for example, and those harmless pleasures that leave nothing in their wake except the pleasure of having them?”

“I do think there is such a kind,” I said. [357c]

“And what of a good we love both for itself and for its results—understanding, for example, sight and health? Surely we welcome such things on both accounts.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Do you see a third class of goods,” he said, “including exercise, medical treatment when one is ill, medicine itself and other ways of earning money? We might say these are burdensome but beneficial, and would not choose to have them for their own sake, [357d] but for their wages and the other things that come of them.”

“Yes, that is a third class too,” I said. “But what of it?”

“In which of these classes,” he asked, “do you place justice?”

[358a] “In the finest,” I said: “the class to be cherished both for itself and for what comes of it by anyone who wishes to be happy.”

“But that is not how most people see it,” he said. “They put it among burdensome things to be practiced for wages and for the good reputation it brings, but shunned in itself as something difficult.”

“I know that is their view,” I said. “Thrasymachus has long condemned justice as such a thing and praised injustice. But I seem to be a slow learner.” [358b]

“Come then,” he said, “listen to me as well, if you still think so. Thrasymachus seems to me to have been charmed by you like a snake before his time. I am not yet satisfied with the demonstration concerning either justice or injustice. I want to hear what each is and what power it has in itself when present in the soul; let us set aside wages and all their consequences. So, if you agree, this is what I shall do. I will renew [358c] Thrasymachus' argument. First I shall tell you what people say justice is and where it arose; second, that all who practice it do so unwillingly, as a necessity rather than a good; third, that they are right to do so, since, they say, the unjust person's life is far better than the just person's. For my part, Socrates, I do not believe that. But I am at a loss: my ears have been deafened by hearing Thrasymachus and countless others, and I have yet to hear anyone defend justice as [358d] better than injustice in the way I want. I want to hear it praised in itself, and I think you are the person most able to tell me. I shall therefore strain every nerve in praise of the unjust life and then show you how, in turn, I want to hear you condemn injustice and praise justice. But see whether this is what you want.”

“More than anything,” I said. “What subject could a person of sense find greater pleasure in discussing and hearing discussed, again and again?” [358e]

“Excellent,” he said. “Now listen to the first thing I promised to discuss: what justice is, and where it came from.

“They say that doing injustice is naturally a good thing, and suffering it an evil, but that the evil of suffering it exceeds the good of doing it. So when people do injustice to one another and suffer it in return, and have tasted both, those who cannot avoid the one and secure [359a] the other think it profitable to agree among themselves neither to do injustice nor to suffer it. From this, they say, they began to establish laws and mutual covenants, and called what the law commands lawful and just. This, then, is the origin and nature of justice: a middle ground between the best condition, doing wrong with impunity, and the worst, suffering wrong without the power to retaliate. Justice stands between them and is prized not as [359b] a good, but because one is too weak to do injustice. For anyone who can do it, if he is truly a man, would never make an agreement with anyone neither to do injustice nor to suffer it. That would be madness. This, Socrates, is the nature of justice, according to the argument, and these are the circumstances from which it arose.

“We could best perceive that even those who practice justice do so unwillingly, because they lack the power to do injustice, if we did this [359c] in thought: grant each of them, the just and the unjust, the freedom to do whatever he wishes, and follow them to see where their desires will lead. We would catch the just man in the very act of following the same path as the unjust, through the desire for more that every nature pursues as a good, though law forcibly diverts it toward respect for equality. The freedom I mean would be most complete if they possessed the power once said [359d] to have belonged to the ancestor of Gyges the Lydian. The story goes that he was a shepherd serving the ruler of Lydia at the time. After heavy rain and an earthquake, the earth split open, leaving a chasm in the place where he grazed his flocks. Astonished at the sight, he descended and saw, among other marvels told of in the story, a hollow bronze horse with openings. Looking inside, he saw a corpse, apparently larger than a human being, wearing nothing except a gold ring [359e] on its hand. He took the ring and climbed out. When the shepherds assembled for their customary monthly meeting to report on the flocks to the king, he came with the ring.

“As he sat among the others, he happened to turn the bezel of the ring toward himself, to the inside of his hand. At once [360a] he became invisible to those sitting beside him, and they spoke of him as if he had gone away. Wondering at this, he felt for the ring again and turned the bezel outward, and became visible. He thought it over and tested whether the ring had this power. It did: when he turned the bezel inward he became invisible, and when he turned it outward he reappeared. As soon as he realized this, he arranged to join the messengers sent to the king. On arriving, [360b] he seduced the king's wife, conspired with her against him, killed him, and seized the throne. Suppose, then, there were two such rings, and the just man put on one and the unjust man the other. No one, it would seem, could be so adamantine as to remain just, to have the courage to refrain from touching what belongs to others, when he could take whatever he liked from the marketplace without fear, [360c] enter houses and sleep with whomever he wished, kill or release from prison whomever he pleased, and act among human beings like a god. In doing all this he would behave no differently from the other man; both would go the same way. Someone might say this is strong evidence that no one is just willingly but only under compulsion, since justice is not a good for the individual: wherever a person believes he can do injustice, he does it. Everyone thinks injustice far more profitable [360d] for himself than justice, and thinks rightly, the advocate of this argument will say. For if someone with such power refused to do any wrong or touch another's property, all who knew of it would think him utterly miserable and foolish. They would praise him to one another, however, deceiving each other out of fear of being wronged. So much for that.

[360e] “To judge the lives we are discussing properly, we must distinguish the most just man from the most unjust. Otherwise we cannot judge. How shall we distinguish them? Like this: take nothing away from the unjust man's injustice or the just man's justice, but make each perfect in his own way of life.

“First, let the unjust man work as a master craftsman does. A consummate pilot or doctor discerns what is possible in his art and what is not, attempting the one and leaving the other; and if he makes a mistake, he can set it right. [361a] In the same way, if the unjust man is to be thoroughly unjust, let him undertake his unjust acts skillfully and escape detection. The man who gets caught must be considered inept; for the height of injustice is to seem just without being so. We must therefore give the wholly unjust man the fullest injustice and take nothing away from him: though he commits the gravest wrongs, let him enjoy the highest reputation [361b] for justice. If he stumbles, let him be able to recover, eloquent enough to persuade people if any of his misdeeds come to light and strong enough to use force when force is needed, through his courage and vigor and the support of friends and wealth. Having set him up in this way, let us place beside him in our account the just man, a simple and noble man who, in Aeschylus' words, wants not to seem good but to be good. We must take away the appearance of goodness. For if he seems just, [361c] honors and gifts will come to him on account of that appearance, and it will be unclear whether he is just for justice's sake or for the gifts and honors. Strip him, then, of everything except justice, and put him in the opposite condition to the first man. Though he does no wrong, let him have the greatest reputation for injustice, so that his justice will be tested by his refusal to yield to disgrace and all that follows it. Let him persist unchanged until [361d] death, seeming unjust all his life while actually just. Thus, when each has reached the extreme, one in justice and the other in injustice, we can judge which of the two is happier.”

“Good heavens, Glaucon,” I said, “how vigorously you polish each of your two men, as though they were statues, for our judgment!”

“As vigorously as I can,” he said. “With men like these it is not difficult, I think, to tell what sort of life awaits each of them. We must say it, even if the words are rather coarse; and if they are, Socrates, do not think it is I who speak, but those who praise injustice above justice. [361e]

“They will say that the just man, in the condition I have described, will be whipped, racked, chained, [362a] and have his eyes burned out. At last, after suffering every evil, he will be impaled, and will learn that one must seek not to be just but to seem so. Aeschylus' words, it turns out, would have been much more rightly applied to the unjust man. For they will say that the unjust man, pursuing what is real and not living for appearances, wants not to seem unjust but to be unjust,

‘Reaping the deep furrow of his mind, [362b]
From which good counsel springs.’

“First, because he seems just, he rules in his city. Then he marries from whatever family he chooses and gives his children in marriage to whomever he chooses; he makes agreements and partnerships with whom he likes, profiting from all these dealings because he has no scruples about wrongdoing. When he enters contests, public or private, he prevails and gains the advantage over his enemies. With those gains he grows rich, [362c] helps his friends and harms his enemies, and offers the gods ample and splendid sacrifices and dedications. He can serve the gods, and whatever people he wishes, far better than the just man can. Thus it is reasonable to expect that he will be dearer to the gods than the just man. That, Socrates, is how they say that gods and men have furnished the unjust man with a better life than the just.” [362d]

When Glaucon had said this, I was preparing to reply, but his brother Adeimantus spoke. “Surely, Socrates,” he said, “you do not think the case has been sufficiently made?”

“What is missing?” I asked.

“The very thing,” he said, “that most needed to be said.”

“Well then,” I said, “as the saying goes, let a brother stand by his brother. Come to his aid if he has left something out. Though what he has already said is enough to throw me and leave me unable to defend justice.” [362e]

“Nonsense,” he said. “Listen to this as well. We must also examine the arguments opposed to his, those that praise justice and condemn injustice, to make Glaucon's intention clearer.

“Fathers tell their sons, and everyone who cares for anyone tells those in their care, that one must be just. They praise not justice itself [363a] but the good reputation it brings, so that a man thought just can gain offices and marriages through his reputation, and all the things Glaucon has just listed as accruing to a just man through public esteem. They go further still in their account of reputation, invoking the esteem of the gods and describing without end the blessings they say the gods give the pious. Noble Hesiod and Homer say as much. Hesiod says that for the just the gods make oaks [363b] ‘bear acorns at their crowns and bees in their midst,’ and ‘woolly sheep are weighed down with fleeces’; and he names many other blessings besides. Homer speaks in much the same way:

‘As when a blameless king, who fears the gods,
Upholds just judgments, and the dark earth bears [363c]
Wheat and barley, trees are heavy with fruit,
Flocks breed without fail, and the sea yields fish.’

“Musaeus and his son give the just even more extravagant rewards from the gods: they take them in their tale down to Hades, lay them at a banquet of the pious, and make them spend all time [363d] henceforth crowned and drunk, as though eternal intoxication were the finest wage of virtue. Others extend the gods' rewards further still: they say that the pious man who keeps his oaths leaves behind children of children and a continuing line. Such things, and others like them, are their praises of justice. But the impious and unjust they bury in mud in Hades and force to carry water in a sieve. While they still live, they bring them into ill repute, and speak of the same punishments Glaucon described for the just who are thought unjust. [363e] That is all they have to say of the unjust. Such is their praise and blame of the two kinds of people.

“Besides this, Socrates, consider another sort of discourse about justice and injustice, heard in private and among the poets. [364a] With one voice they sing that moderation and justice are fine but difficult and laborious, while license and injustice are pleasant and easy to acquire and are shameful only by convention and law. They say that unjust acts are generally more profitable than just ones, and readily call rich, wicked people who possess other forms of power happy and worthy of honor, both publicly and privately. But they dishonor and despise those who are weak [364b] and poor, even while admitting that they are better than the others. Most astonishing of all are the things they say about the gods and virtue: that the gods have allotted many good people misfortune and a wretched life, and their opposites an opposite fate. Itinerant priests and diviners go to the doors of the rich and persuade them that they have a power granted by the gods to remedy, through sacrifices and incantations, any wrong a man [364c] or his ancestors have done, amid feasting and pleasure. And should he wish to harm an enemy, they can, for a small expense, injure the just as readily as the unjust through spells and bindings, persuading the gods, as they claim, to serve them. For all these claims they summon poets as witnesses. To show how easy vice is, some quote:

‘Wickedness can be had in abundance [364d]
With ease: its road is smooth and it lives close by;
But before virtue the gods have set sweat,’

and speak of a long, rugged, uphill road. Others call Homer as witness that men can turn the gods, for he too said:

‘Even the gods themselves can be entreated;
With sacrifices and gentle prayers, [364e]
With libations and the savor of burnt offerings,
People turn them aside by supplication when one has transgressed and sinned.’

“They bring out a clamor of books by Musaeus and Orpheus, offspring, they say, of the Moon and the Muses, and perform sacrifices according to them. They persuade not only private people but whole cities that there are releases from wrongdoing and purifications through sacrifice and pleasurable games, both [365a] for the living and for the dead. These they call initiations, which deliver us from the evils of the next world, whereas terrible things await those who have not made sacrifice.

“When all these tales of virtue and vice, of how gods and men honor them, are told so often and at such length, my dear Socrates,” he said, “what do we think they do to the souls of young people? Especially those gifted enough to seize on everything they hear and infer from it what sort of person they should be [365b] and which way they should go to live the best life. Such a young man will probably say to himself, borrowing Pindar's words: ‘Shall I climb by justice to a high-walled fortress, or by crooked deceits, and fortify myself there for life?’ For, according to what they say, if I am just but do not also seem so, I gain nothing but manifest toil and loss. If I am unjust but cultivate a reputation for justice, a marvelous life is promised me. [365c] Since appearance, as the wise tell me, ‘overpowers even truth’ and determines happiness, I must turn wholly toward it. Around myself, as a facade and outward show, I must paint a likeness of virtue, while drawing along behind me the crafty, many-colored fox of that wisest of men, Archilochus. But, someone will say, it is not easy to be wicked and always escape notice. Nor is any other great enterprise [365d] easy, we will reply. Still, if we mean to be happy, we must follow where the tracks of the arguments lead. To keep ourselves hidden, we will form conspiracies and clubs; there are masters of persuasion to teach us the arts of speaking in assemblies and courts. By these means we will sometimes persuade and sometimes use force, gaining the advantage without paying the penalty. But we cannot hide from or overpower the gods. Well, if they do not exist, or do not care about human affairs, why should [365e] we care about hiding from them? If they exist and do care, all we know or have heard of them comes from the laws and the poets who trace their ancestry. Those same poets say that sacrifices, ‘gentle prayers,’ and offerings can persuade and turn them. We must believe the poets in both claims or neither.

“If we believe them, we must do wrong and offer sacrifices

### Book II, 366–373

[366a] with the profits of our wrongdoing. If we are just, we will merely escape punishment from the gods, while forfeiting the gains of injustice. If we are unjust, we shall make our gains, and when we supplicate the gods for our trespasses and sins, we shall persuade them and go unpunished. But in Hades we shall pay the penalty for the wrongs we commit here, either ourselves or through our children's children. My friend, the calculating young man will reply, initiations too are powerful, and so are the gods who grant release, as the [366b] greatest cities tell us, and the children of gods who became poets and prophets of the gods, and reveal that this is so.

“On what grounds, then, should we still choose justice over the greatest injustice? If we combine injustice with a counterfeit show of propriety, both gods and men will give us what we desire in life and after death, according to all these authorities, ordinary and distinguished alike. In view of everything we have said, [366c] Socrates, how could anyone endowed with powers of mind, wealth, body, or birth wish to honor justice rather than laugh when he hears it praised? If a man can prove our claims false, then, and knows adequately that justice is best, he must surely have great sympathy for unjust people and feel no anger toward them. He knows that, apart from the man whose divine nature revolts at injustice or who has learned through knowledge [366d] to refrain from it, no one else is just willingly: people condemn wrongdoing only through cowardice, old age, or some other weakness that keeps them from doing it. The proof is plain: the first such man to gain power is the first to do wrong, as far as his power allows. All this has one cause, the very point from which Glaucon and I began our argument to you, Socrates. My extraordinary friend, [366e] none of you who profess to praise justice, from the earliest heroes whose words survive down to people today, has ever condemned injustice or praised justice except by speaking of the reputation, honors, and rewards they bring. But what each does by its own power within the soul that possesses it, unseen by gods and men, no one has ever sufficiently explored in poetry or in private speech: that injustice is the greatest evil a soul can harbor within itself, and justice its greatest good.

[367a] “If all of you had spoken this way from the beginning and persuaded us from childhood, we would not guard one another against doing wrong. Each would be his own best guardian, afraid that in doing wrong he would harbor the greatest evil.

“Thrasymachus, Socrates, or perhaps someone else, might say all this and more about justice and injustice, crudely reversing their powers, as it seems to me. But I speak as forcefully as I can [367b] because I long to hear the opposite from you; there is no need to conceal my purpose. Do not merely show us in argument that justice is better than injustice. Show us what each does by itself to the person who has it, how the one is a good and the other an evil. Set aside reputation, as Glaucon urged. Unless you strip each of its true reputation and attach to it a false one, we will say you praise not being just but seeming just, and condemn not being unjust [367c] but seeming unjust. We will say you advise a man to be unjust without being found out, and agree with Thrasymachus that justice is another's good, the advantage of the stronger, while injustice is advantageous and profitable to the man himself but harmful to the weaker. You agreed that justice is among the greatest goods, worth possessing for their consequences but far more for their own sake, like sight, [367d] hearing, understanding, and health, and other goods fruitful by their own nature rather than by reputation. Praise, then, this very power in justice: the benefit it gives its possessor in itself, and the harm injustice does. Leave wages and reputations for others to praise. I could accept it from anyone else if they praised justice and condemned injustice by celebrating and denouncing their reputations and rewards. But I will not accept it from you—unless you ask me to—because you have spent your whole life [367e] examining nothing else. So do not merely show us in argument that justice is better than injustice. Show us what each does by itself to the person who has it, whether gods and men see it or not, how one is a good and the other an evil.”

I had always admired the natures of Glaucon and Adeimantus, but when I heard this I was especially delighted. [368a] “The lover of Glaucon,” I said, “was not wrong to begin his elegy about you, sons of that man, after your distinction in the battle at Megara, with the words:

‘Sons of Ariston, divine offspring of a renowned man.’

“That seems aptly put, my friends. For there is something truly divine in your being able to speak so powerfully for the claim that injustice is better than justice without being convinced of it. I think you really are [368b] unconvinced. I judge this from the rest of your character; if I judged by your speeches alone, I would distrust you. But the more I trust you, the more at a loss I am as to what to do. I cannot see how to defend justice: I think I lack the ability, as you showed when you rejected the argument with which I thought I had established, against Thrasymachus, that justice is better than injustice. Yet I cannot leave it undefended either, for I fear it would be impious to stand by while justice is slandered [368c] and give up its defense while I can still breathe and speak. So the best I can do is come to its aid as best I can.”

Glaucon and the others begged me to help in every way, not to abandon the argument, but to investigate what each of the two is and where the truth lies about their benefits. I said what seemed to me true: “The inquiry we are undertaking is no slight one; it calls, I think, for keen eyesight. Since we are not especially sharp-sighted, I suggest [368d] that we investigate it as we would if someone told us to read small letters from a distance and we noticed the same letters written larger somewhere else on a larger surface. It would be a godsend, I think, to read the larger letters first, then examine the smaller to see whether they are the same.”

“Certainly,” Adeimantus said. “But what does this analogy reveal to you, [368e] Socrates, about our inquiry into justice?”

“I will tell you. We say that justice belongs to a single man, but also, surely, to an entire city?”

“Certainly.”

“And a city is larger than a single man?”

“Larger,” he said.

“Perhaps, then, there will be more justice in the larger thing and it will be easier to discern. So if you wish, let us first [369a] look for what justice is in cities; then we can examine it in each individual, looking for the likeness of the larger in the form of the smaller.”

“That sounds good to me,” he said.

“If we were to watch a city coming into being in speech,” I asked, “would we see its justice and injustice coming into being as well?”

“Perhaps,” he said.

“And once it has come into being, may we hope to see what we are seeking more easily?” [369b]

“Much more easily.”

“Do you think, then, we should attempt it? I think it will be no small undertaking. Consider it.”

“We have considered it,” Adeimantus said. “By all means proceed.”

“A city comes into being,” I said, “because none of us is self-sufficient, but each has many needs. Can you think of any other origin for the founding of a city?”

“None,” he said. [369c]

“So one person takes another into partnership for one need, and another for another. Having many needs, we gather many people into one settlement as partners and helpers, and call this common dwelling a city. Is that not so?”

“Certainly.”

“And when one person gives a share to another, or receives one, he does so because he thinks it better for himself?”

“Certainly.”

“Come, then,” I said, “let us build a city from its beginnings in speech. Our need, it seems, will build it.”

“How could it be otherwise?” [369d]

“Surely the first and greatest need is the provision of food, so that we may exist and live.”

“Absolutely.”

“The second is shelter, and the third clothing and things of that kind.”

“Yes.”

“Come then,” I said, “how will the city provide for all this? Will one person be a farmer, another a builder, and another a weaver? Shall we add a shoemaker too, or someone else to tend to the body's needs?”

“Certainly.”

“The city in its most necessary form, then, would consist of four or five people.” [369e]

“It seems so.”

“Now what? Must each of these contribute his work for them all to share? Must the farmer, for example, though he is one man, produce food for four, spend four times as much time and effort on it, and share it with the others? Or should he ignore them, produce a quarter as much [370a] food for himself in a quarter of the time, and spend the other three quarters on building his house, making his clothes, and making his shoes, attending to his own affairs without sharing in the work of others?”

“Perhaps, Socrates,” Adeimantus said, “the first way is easier.”

“By Zeus, there is nothing strange in that,” I said. “Now that you mention it, I too see that, first of all, none of us is born exactly [370b] like anyone else; our natures differ, and different people are suited to different tasks. Do you not think so?”

“I do.”

“Which person will work better: one who practices many crafts, or one who practices one?”

“One who practices one,” he said.

“And surely it is plain that if someone misses the right moment for a task, the work is spoiled.”

“Plain enough.”

“The work, I think, will not wait for the worker's leisure. The worker must [370c] attend to it when it demands, not treat it as a sideline.”

“He must.”

“So more of everything is produced, and better and more easily, when each person performs one task suited to his nature, at the right time, free from other work.”

“Absolutely.”

“Then, Adeimantus, we need more than four citizens to provide what we mentioned. The farmer, it seems, will not make his own plow, if it is to be a good one, [370d] or his hoe, or all the other implements of farming. Nor will the builder make his tools; he too needs many. The same goes for the weaver and the shoemaker, does it not?”

“True.”

“Carpenters, smiths, and many such craftsmen will join our little settlement and make it a sizable place.”

“Certainly.”

“Still, it would not yet be very large even if we added cowherds, shepherds, and keepers of other livestock: then farmers could have oxen to plow, builders could share with farmers in using beasts of burden for transport, [370e] and weavers and shoemakers could have hides and wool.”

“But a city with all these people would not be small,” he said.

“Yet it is nearly impossible to found a city in a place where it will need no imports.”

“Impossible.”

“It will need still more people, then, to bring it what it requires from other cities.”

“It will.”

“But if a carrier goes empty-handed, bringing nothing those people need in exchange for the goods [371a] our citizens need from them, he will return empty-handed. Is that not so?”

“I think so.”

“So they must produce at home not only enough for themselves, but goods of the kinds and in the quantities that their suppliers need.”

“They must.”

“Our city needs more farmers and other craftsmen, then.”

“Yes, more.”

“And more carriers too, to bring goods in and take them out. These are merchants, are they not?”

“Yes.”

“So we shall need merchants.”

“Certainly.”

“If the trade goes by sea, we shall also need a considerable number [371b] of others who know the work of the sea.”

“A considerable number indeed.”

“And within the city itself, how will they exchange the products of their labor? Exchange was the very reason we formed a community and founded a city.”

“Obviously,” he said, “by buying and selling.”

“Then this gives us a marketplace and money as a token of exchange.”

“Certainly.” [371c]

“Suppose a farmer or another craftsman brings something he has made to market, but does not arrive at the same time as those who want to trade for it. Will he sit idle in the market, away from his craft?”

“Not at all,” he said. “People who see this need appoint themselves to the task. In well-governed cities they are generally those least strong in body and unfit for other work. They must remain there [371d] in the market: from those who wish to sell, they buy goods for money, and to those who wish to buy, they sell goods for money.”

“Then this need gives rise to retailers in our city,” I said. “Do we not call those who stay in the marketplace to serve buyers and sellers retailers, and those who travel between cities merchants?”

“Certainly.” [371e]

“There are also, I think, other helpers who are not especially valuable partners in matters of the mind, but whose bodies are strong enough for hard work. They sell the use of their strength, call its price a wage, and are, I believe, called wage laborers. Is that right?”

“Certainly.”

“Wage laborers too, it seems, complete the city.”

“I think so.”

“Well, Adeimantus, has our city now grown enough to be complete?”

“Perhaps.”

“Where, then, might justice and injustice be in it? And in which of the things we have considered did they arise together?”

[372a] “I do not see, Socrates,” he said, “unless perhaps in some need these people have for one another.”

“Perhaps you are right,” I said. “We must examine it and not shrink from the task.

“First, let us see how people furnished in this way will live. They will surely produce grain and wine, clothing and shoes; they will build houses, and in summer mostly work barefoot and lightly clad, but in [372b] winter adequately clothed and shod. For food they will grind barley into meal and wheat into flour, bake some and knead some, and set out fine barley cakes and bread on reeds or clean leaves. Reclining on beds of leaves strewn with bryony and myrtle, they will feast with their children, drink wine, wear garlands, and sing hymns to the gods. They will enjoy one another's company and have no more children than their means allow, guarding against poverty or war.” [372c]

Glaucon interrupted. “You seem to be serving these people a feast without anything to eat with their bread.”

“You are right,” I said. “I forgot that they will have accompaniments too: salt, olives, and cheese, of course, and they will boil onions and greens such as people cook in the country. We shall serve them dessert as well—figs, chickpeas, and beans—and they will roast myrtle berries and acorns [372d] by the fire, sipping their wine in moderation. Living thus in peace and health, they will probably reach old age and die, bequeathing a life like their own to their descendants.”

“If you were founding a city of pigs, Socrates,” he said, “what else would you feed them?”

“How should I feed them, Glaucon?” I asked.

“In the customary way,” he said. “If they are not to live miserably, I imagine they should recline on couches and dine at tables, and have the accompaniments and desserts people have nowadays.” [372e]

“Very well,” I said. “I understand. We are looking at the origin not just of a city, it seems, but of a luxurious city. Perhaps that is no bad thing: by examining such a city, we may soon see how justice and injustice take root in cities. The true city, as I see it, is the one we have described, as healthy as a body. But if you wish, we can look at a fevered city too; nothing prevents us.

[373a] “For some people, it seems, what we have described and that way of life will not suffice. They will add couches, tables and other furnishings, rich foods, perfumes, incense, courtesans, and pastries, each in every variety. And the things we first spoke of—houses, clothes, and shoes—must no longer be provided merely as necessities. We must set painting and embroidery to work and acquire gold, ivory, and everything of the sort. Is that not so?” [373b]

“Yes,” he said.

“So the city must be made larger again. That healthy city is no longer enough; it must now be filled with the mass and multitude of things no city needs for bare necessity: hunters of every kind and imitators, many who work in shapes and colors, many in music—poets and their attendants, reciters, actors, dancers, and producers; craftsmen making every kind of equipment, including the adornments [373c] of women. We shall also need more servants. Do you not think we will need tutors, wet nurses, nurses, dressers, barbers, cooks, and chefs? We shall need swineherds too: there were none in the earlier city, for there was no need, but we will need them in this one. We shall also need very many other kinds of livestock, if anyone is to eat them. Is that not so?”

“How could it be otherwise?” [373d]

“And living like this, will we not have far greater need of doctors than before?”

“Far greater.”

“And the land that was sufficient to feed our people before will now be too small. Is that how it stands?”

“It is,” he said.

“Then we will have to carve off a part of our neighbors' land, if we are to have enough for pasture and plowing, and they in turn will have to take some of ours, if they too give themselves over to the unlimited acquisition of wealth and pass beyond the limits of necessity.” [373e]

“Inevitably, Socrates,” he said.

“Will we go to war after that, Glaucon? Or what will happen?”

“That is what will happen,” he said.

“Let us not yet say whether war brings good or evil,” I said. “Let us say only that we have found the origin of war, the source of the greatest evils that befall cities, both in private and in public, whenever they arise.”

“Certainly.”

“Then, my friend, our city must grow larger still, and by no small amount,

### Book II, 374–381

[374a] “No, a whole army, which will go out and fight the invaders for all their possessions and for everything we were speaking of just now.”

“But what?” he said. “Are the citizens themselves not enough?”

“Not if you and all of us were right in the agreement we made when we founded the city. We agreed, if you remember, that it is impossible for one person to practice many crafts well.”

“What you say is true,” he said. [374b]

“Well then,” I said, “does the contest of war not seem to you a matter of craft?”

“Very much so,” he said.

“Should we care more for shoemaking than for warfare?”

“Not at all.”

“Yet we forbade our shoemaker to attempt to be a farmer at the same time, or a weaver or a builder, but made him a shoemaker, so that the work of shoemaking would be done well for us. Likewise we assigned each of the others a single task, the one for which he was naturally suited, which he would pursue throughout his life, free from other occupations, without missing the right moments, and so do well. [374c] Are the affairs of war not of the greatest importance to carry out well? Or is warfare so easy that a farmer can be a warrior while farming, a shoemaker while making shoes, or a practitioner of any other craft while practicing it? Yet no one would become sufficiently skilled at checkers or dice if he did not make that very thing his practice from childhood, but took it up as a sideline. [374d] Will a man take up a shield, or any other weapon or instrument of war, and that same day become a capable competitor in heavy-armed combat or any other kind of battle, when no other instrument, simply by being picked up, will make anyone a craftsman or an athlete, or be of use to someone who has neither acquired the knowledge of each craft nor given it sufficient practice?”

“Then the instruments would be worth a great deal indeed,” he said.

“So,” I said, “the greater the guardians’ task, [374e] the more it will require freedom from all other occupations, as well as the greatest skill and devotion.”

“I think so,” he said.

“And will it not require a nature suited to that pursuit as well?”

“Of course.”

“Then our task, it seems, if we are capable of it, will be to select the people whose natures are suited to guarding a city.”

“Yes, that will be our task.”

“By Zeus,” I said, “we have taken on no slight undertaking. Still, we must not lose courage, so far as our strength allows.”

[375a] “Certainly not,” he said.

“Do you think,” I said, “that in the matter of guarding, the nature of a well-bred puppy differs from that of a well-born young man?”

“What do you mean?”

“Both must be keen to perceive, quick to pursue whatever they perceive, and strong as well, if they must seize it and fight.”

“Yes,” he said, “they need all those qualities.”

“And courage, surely, if they are to fight well.”

“Of course.”

“But will anything be courageous, whether horse, dog, or any other creature, if it has no spirit? Have you not observed [375b] how irresistible and unconquerable spirit is, how its presence makes every soul fearless and undefeated against all things?”

“I have.”

“Then the bodily qualities the guardian needs are clear.”

“Yes.”

“And the quality of soul too: a spirited temper.”

“That too.”

“How then, Glaucon,” I said, “will they not be savage to one another and to the other citizens, with such natures?”

“By Zeus,” he said, “it is hard to see how they could avoid it.” [375c]

“Yet they must be gentle to their own people and fierce toward enemies. Otherwise they will not wait for others to destroy them: they will get there first and do it themselves.”

“True,” he said.

“What are we to do, then?” I said. “Where shall we find a character both gentle and high-spirited? A gentle nature, surely, is opposed to a spirited one.”

“So it appears.”

“And yet, deprived of either quality, a man will never make a good guardian. These qualities appear incompatible; [375d] thus it follows that a good guardian cannot exist.”

“So it seems,” he said.

I was at a loss, and after reviewing what had gone before I said, “No wonder we are at a loss, my friend: we have lost sight of the example we set before ourselves.”

“What do you mean?”

“We have overlooked the existence of natures that possess both these opposites, though we thought no such natures possible.”

“Where are they?”

“One may see them in other animals too, but not least [375e] in the animal to which we compared our guardian. You know, I suppose, that noble dogs are by nature as gentle as can be toward those they know and live with, but the reverse toward strangers.”

“Yes, I know.”

“So this is possible,” I said, “and it is not contrary to nature to seek a guardian of this kind.”

“Apparently not.”

“Do you think our prospective guardian needs one more quality: besides being spirited, must he not also be a philosopher by nature?”

[376a] “How so?” he asked. “I do not understand.”

“You will see this too in dogs,” I said, “and it is a remarkable thing in the creature.”

“What thing?”

“When it sees a stranger, it grows angry although it has suffered no harm from him; but when it sees someone it knows, it welcomes him, even if it has never received a kindness from him. Have you never wondered at that?”

“I have not given it much thought until now,” he said, “but clearly that is what it does.”

“Yet this trait of its nature seems refined [376b] and truly philosophical.”

“In what way?”

“Because,” I said, “it distinguishes a friendly face from an enemy’s by nothing but its knowing the one and not knowing the other. How could a creature fail to love learning when it determines what belongs to it and what is alien by knowledge and ignorance?”

“It could not possibly fail,” he said.

“But love of learning and love of wisdom are the same thing, are they not?” I asked.

“Yes, the same,” he said.

“Then we may confidently conclude that if a human being is to be [376c] gentle toward his own people and those he knows, he must by nature be a philosopher and a lover of learning.”

“Let us conclude that,” he said.

“Thus whoever is to be a worthy guardian of our city will be, by nature, philosophical, spirited, swift, and strong.”

“Absolutely,” he said.

“So much for his natural qualities. But how shall these men be raised and educated? And will examining that question help us to see what lies behind our whole inquiry: how justice and injustice arise in a city? We do not want to leave out a necessary account or pursue one at excessive length.” [376d]

Glaucon’s brother said, “I certainly expect this inquiry to be useful for that purpose.”

“By Zeus, dear Adeimantus,” I said, “then we must not abandon it, even if it proves rather long.”

“Certainly not.”

“Come, then: let us educate these men in thought, as though we had leisure to tell a story.” [376e]

“Yes, we must.”

“What, then, is their education? Is it hard to find a better one than the one discovered over the course of ages? It consists, I think, of physical training for the body and music and poetry for the soul.”

“Yes.”

“And shall we not begin their education with music and poetry, before physical training?”

“Of course.”

“Do you include stories in music and poetry?” I asked.

“I do.”

“And are there two kinds of stories, one true and the other false?”

“Yes.”

[377a] “We must educate them in both, but begin with the false?”

“I do not understand what you mean,” he said.

“Do you not understand,” I said, “that the first things we tell children are stories? These, taken as a whole, are false, though they contain some truth. And we tell children stories before we give them physical training.”

“That is so.”

“That is what I meant when I said we should begin with music and poetry before physical training.”

“Right,” he said.

“You know, then, that the beginning is the most important part of any undertaking, especially [377b] for anything young and tender? That is when it is most readily molded and takes the impression one wishes to stamp upon it.”

“Very much so.”

“Shall we then so easily allow children to hear any stories composed by just anyone and take into their souls beliefs for the most part contrary to those we think they ought to hold when they have grown up?”

“We shall never allow it.”

“First, then, it seems we must oversee the storytellers. We must admit whatever fine story [377c] they compose and reject whatever is not fine. The stories we admit, we shall persuade nurses and mothers to tell the children, shaping their souls with these stories far more than they shape their bodies with their hands. But most of the stories they tell now must be cast out.”

“Which ones?” he asked.

“We shall see the lesser stories,” I said, “in the greater. For both the greater and the lesser must have the same pattern and the same effect. Do you not think so?” [377d]

“I do,” he said. “But I do not even know which greater stories you mean.”

“Those that Hesiod and Homer and the other poets used to tell us,” I said. “They fashioned false stories for people and told them, and still tell them.”

“Which stories,” he asked, “and what is your objection to them?”

“What one ought to object to first and most of all,” I said, “especially when the falsehood is badly told.”

“What is that?” [377e]

“When someone gives a bad image in words of what gods and heroes are like, as a painter does when he paints something that bears no resemblance to what he intended to portray.”

“Yes,” he said, “it is right to object to such things. But what exactly do we mean, and which things?”

“First,” I said, “whoever told the greatest lie about the greatest beings told it badly, when he said that Uranus did the things Hesiod ascribes to him, and that Cronus in turn [378a] took revenge upon him as he did. As for the deeds of Cronus, and what he suffered at his son’s hands, even if they were true I would not think they should be told so readily to the young and unthinking. Best keep them silent; but if they must be told, let as few as possible hear them in secret, after sacrificing not a pig but some great, hard-to-obtain offering, so that as few as possible may come to hear them.”

“Those are troubling stories indeed,” he said. [378b]

“And they must not be told in our city, Adeimantus,” I said. “A young listener must not be told that if he commits the gravest injustice he does nothing extraordinary, or that if he punishes his unjust father in every possible way he is only doing what the first and greatest of the gods did.”

“No, by Zeus,” he said, “I too think these stories are unfit to tell.”

“Nor, indeed,” I said, “must we tell of gods warring, plotting, and fighting against gods [378c]—such tales are not even true—if those who will guard our city are to regard it as utterly shameful to fall easily into hatred of one another. Far less should we tell them tales of battles among giants or embroider them with all the many different feuds of gods and heroes against their relatives and families. Instead, if we are somehow to persuade them that no citizen has ever hated another citizen and that such hatred is unholy, these are the kinds of things that must be said to children from the start by old men and women; and as the children grow older, the poets too must be compelled to compose stories along these lines. [378d] But we must not admit into the city stories of Hera bound by her son, or Hephaestus hurled down by his father when he tried to defend his mother from a beating, or any of the battles among gods that Homer has composed, whether made with a hidden meaning or without one. A young person cannot distinguish what has a hidden meaning from what does not; the opinions he takes in at that age tend to be hard to wash away [378e] and hard to change. Perhaps this is why we must make it our chief concern that the first stories they hear are as beautifully told as possible, to guide them toward virtue.”

“That makes sense,” he said. “But suppose someone asks us what these stories are, and which ones we mean. What would we say?”

And I said, “Adeimantus, you and I [379a] are not poets at present but founders of a city. Founders should know the patterns within which poets must tell their stories, and must not allow them to depart from those patterns; they need not compose the stories themselves.”

“Right,” he said. “But just what are these patterns for speaking about the gods?”

“Something like this,” I said: “a god must always be represented as he truly is, whether someone portrays him in epic or lyric or tragedy.”

“Yes, he must.” [379b]

“And a god is truly good, and must be spoken of as such?”

“Certainly.”

“Now, nothing good is harmful, is it?”

“I do not think so.”

“Does what is not harmful do harm?”

“Not at all.”

“And what does no harm does no evil?”

“None.”

“And what does no evil cannot be the cause of any evil?”

“How could it?”

“And is the good beneficial?”

“Yes.”

“So it is a cause of well-being?”

“Yes.”

“Then the good is not the cause of everything, but the cause of what goes well; of evil it is not the cause.” [379c]

“Exactly,” he said.

“Neither, then,” I said, “could a god, being good, be the cause of everything, as most people say. Of the things that befall human beings he causes few, and of many he is not the cause, since good things are far fewer than bad things for us. For good things we must hold no one else responsible, but for bad things we must seek other causes, not a god.”

“What you say seems entirely true to me,” he said.

“Then,” I said, “we must not accept Homer’s mistake, or any other poet’s, when he foolishly errs concerning the gods [379d] and says:

“‘Two jars stand upon the floor of Zeus,
filled with destinies, one of blessings, the other of sorrows;
and to the man for whom Zeus mixes a portion from both,
now evil comes, now good;
but to the man for whom he mixes none and gives the unmixed second jar,
grinding hunger drives him over the sacred earth.’

“[379e] Nor must we accept that Zeus is for us the steward

“‘of both blessings and evils.’

“If anyone says that Athena and Zeus caused Pandarus to break the oaths and truce, we shall not praise him; nor shall we praise the strife and judgment of the gods [380a] attributed to Themis and Zeus. And we must not let the young hear what Aeschylus says:

“‘A god plants guilt in mortals
when he wishes to destroy a house utterly.’

“If someone writes of the sufferings of Niobe, in a work containing these verses, or of the descendants of Pelops, or of the Trojan War, or of anything else of the kind, we must not allow him to say that these are the works of a god; or if he does say so, he must discover something like the account we are seeking now [380b] and say that what the god did was just and good, and that those who were punished benefited from it. But we must not permit the poet to say that those who paid the penalty were wretched and that it was a god who brought this about. If he says that the wicked were wretched because they needed punishment, but benefited in paying the penalty at a god’s hands, that we may allow. But we must fight in every way against anyone’s saying that a god, who is good, becomes a cause of evil to anyone; we must allow no one in his own city, if it is to have good laws, to tell such a tale or listen to one, [380c] whether young or old, whether it is told in verse or without meter. Such talk, if spoken, would be neither holy nor beneficial to us nor consistent with itself.”

“I vote with you for this law,” he said, “and it pleases me.”

“This, then,” I said, “will be one of our laws and patterns concerning the gods, by which speakers must speak and poets compose: a god is not the cause of all things but of good things.”

“That is quite enough,” he said. [380d]

“Now what of this second question? Do you believe a god is a sorcerer who deliberately appears now in one shape and now in another, sometimes himself changing his own form into many shapes, sometimes deceiving us and making us think such things of him? Or is he simple, and least of all beings liable to depart from his own form?”

“I cannot answer that yet,” he said.

“Consider this: if something departs from its own form, must it not be changed either by itself or by another?” [380e]

“It must.”

“And the things that are best constituted are least altered and moved by something else, are they not? Take a body affected by food and drink and exertion, or a plant by the sun’s heat and the winds and such conditions. Is it not the healthiest and strongest that is [381a] least altered?”

“Of course.”

“And will not some external experience least disturb and change the bravest and wisest soul?”

“Yes.”

“And surely the same account holds for all composite things—implements, buildings, and clothes: those well made and in good condition are least altered by time and other influences.”

“That is so.” [381b]

“Anything, then, in good condition by nature or craft or both admits the least change from another thing.”

“So it seems.”

“But a god and everything divine are in every respect in the best condition.”

“Of course.”

“In this respect, then, a god would be least likely to take on many forms.”

“Least likely indeed.”

“But might he change and alter himself?”

“Clearly he would have to,” he said, “if he changes at all.”

“Would he change himself into something better and finer, or into something worse and uglier than himself?” [381c]

“Necessarily into something worse,” he said, “if he changes at all: surely we would not say that a god lacks beauty or excellence.”

“You are quite right,” I said. “And given that, Adeimantus, do you think anyone, god or human, would willingly make himself worse in any respect?”

“Impossible,” he said.

“Then it is also impossible,” I said, “for a god to wish to alter himself. Rather, it seems, each of them, as beautiful and excellent as possible, always remains simply in his own form.”

“That seems to me entirely necessary,” he said. [381d]

“Then let no poet, my good friend,” I said, “tell us:

“‘The gods, appearing as strangers from foreign lands,
take on every shape and wander through the cities.’

“Nor let anyone slander Proteus and Thetis; nor bring Hera onstage in tragedy or other poetry, changed into a priestess begging alms

“‘for the life-giving children of Inachus, the river of Argos.’

“[381e] Let them not tell us many other falsehoods of that kind. And let mothers not be persuaded by these tales to frighten their children by telling them wicked stories that certain gods roam about at night appearing as strangers in all sorts of shapes. Otherwise they blaspheme the gods and at the same time make their children more timid.”

“No, they must not,” he said.

“But,” I said, “could it be that the gods themselves do not change, yet make us think they appear in all kinds of shapes, deceiving and bewitching us?”

“Perhaps,” he said.

### Book II, 382–383

[382a] “But tell me,” I said, “would a god wish to lie in word or deed, presenting a false appearance?”

“I do not know,” he said.

“Do you not know,” I said, “that what is truly a lie, if one may call it that, is hated by gods and human beings alike?”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“This,” I said: “no one willingly accepts falsehood in the ruling part of himself about the most important things; there, above all places, he dreads possessing it.”

“I still do not understand,” he said. [382b]

“You think I mean something profound,” I said. “What I mean is that all of us are least willing to be deceived in our souls about what is, to remain ignorant and harbor falsehood there; that is where we hate it most.”

“By far,” he said.

“And the name ‘true falsehood’ would most properly belong, as I was just saying, to ignorance in the soul of one who has been deceived. A spoken falsehood is an imitation of that condition of the soul, an image produced afterward, not falsehood in its pure form. [382c] Is that not so?”

“Certainly.”

“Then true falsehood is hated not only by gods but also by human beings.”

“So it seems to me.”

“What, then, of falsehood in speech? When, and for whom, is it useful enough not to deserve hatred? Against enemies, surely; and when those we call friends attempt some evil through madness or folly, it can serve as a medicine to turn them away. And in the stories we mentioned [382d] just now, because we do not know the truth about the distant past, we make falsehood as like the truth as we can and so make it useful.”

“Yes, that is exactly so,” he said.

“Which of these uses, then, could a god have for falsehood? Would he lie by making something up because he does not know the distant past?”

“That would be absurd,” he said.

“Then no lying poet resides in a god.”

“I think not.”

“Would he lie because he fears his enemies?” [382e]

“Far from it.”

“Or because of the folly or madness of his own?”

“But no one foolish or mad is dear to a god,” he said.

“Then there is no reason for a god to lie.”

“None.”

“The divine and the godlike, then, are wholly without falsehood.”

“Entirely,” he said.

“God, then, is utterly simple and true in deed and word. He neither changes himself nor deceives others—neither by apparitions, nor by words, nor by sending signs, whether in waking life or in dreams.”

[383a] “As I hear you say it, it seems so to me too,” he said.

“You agree, then,” I said, “that this is our second pattern for speech and poetry concerning the gods: they are not sorcerers who change their shapes, nor do they lead us astray by lies in word or deed.”

“I agree.”

“Then, though we praise much in Homer, we shall not praise the sending of the dream from Zeus to Agamemnon. Nor shall we praise Aeschylus when he has Thetis say that Apollo, singing at her wedding, proclaimed the blessings of her children— [383b]

“‘Lives untouched by sickness and long in years;
calling all my fortunes dear to the gods,
he sang a paean and cheered my heart.
And I believed the sacred, truthful voice
of Phoebus, rich in the prophetic art.
But he who sang, who joined the feast,
who spoke these words—he was the one who killed
my child.’

“[383c] When anyone speaks of the gods this way, we shall be indignant and refuse him a chorus; nor shall we allow teachers to use such works in educating the young, if our guardians are to become god-fearing and godlike to the utmost degree possible for a human being.”

“I wholly agree with these patterns,” he said, “and would employ them as laws.”

### Book III, 386–394

[386a] “Such, then,” I said, “are the things about the gods, it seems, that those who are to honor the gods and their parents and hold their friendship with one another no small matter must hear—or must not hear—from childhood.”

“And rightly so, I think,” he said.

“What if they are to be courageous? Must we not tell them things that will make them fear death as little as possible? [386b] Or do you think anyone who carries that fear within him could ever become courageous?”

“By Zeus, I do not.”

“And do you think a man who believes that the realm of Hades exists and is dreadful will be fearless in the face of death and choose death in battle rather than defeat and slavery?”

“Not at all.”

“Then it seems we must also oversee those who undertake to tell stories about that realm, and ask them not to revile the things in Hades indiscriminately, but rather to praise them, since their accounts would be neither true [386c] nor useful to men who are to become fighters.”

“Yes, we must,” he said.

“Then we shall erase all such passages, beginning with this one:
‘I would rather serve another man for hire upon the earth,
a man with no allotment and scarcely enough to live on,
than reign over all the dead who have perished.’
And this: [386d]
‘Then the houses of the dead would stand revealed to mortal and immortal eyes,
dreadful and dank, hated even by the gods.’
And:
‘Ah, so there is, even in the house of Hades,
a soul and a phantom, though no understanding remains at all.’
And this:
‘He alone has understanding; the others flit about as shadows.’
And:
‘The soul flew from his limbs and went to Hades,
lamenting its fate, leaving manhood and youth behind.’

[387a] And this:
‘The soul went beneath the earth like smoke,
with a shrill cry.’
And:
‘As bats in the recess of a vast cave
fly shrieking when one falls from the cluster on the rock,
clinging to one another,
so these went together, shrieking.’

[387b] We shall ask Homer and the other poets not to take offense when we strike out these and all such passages—not because they lack poetry or are not pleasant for most people to hear, but because the more poetic they are, the less they should be heard by children and men who must be free and fear slavery more than death.”

“Certainly.”

“Then we must also discard all the terrible and frightening names associated with these things—Cocytus and Styx, [387c] the dwellers below and the lifeless dead, and every other name of this kind that makes all who hear it shudder, as people suppose. Perhaps they serve some other purpose well; but we fear for our guardians, lest such shuddering make them more feverish and softer than they should be.”

“And rightly,” he said, “do we fear it.”

“Then these must be removed?”

“Yes.”

“And we must speak and compose in the opposite manner?”

“Clearly. [387d]”

“Then shall we also remove the wailings and lamentations of men of renown?”

“We must,” he said, “if we remove the others.”

“Consider,” I said, “whether we shall be right to do so. We say that a decent man will not regard death as dreadful for another decent man who is his friend.”

“So we say.”

“Then he will not lament for him as if something dreadful had happened to him.”

“Certainly not.”

“But we also say that such a man is most self-sufficient when it comes to living well and, unlike others, needs another person least of all. [387e]”

“True,” he said.

“Then losing a son or brother, wealth, or anything of that kind will be least dreadful to him.”

“Least of all.”

“So he will also lament least, bearing such a misfortune as calmly as possible when it comes upon him.”

“By far.”

“Then we would be right to remove laments from the mouths of distinguished men and assign them to women—and not even to respectable women—

[388a] and to men of no worth, so that those we say we are raising to guard our country will recoil from behaving like them.”

“Right,” he said.

“Once more, then, we shall ask Homer and the other poets not to portray Achilles, the son of a goddess,
‘now lying on his side, now again
on his back, now face downward,’
then rising upright and roaming distraught [388b] ‘along the shore of the barren sea’; nor taking ‘sooty dust in both hands’ and pouring it over his head; nor weeping and lamenting in all the ways that poet has depicted. Nor should they portray Priam, descended from gods, pleading and
‘rolling in the filth,
calling each man by name.’
Far more urgently still shall we ask them not to portray gods lamenting and saying: [388c]
‘Alas for me, wretched mother, alas, who bore the noblest child!’
But if they must portray gods so, let them at least not dare to imitate the greatest of the gods in so unworthy a fashion that he says:
‘Ah, I see with my own eyes a man dear to me
pursued around the city, and my heart grieves.’
And:
‘Alas for me! Sarpedon, dearest to me among men,
[388d] is fated to fall beneath Patroclus, son of Menoetius.’
For if our young men, my dear Adeimantus, hear such things in earnest and do not laugh at them as unworthy of being said, scarcely would any of them, mere mortals though they are, think such behavior beneath them or rebuke themselves if they felt an impulse to say or do the like. Instead, without shame or endurance, they would sing out long dirges and lamentations over trifling troubles. [388e]”

“What you say is entirely true,” he said.

“But they must not, as our argument just showed us; and we must follow it until someone persuades us with a better one.”

“No, they must not.”

“Nor, surely, should they be given to laughter. For when anyone yields to violent laughter, the result is generally a violent change of temper.”

“So it seems to me,” he said.

“Then we cannot approve of portraying people of any consequence overcome by [389a] laughter, much less gods.”

“Much less,” he said.

“Then neither shall we approve Homer's account of the gods:
‘Unquenchable laughter arose among the blessed gods
when they saw Hephaestus bustling through the hall.’”

“Not by your argument.”

“If you wish to call it mine,” he said; “at any rate, [389b] we cannot approve it.”

“And truth, surely, must be held in high esteem. For if we were right in what we said a moment ago, and falsehood is truly useless to gods but useful to human beings as a kind of medicine, clearly such a thing must be entrusted to physicians, not handled by private citizens.”

“Clearly,” he said.

“Then if anyone has the right to lie, it belongs to the city's rulers, for the city's benefit, whether in dealing with enemies or with citizens; but no one else must touch it. [389c] If a private citizen lies to such rulers, we shall call it an offense as great as, or greater than, a patient's failure to tell his doctor the truth about his condition, an athlete's failure to tell his trainer the truth about his body, or a sailor's failure to tell the pilot the facts about the ship and its crew, and how he or any other sailor is performing his duty.”

“Entirely true,” he said. [389d]

“Then if a ruler catches anyone else lying in the city—
‘one of the craftsmen of the people,
a seer, a healer of ills, or a builder of ships’—
he will punish him for introducing a practice that could overturn and destroy a city, as it could a ship.”

“If deeds follow our words,” he said.

“What then? Will our young men not need self-control?”

“How could they not?”

“And for the many, are not the chief elements of self-control these: to obey their rulers [389e] and themselves to rule their pleasures in drink, love, and food?”

“So it seems to me.”

“Then we shall, I think, call well said such lines as Diomedes speaks in Homer:
‘Friend, sit quietly and heed my words,’
and the lines that follow these:
‘The Achaeans advanced breathing fury,
silent in awe of their commanders,’
and others of that kind.”

“Well said.”

“But what of these lines:
‘You, sodden with wine, with a dog's eyes and a deer's heart,’

[390a] and what follows them? Are they well said, or any other insolent words that a private person has spoken against rulers in prose or poetry?”

“No.”

“For I think it is not fitting for young men to hear such words if they are to learn self-control. If they give some other pleasure, no wonder. How does it seem to you?”

“As you say,” he replied.

“And what of having the wisest of men say that the finest sight of all, in his judgment, is when
‘the tables are laden [390b] with bread and meat, and the cupbearer draws wine
from the mixing bowl, carries it round, and pours it into cups’?
Do you think it fitting for a young man to hear this if he is to master himself? Or that it is ‘most pitiable to die of hunger and meet one's fate’? Or that Zeus, while all the other gods and men slept, alone awake and pondering his plans, readily [390c] forgot them all through desire for sex, and was so overcome at the sight of Hera that he would not even enter their chamber but wanted to lie with her there on the ground, saying that desire had never held him so strongly, not even when they first met in secret from their dear parents? Nor should they hear how Ares and Aphrodite were bound by Hephaestus for a similar affair.”

“No, by Zeus,” he said, “I do not think it fitting. [390d]”

“But wherever,” I said, “distinguished men are said or shown to endure everything steadfastly, those are the things they should see and hear. For instance:
‘He struck his breast and rebuked his heart:
Endure, my heart; you once endured a worse thing still.’”

“Certainly,” he said.

“Yet we must not allow these men to accept bribes or to love money. [390e]”

“Not at all.”

“Nor must anyone sing to them that
‘Gifts persuade gods, and gifts persuade revered kings.’
Nor should we praise Phoenix, Achilles' tutor, as speaking rightly when he counseled Achilles to take gifts and then help the Achaeans, but not to give up his anger without gifts. And we shall neither think Achilles himself worthy of such conduct nor agree that he loved money so much that he accepted gifts from Agamemnon, and again demanded payment to release a corpse [391a] but would not release it otherwise.”

“Such things certainly deserve no praise,” he said.

“I hesitate,” I said, “out of regard for Homer, to declare that it is impious to say these things of Achilles or to believe others who do; likewise the tale that he said to Apollo:
‘You have wronged me, far-striking one, most destructive of all the gods;
I would take revenge on you, if only I had the power.’
[391b] Nor should we believe that he defied the river, a god, and stood ready to fight him, or that he said of the hair consecrated to the other river, Spercheius, ‘I would give this hair to the hero Patroclus to carry with him,’ though Patroclus was dead, and actually did so. The dragging of Hector around Patroclus' tomb, and the slaughter of living prisoners on his pyre—we shall say none of these accounts is true, nor allow [391c] our people to believe that Achilles, son of a goddess and of Peleus, a man of great self-control and third in descent from Zeus, raised by the wisest of men, Chiron, was so full of turmoil that he carried within him two contrary diseases: servility joined to love of money, and arrogance toward gods and men alike.”

“You are right,” he said.

“Then let us not believe,” I said, “or permit anyone to say that Theseus, son of Poseidon, and Pirithous, son of Zeus, [391d] embarked on such dreadful abductions, or that any other son of a god and hero would dare commit the dreadful and impious deeds falsely attributed to them now. Let us compel the poets either to deny that these deeds were theirs or to deny that these men were sons of gods. They must not say both, nor try to persuade our young men that gods beget evil and heroes are no better than ordinary men. As we said before, [391e] these stories are neither holy nor true: we showed, surely, that evil cannot come from gods.”

“Of course.”

“And they harm those who hear them. For everyone will pardon his own wickedness if he believes that such things are and have been done even by
‘those near to the seed of gods,
those close to Zeus, whose ancestral altar of Zeus
stands in the air on Mount Ida,’
and that
‘the divine blood in them has not yet died away.’
That is why we must put an end to such stories, lest they breed in our young men [392a] an easy readiness for wrongdoing.”

“Absolutely,” he said.

“What category of stories,” I said, “remains for us to define as suitable or unsuitable? We have said how stories should speak of gods, spirits, heroes, and those in Hades.”

“Indeed.”

“Then what remains would be stories about human beings?”

“Clearly.”

“But, my friend, we cannot lay down a rule about these at present.”

“Why not?”

“Because, I think, we would say that poets and storytellers make the greatest error [392b] about human beings when they say that many unjust people are happy and just people wretched, that injustice pays if it goes undetected, and that justice benefits someone else but costs its possessor. We would forbid them to say such things and command them to sing and tell the opposite. Would we not?”

“I know we would,” he said.

“Then if you agree that I am right, I shall say that you have conceded the very thing we have been seeking all this time.”

“You have understood correctly,” he said. [392c]

“Then we shall agree that these are the stories to tell about human beings only when we discover what justice is, and how it naturally benefits its possessor, whether or not he seems to be just.”

“Entirely true,” he said.

“Let that be the end, then, of the content of stories. Next, I think, we must examine their manner of telling, and our inquiry into both what must be said and how it must be said will be complete.”

Adeimantus said, “I do not understand what you mean by that. [392d]”

“But you must,” I said. “Perhaps you will understand better this way. Is not everything said by storytellers or poets an account of things past, present, or future?”

“What else could it be?” he said.

“And do they not accomplish this by simple narration, by narration through imitation, or by both?”

“This too,” he said, “I still need to understand more clearly.”

“I seem to be a ridiculous and obscure teacher,” I said. “So, like people who are poor at explaining, I shall take one part rather than the whole [392e] and try to show you what I mean by it. Tell me: do you know the beginning of the Iliad, where the poet says that Chryses begged Agamemnon to release his daughter, that Agamemnon was angry, and that Chryses, since [393a] he failed to obtain her, prayed to the god against the Achaeans?”

“I do.”

“Then you know that down to these lines:
‘He pleaded with all the Achaeans,
but most of all with the two sons of Atreus, commanders of the people,’
the poet speaks in his own person and does not try to turn our minds elsewhere, as though someone other than himself were speaking. But after these lines he speaks as if he himself were Chryses and tries [393b] as hard as he can to make us think the speaker is not Homer but the priest, an old man. Almost all the rest of his account of events at Troy and of the sufferings in Ithaca and throughout the Odyssey is composed in the same manner.”

“Certainly,” he said.

“Is it narration, then, both when he recounts each speech and when he recounts what comes between the speeches?”

“Of course. [393c]”

“But when he delivers a speech as if he were another person, shall we not say that he makes his own expression as like as possible to that of whoever he has presented as about to speak?”

“We shall; what else?”

“And making oneself like someone else in voice or bearing is imitating the person one resembles?”

“Certainly.”

“Then in such passages he and the other poets evidently make their narration through imitation.”

“Indeed.”

“But if the poet never concealed himself, all his poetry and narration [393d] would be free of imitation. And so you do not say again that you do not understand how that could happen, I shall explain. If Homer had said that Chryses came bearing a ransom for his daughter and supplicating the Achaeans, especially their kings, and then had gone on speaking not as Chryses but still as Homer, you understand that this would have been not imitation but simple narration. It would have gone something like this—I shall put it in prose, since I am no poet: [393e] The priest came and prayed that the gods would grant them victory over Troy and a safe return, and that they would release his daughter to him, accepting the ransom and honoring the god.

When he had spoken, the others showed reverence and consented, but Agamemnon grew savage and ordered him to leave at once and never come back, lest his staff and the god's garlands fail to protect him. Before his daughter was released, he said, she would grow old in Argos with him. He told the priest to go and not provoke him, [394a] so that he might reach home safely. The old man heard and was afraid and went away in silence. When he had left the camp, he offered many prayers to Apollo, calling on the god by his titles, reminding him of his service and asking him to repay it if the priest had ever pleased him by building temples or offering sacred sacrifices. In return for these, he prayed that the Achaeans might pay for his tears by the god's arrows. That, my friend,” I said, “is how simple narration is made without [394b] imitation.”

“I understand,” he said.

“Understand, then,” I said, “that the opposite arises when someone removes what the poet says between speeches and leaves only the dialogue.”

“That too I understand,” he said. “It is what happens in tragedies.”

“You have grasped it perfectly,” I said. “And now, I think, I can make clear to you what I could not before: one kind of poetry and storytelling [394c] is wholly through imitation, as you say tragedy and comedy are; another consists in the poet's own recital, found chiefly, perhaps, in dithyrambs; and yet another uses both, in epic poetry and in many other places, if you follow me.”

“Now I understand,” he said, “what you meant before.”

“Recall also what came before that: we said that we had settled what should be said but still had to examine how it should be said.”

“I remember. [394d]”

“That was precisely what I meant when I said we must reach an agreement on whether we shall allow poets to make their narratives through imitation, or allow it in some cases but not in others, defining which are which, or forbid imitation altogether.”

“I suspect,” he said, “you are considering whether we shall admit tragedy and comedy into the city.”

“Perhaps,” I said, “and perhaps still more besides. I do not yet know myself; but wherever the argument carries us, like a wind, there we must go.”

“And rightly so,” he said. [394e]

“Consider now, Adeimantus, whether our guardians should be imitators or not. Does this too follow from what we said before—that each person could practice one occupation well, but not many, and that if he tried to take on many he would fail at them all and gain distinction in none?”

“Of course.”

“Then does the same account apply to imitation: one person cannot imitate many things well as he can one?”

“No, he cannot.”

### Book III, 395–402

[395a] “Then he could hardly practice any occupation worthy of note while also imitating many things and being an imitator, since even two forms of imitation that seem close to each other cannot be performed well by the same people at once—for example, composing comedy and tragedy. Did you not just call these two imitations?”

“I did; and you are right that the same people cannot do both.”

“Nor can the same people be rhapsodes and actors.”

“True.”

“Nor are the same actors suited to comedy and tragedy; [395b] and all these are imitations, are they not?”

“Imitations.”

“Indeed, Adeimantus, human nature seems to me divided into pieces smaller still, so that a person cannot imitate many things well, or even perform well those very actions of which the imitations are likenesses.”

“Entirely true,” he said.

“Then if we are to preserve our original argument—that our guardians, released from all other crafts, must be highly skilled craftsmen of the city's freedom [395c] and must practice nothing that does not lead to this—they should neither do nor imitate anything else. If they do imitate, they must imitate from childhood what befits them: courageous, self-controlled, pious, and free people, and everything of that kind. But they must neither perform servile acts nor become skilled at imitating them, or any other shameful thing, lest imitation give them a share in the reality. [395d] Have you not noticed that imitations, if pursued continuously from youth onward, settle into habit and nature, in body, voice, and mind alike?”

“Very much so,” he said.

“Then,” I said, “we shall not allow the men we claim to care for, and who we say must become good men, to imitate a woman, whether young or old, quarreling with her husband, contending with the gods and boasting because she thinks herself happy, or caught in misfortune, mourning and lamenting. Still less should they imitate a woman who is sick, in love, or in labor. [395e]”

“Certainly not,” he said.

“Nor female or male slaves doing the things slaves do.”

“Not that either.”

“Nor, it seems, wicked men and cowards acting contrary to everything we just named—abusing and mocking one another, speaking obscenely, whether drunk or sober, [396a] and committing all the other offenses such people commit in word and deed, against themselves and others. Nor, I think, should they grow accustomed to representing mad people in word or action. They must know mad people and wicked men and women, but neither do nor imitate anything they do.”

“Entirely true,” he said.

“What then?” I said. “Should they imitate blacksmiths or other craftsmen at work, [396b] or men rowing triremes or giving orders to the rowers, or anything else connected with such occupations?”

“How could they,” he said, “when they will not even be permitted to pay attention to any of these things?”

“And will they imitate neighing horses, bellowing bulls, rushing rivers, the crashing sea, thunder, and all such sounds?”

“But they have been forbidden,” he said, “both to be mad and to resemble mad people.”

“Then, if I understand you,” I said, “there is one manner of speech and narration that a truly noble and good man would use when he has something to tell, [396c] and another manner unlike it, which a man reared and formed in the opposite way would always adopt in telling a story.”

“What are these manners?” he said.

“It seems to me,” I said, “that when a decent man reaches, in his narrative, the words or actions of a good man, he will be willing to tell them as if he himself were that man and will not be ashamed of such imitation. He will imitate most readily [396d] the good man acting steadily and sensibly; less readily and to a lesser extent when illness, love, drunkenness, or some other misfortune makes that man falter. But when he encounters someone unworthy of himself, he will not want in earnest to fashion himself after a worse man, except briefly when that man is doing something worthwhile. He will feel shame, partly because he has had no practice in imitating such men, partly because he dislikes molding himself [396e] into the patterns of inferior men and, in his heart, disdains to do so except in play.”

“That seems likely,” he said.

“Then he will use a narrative of the kind we described a little while ago in speaking of Homer's poetry. His style will contain both imitation and the other kind of narration, but imitation will be a small part of a long account. Is that not so?”

“Indeed,” he said, “that must be the pattern of such a speaker.”

[397a] “And the man who is not like him—the more base he is, the more eager he will be to recount everything. He will think nothing beneath him, and so will attempt to imitate everything in earnest, before a crowd: the thunder and the sounds of winds and hail, of axles and pulleys, of trumpets, flutes, reed pipes, and every instrument, and even the cries of dogs and sheep and birds, as we said just now. [397b] So will his entire manner of speech be imitation by voice and gesture, with little narration?”

“It must be,” he said.

“These, then,” I said, “are the two manners of speech I meant.”

“And so they are,” he said.

“Now one of the two makes few changes. If someone gives the speech its proper mode and rhythm, a speaker who speaks rightly can stay in nearly the same mode throughout—for the changes are few—and likewise [397c] in a fairly constant rhythm.”

“Exactly so,” he said.

“And what of the other manner? Does it not need the opposite—all modes and all rhythms—if it is to be performed fittingly, since its changes take so many forms?”

“That is very much the case.”

“Then do all poets and speakers make use of one of these two patterns of speech, or the other, or some mixture of both?”

“They must,” he said. [397d]

“What, then, shall we do?” I said. “Shall we admit all these kinds into our city, or one of the unmixed kinds, or the mixed one?”

“If I prevail,” he said, “the unmixed imitation of a decent man.”

“But Adeimantus,” I said, “the mixed kind is pleasant too; and the kind opposite to your choice is by far the most delightful to children and their tutors, and to the great crowd.”

“It certainly is.”

“Yet perhaps,” I said, “you would say it does not suit [397e] our constitution, because among us no man is twofold or many-sided: each does one thing.”

“It does not suit it.”

“And is this why only in a city such as ours shall we find the shoemaker a shoemaker, not also a pilot; the farmer a farmer, not also a judge; the soldier a soldier, not also a moneymaker; and everyone else the same?”

“True,” he said.

[398a] “Then if a man whose skill made him capable of becoming all sorts of people and imitating all sorts of things came to our city wishing to display himself and his poems, we would bow before him as a sacred, marvelous, delightful being. But we would tell him that no such man exists in our city, nor is it lawful for one to arise here; and we would send him on to another city, pouring perfume on his head and crowning him with wool. For our part, we would employ the more austere and less pleasing poet [398b] and storyteller for the sake of his usefulness, one who would imitate for us the speech of a decent man and say what he has to say in accordance with those patterns we laid down at the beginning, when we undertook to educate our soldiers.”

“That is exactly what we would do,” he said, “if it were up to us.”

“Now, my friend,” I said, “we seem to have completed the part of musical education concerned with stories and narratives: we have discussed both what should be said and how to say it.”

“So it seems to me too,” he said. [398c]

“Then what remains,” I said, “is the manner of song and melody?”

“Clearly.”

“Surely anyone could now discover what we must say of them, and what they must be like, if we are to remain in agreement with what has gone before.”

Glaucon laughed and said, “Then, Socrates, I must be an exception to ‘anyone.’ I cannot at present make out what it is we must say, though I have my suspicions.”

“You can surely tell us this much [398d] to begin with,” I said: “a song is composed of three things—words, mode, and rhythm.”

“Yes,” he said, “that much I can tell.”

“And insofar as it consists of words, surely its words differ in no way from unsung speech as regards the patterns in which they must be expressed: they must follow the very ones we just set out.”

“True,” he said.

“And mode and rhythm must follow the words.”

“Of course.”

“But we said that we had no need of dirges and lamentations in our stories.”

“Indeed not. [398e]”

“Which, then, are the mournful modes? Tell me, for you are a musician.”

“The mixed Lydian,” he said, “the tense Lydian, and others like them.”

“Then must we remove these? They are no use even to women who are to be decent, much less to men.”

“Certainly.”

“And drunkenness is particularly unbecoming in the guardians, as are softness and idleness.”

“Of course.”

“Which modes, then, are soft and suited to drinking parties?”

“Certain Ionian and Lydian modes,” he said, “called relaxed.”

[399a] “My friend, will these serve you at all for men at war?”

“Not at all,” he said. “It seems you are left with the Dorian and Phrygian.”

“I do not know the modes,” I said. “But leave me the one that would fittingly imitate the tones and inflections of a courageous man in battle or any other arduous task: one who, when his efforts fail, or he goes toward wounds or death, or falls into some other misfortune, [399b] holds his ground in all these circumstances and steadfastly resists his fate. Leave another for a man engaged in peaceful and freely chosen rather than forced action: persuading someone or making a request, whether through prayer to a god or through teaching and admonition to another person; or, conversely, listening to someone who requests, teaches, or persuades him, and thereby succeeding as he wishes. In all these he acts without arrogance, but with self-control and moderation, [399c] and accepts what follows. Leave me these two modes, the ones that best imitate the tones of people under constraint or acting freely, unfortunate or fortunate, self-controlled and courageous [modes].”

“But,” he said, “you are asking me to leave precisely the ones I named just now.”

“Then,” I said, “we shall have no need for many-stringed instruments or those capable of all modes in our songs and melodies.”

“I do not think so,” he said.

“Then we shall not support makers of triangular harps, pectides, or any instruments [399d] with many strings and many modes.”

“It seems we shall not.”

“What then? Will you admit makers or players of auloi into the city? Is not that the instrument with the greatest range of sounds, and are not instruments capable of every mode themselves imitations of the aulos?”

“Clearly,” he said.

“So,” I said, “you are left with the lyre and the cithara [and] for use in the city; and in the fields the herdsmen might have a reed pipe.”

“That, at least,” he said, “is what our argument suggests. [399e]”

“We are doing nothing new, my friend,” I said, “when we choose Apollo and his instruments over Marsyas and his.”

“By Zeus,” he said, “I think not.”

“And by the dog,” I said, “we have been cleansing once more, without noticing it, the city we said a moment ago had fallen into luxury.”

“A wise thing for us to do,” he said.

“Come then,” I said, “let us cleanse what remains. The question of rhythm follows that of modes. We must not seek intricate rhythms or every kind of measure, but discover which rhythms belong to an orderly and courageous life; once we find them, we must make the meter and melody follow the words of such a life, [400a] not the words follow meter and melody. Which rhythms these are is for you to tell me, as with the modes.”

“By Zeus,” he said, “I cannot say. I have observed that there are three kinds of pattern from which measures are woven, just as there are four kinds of notes from which all modes come, and I could tell you that much. But which patterns imitate which kind of life, I cannot say. [400b]”

“Then we shall consult Damon about which measures suit servility, insolence, madness, and other vices, and which rhythms we should leave for their opposites. I seem to recall hearing him, though not clearly, speak of a compound enoplian rhythm, a dactyl, and a heroic rhythm; I do not know how he arranged them, making the rise and fall equal and combining short and long syllables. I think he also named the iamb and another rhythm, the trochee, assigning them long and [400c] short syllables. In some of these, I think he blamed or praised the movement of the foot no less than the rhythms themselves—or perhaps the two together; I cannot say. Let us leave these questions, as I said, to Damon: distinguishing them would take a long discussion. Or do you disagree?”

“By Zeus, I do not.”

“But you can distinguish this much: grace and gracelessness follow from good rhythm and bad rhythm?”

“Of course. [400d]”

“And good rhythm follows fine speech, resembling it, while bad rhythm follows the opposite. Good and bad harmony do likewise, if rhythm and harmony follow speech, as we just said, rather than speech following them.”

“They must follow speech,” he said.

“And the manner of speaking,” I said, “and speech itself—do they not follow the character of the soul?”

“Of course.”

“And everything else follows the manner of speaking?”

“Yes.”

“Then fine speech, fine harmony, grace, and good rhythm [400e] follow from goodness of character—not the simplicity we use as a fond name for foolishness, but a mind whose character is truly formed in a good and beautiful way.”

“Certainly,” he said.

“Must not our young men seek these things everywhere if they are to do their own work?”

“They must.”

[401a] “And surely painting is full of them, and so is every craft of that kind; weaving and embroidery, building and the making of every other artifact, and even the natural forms of bodies and of other growing things. Grace and gracelessness are present in all of these. Gracelessness, lack of rhythm, and disharmony are kin to bad speech and bad character; their opposites are kin to, and images of, the opposite character, self-controlled and good.”

“Absolutely,” he said. [401b]

“Then must we supervise poets alone, compelling them either to put the image of good character into their poems or not to compose among us? Or must we also supervise the other craftsmen and prevent them from putting this vicious, undisciplined, servile, and ugly character into representations of living things, buildings, or any work of craft, and forbid those who cannot refrain from working among us? Otherwise our guardians, reared among images of vice [401c] as in a sickly pasture, will gather and graze on countless small things each day from many places, unknowingly building up one great evil in their souls. Instead we must seek out craftsmen gifted at tracing the nature of beauty and grace, so that our young people, dwelling as if in a wholesome place, may benefit from everything that meets their eyes and ears in works of beauty, like a breeze bringing health from [401d] a kindly region, and may from childhood be led unawares into likeness, friendship, and harmony with beautiful reason.”

“For that,” he said, “would be the finest way to raise them.”

“Then, Glaucon,” I said, “is not education in music of the greatest importance for these reasons: rhythm and harmony sink most deeply into the soul, seize it most powerfully, and bring it grace, making a person graceful [401e] if properly raised, and the opposite if not? And someone raised as he should be in this art would perceive most sharply what has been left undone or fashioned poorly, or grown into a poor form. With just distaste he would praise beautiful things, delight in them and receive them into his soul, be nourished by them, and [402a] become noble and good. But he would rightly condemn and hate ugly things while still young, before he could grasp a rational account; and when reason came, he would welcome it, recognizing it above all through his kinship with it.”

“That, at least, is why I think education in music matters,” he said.

“Consider how, in learning letters,” I said, “we knew them well only when we could recognize the few letters wherever they appeared, and did not dismiss them in anything small or [402b] large as unworthy of notice, but made every effort to distinguish them everywhere, knowing that we could not read until we did.”

“True.”

“And if their images appear reflected in water or in mirrors, will we recognize them before we know the letters themselves? Is this not a matter for the same skill and study?”

“Certainly.”

“Then, by the gods, is it not the same with musical education? Neither we nor the guardians we say we must educate will be truly accomplished in it [402c] until we recognize the forms of self-control, courage, generosity, and magnificence, all the qualities akin to them, and their opposites, wherever they appear; until we perceive them in whatever contains them, both the qualities themselves and their images, and never disregard them in things small or great, but believe that they belong to the same skill and study.”

“Necessarily,” he said. [402d]

“Then,” I said, “when a person's soul contains a beautiful character and his outward form agrees and harmonizes with it, sharing the same pattern, would this not be the most beautiful sight for anyone capable of seeing?”

“By far.”

“And what is most beautiful is most lovable?”

“Of course.”

“Then the man educated in music would love those who most fully possess this harmony. But if someone were discordant, he would not love him.”

“Not if the defect were in his soul,” he said. “But if it were in his body, he might bear with it and be willing [402e] to embrace him.”

“I understand,” I said. “You have or have had a beloved of that kind, and I grant you the point. But tell me this: is there any fellowship between self-control and excessive pleasure?”

“How could there be?” he said. “It drives a person out of his mind no less than pain does.”

“And does it have any fellowship with the other virtues?”

### Book III, 403–410

[403a] “Not at all.”

“And what of insolence and licentiousness?”

“More than anything.”

“Can you name a pleasure greater and more intense than sexual pleasure?”

“I cannot,” he said, “nor one more akin to madness.”

“But true love is by nature a temperate and harmonious love of what is orderly and beautiful?”

“Certainly,” he said.

“Then nothing mad or related to licentiousness must be admitted into true love?”

“Nothing must be admitted.” [403b]

“Then this pleasure must not be admitted either, nor shared by a lover and his beloved if they love and are loved rightly?”

“No, by Zeus, Socrates,” he said, “it must not be admitted.”

“It seems, then, that you will lay down this law in the city we are founding: a lover may kiss his beloved, be with him, and touch him as a father might touch a son, for the sake of what is beautiful, if he has his consent; but in every other respect he must conduct himself toward one whom he cherishes so that no one will ever think he goes further [403c] than this. Otherwise he will incur reproach for a want of refinement and an ignorance of beauty.”

“So I will,” he said.

“Well then,” I said, “does it seem to you too that our discussion of music and the arts has reached its end? At least it has ended where it must: the arts must end in the love of beauty.”

“I agree,” he said.

“After music and the arts, the young must be brought up in physical training.”

“Of course.”

“And here too they must be trained carefully from childhood throughout [403d] life. This, I think, is how it stands; consider it yourself. I do not believe that a sound body makes the soul good through its own excellence, but rather that a good soul makes the body as sound as possible through its excellence. How does it seem to you?”

“The same way,” he said.

“Then if we care properly for the mind and entrust it with deciding the precise details concerning the body, while we ourselves offer only [403e] an outline, so as not to go on at length, would we be doing right?”

“Certainly.”

“We said that they must abstain from drunkenness: a drunken guardian, of all people, can least afford not to know where on earth he is.”

“It would be ridiculous,” he said, “for a guardian to need a guardian.”

“And what about food? These men are athletes in the greatest contest, are they not?”

“Yes.”

[404a] “Then would the regimen of our present-day athletes be suitable for them?”

“Perhaps.”

“But it makes them sleepy,” I said, “and leaves their health precarious. Do you not see that these athletes sleep their lives away, and if they depart even a little from their prescribed diet, they become gravely ill?”

“I do.”

“Our athletes of war,” I said, “need a more discerning kind of training. Like dogs, they must remain alert and see and hear as keenly as possible; on campaign they will face repeated changes in water [404b] and other food, in the sun's heat and winter's cold, without suffering a precarious state of health.”

“So it seems to me.”

“Would the best physical training, then, be something like a sister to the simple music and arts we described a little while ago?”

“What do you mean?”

“Simple, measured physical training—especially for those who go to war.”

“In what way?”

“We might learn such things even from Homer,” I said. “You know that when he gives feasts to the heroes in camp, he serves them neither fish, though they are by the sea [404c] on the Hellespont, nor boiled meat, but only roast meat, the easiest thing for soldiers to prepare. For almost everywhere it is easier to use a fire itself than to carry cooking pots about.”

“Indeed.”

“Nor, I think, does Homer ever mention sauces and seasonings. Or do even ordinary athletes know this much: that anyone who wants a healthy body must abstain from all such things?”

“And rightly so,” he said; “they know it and abstain.” [404d]

“So, my friend, you evidently do not approve of a Syracusan table and Sicilian variety in its dishes, if you think this is right.”

“I suppose I do not.”

“Then you also disapprove of Corinthian girls as lovers for men who wish to keep their bodies in good condition.”

“Most certainly.”

“And the reputed delights of Attic pastries too?”

“Necessarily.”

“For we would be right, I think, to compare this entire diet and manner of living to the composition of melodies and songs in every mode and every [404e] rhythm.”

“How could we not?”

“In that case, variety in music produced licentiousness, and variety here produces disease, while simplicity in music produces temperance in the soul, and simplicity in physical training produces health in the body?”

“Entirely true,” he said.

[405a] “And when licentiousness and disease multiply in a city, do not courts and clinics open in great numbers, while law and medicine grow proud of their importance once many freeborn people devote themselves keenly to them?”

“How could they not?”

“Can you find a greater sign of a city's bad and shameful education than this: not only its common laborers and craftsmen but also those who profess to have been raised as gentlemen need accomplished doctors and judges? [405b] Or do you not think it shameful, and a great sign of a lack of education, to have to borrow one's justice from others, as though they were one's masters and judges, because one has none of one's own?”

“It is the most shameful thing of all,” he said.

“And do you think this is even more shameful,” I said, “when a man not only wears away much of his life in court, now defending himself, now prosecuting another, but is so lacking in taste that he prides himself on just this: his skill at wrongdoing, his ability to twist and turn through every maneuver and wriggle through every escape [405c] to avoid paying the penalty—all for trifles of no consequence, unaware how much finer and better it would be to order his life so as never to need a dozing judge?”

“No,” he said, “that is still more shameful than the other.”

“And needing medicine,” I said, “not for wounds or a passing seasonal illness, but because of [405d] idleness and the diet we have described, filling up with fluids and vapors like stagnant pools, forcing the ingenious descendants of Asclepius to invent the names ‘flatulence’ and ‘catarrh’ for our ailments—is that not shameful?”

“Very much so,” he said. “These really are strange new names for diseases.”

“Names that did not exist, I think,” I said, “in Asclepius's day. [405e] My evidence is this: at Troy, when his sons saw that someone had sprinkled plentiful barley meal into Pramnian wine [406a] and grated cheese into it for the wounded Eurypylus—things thought to produce phlegm—they found no fault with the woman who gave it to him to drink, nor did they rebuke Patroclus for tending him.”

“And yet,” he said, “it was an odd drink to give a man in that condition.”

“Not if you consider,” I said, “that, according to tradition, the descendants of Asclepius did not practice our present art of nursing disease before Herodicus appeared. Herodicus was a trainer who fell ill; by mixing physical training [406b] with medicine he tormented first and foremost himself, and afterward many others.”

“How so?” he asked.

“By making his death a long affair,” I said. “Keeping close watch on his mortal disease, he could not, I think, cure himself. Instead he spent his whole life attending to his health, to the exclusion of everything else, suffering whenever he deviated from his usual regimen; through the art of staving off death, he made it to old age.”

“A fine prize he won from his art,” he said. [406c]

“The prize one would expect,” I said, “for a man who did not know that Asclepius withheld this kind of medicine from his descendants not out of ignorance or inexperience, but because he knew that in every well-governed city each person has an appointed task he must perform, and no one has the leisure to spend his whole life as an invalid under treatment. We recognize this, absurdly enough, in the case of craftsmen, but fail to recognize it in the case of the rich and those reputed to be happy.”

“How?” he asked. [406d]

“A carpenter,” I said, “when he is sick, asks the doctor for a drug to drink that will make him vomit out his illness, or for a purge to clear him from below, or for cautery or a surgical cut to be rid of it. But if someone prescribes him a long regimen, wrapping woolen caps around his head and adding everything else that goes with them, he soon says he has no leisure to be ill, and that there is no profit in living this way, with his mind on his disease and his appointed work neglected. Then he bids [406e] that kind of doctor goodbye, resumes his usual way of life, and, if he recovers, lives on and does his work. If his body cannot withstand it, he dies and is free of his troubles.”

“For such a man,” he said, “that seems the right way to use medicine.”

[407a] “Because he had a task to perform, and if he could not perform it, life held no profit for him?” I asked.

“Clearly,” he said.

“But the rich man, as we say, has no such appointed task from which he is forced to abstain on pain of finding life unlivable.”

“At any rate, none is commonly mentioned.”

“Have you not heard Phocylides,” I said, “say that once a man has a livelihood, he ought to practice virtue?”

“And before then too, I should think,” he said.

“Let us not quarrel with him about that,” I said. “Let us rather instruct ourselves whether the rich man must devote himself to this, [407b] so that life without it is unlivable, or whether nursing a disease obstructs the carpenter's work and the other crafts by monopolizing the mind, but presents no obstacle to Phocylides's command.”

“By Zeus,” he said, “it obstructs that perhaps more than anything—the excessive care of the body that goes beyond physical training. It is troublesome for managing a household, serving in a campaign, and holding settled offices in the city. Above all, it makes any kind of learning and private thought and reflection [407c] difficult: always suspecting a strain in the head or a spell of dizziness and blaming philosophy for it. So it hinders the practice and testing of virtue in every respect, for it makes a man think he is always sick and never lets him stop worrying over his body.”

“Naturally,” he said.

“Then shall we say that Asclepius understood this too,” I said, “and [407d] devised medicine for those whose bodies are sound by nature and habit but harbor some distinct illness? For such people and such a constitution he drove out illness with drugs and surgery, and prescribed their customary way of life so as not to harm the affairs of the city. But as for bodies diseased through and through, he did not attempt to drain and refill them little by little through regimens, prolonging a person's life in misery and allowing them to beget, as one might expect, more children like themselves. Rather, he thought that one unable to live within [407e] the ordinary course of life should not be treated, since this would benefit neither that person nor the city.”

“You describe a civic-minded Asclepius,” he said.

“Plainly so,” I said. “And his sons, because he was such a man, [408a] do you not see how they distinguished themselves at Troy in war and practiced medicine as I describe? Do you not remember what they did for Menelaus after Pandarus wounded him?

“‘They sucked out the blood and sprinkled soothing drugs upon the wound.’

“They prescribed no more about what he should eat or drink after this than they did for Eurypylus. They considered the drugs enough to heal men who had been healthy before their wounds and orderly [408b] in their habits, even if they happened to drink a barley-and-wine mixture at the moment. But a person diseased by nature and lacking self-control, they thought, would profit neither himself nor others by living; the healing art was not meant for such people, and they should not be treated, even if they were richer than Midas.”

“You make Asclepius's sons very wise,” he said.

“As they should be,” I said. “Yet the tragedians and Pindar disagree with us. They say that Asclepius was Apollo's son, but that gold induced him to heal a rich man already at the point of death, [408c] and for this he was struck by lightning. In keeping with what we said earlier, we will not believe them on both counts. If he was a god's son, we will say, he was not greedy for sordid gain; if he was greedy, he was no god's son.”

“That is perfectly right,” he said. “But what do you say about this, Socrates? Should we not have good doctors in the city? The best, surely, will have dealt with the greatest number of healthy and sick people, just as the best judges will have associated with people of every sort of character. [408d]”

“Yes,” I said, “I mean good doctors indeed. But do you know whom I consider good?”

“Tell me,” he said.

“I shall try,” I said. “But you have brought two unlike things together in a single question.”

“How so?” he asked.

“Doctors,” I said, “would become most skilled if, from childhood onward, besides learning their art, they were in contact with as many bodies as possible, especially the sickest, and suffered every kind of illness themselves, and were not by nature particularly healthy. [408e] For they do not, I think, treat body with body—if they did, it could never be acceptable for their own bodies to be or become sick—but body with soul; and a soul that has itself become bad cannot treat anything well.”

“Right,” he said.

[409a] “But a judge, my friend, governs one soul with another. His soul cannot have been raised from youth among wicked souls and associated with them, nor can it have passed through every injustice by committing those acts itself, so as to infer other people's crimes swiftly from itself, like diagnosing bodily diseases. While young it must have remained innocent and untouched by vicious ways, if as a fine and good soul it is to judge justly with a sound mind. That is why decent people seem naive when young and are easily deceived [409b] by the unjust: they have no patterns within themselves corresponding to the wicked.”

“Yes indeed,” he said, “that is precisely what happens to them.”

“And that,” I said, “is why a good judge must be old, not young: someone who has learned late what injustice is, not by finding it in his own soul, but by studying it as a stranger in other people's souls over a long period, coming to discern the nature of this evil by knowledge, not [409c] through any experience of his own.”

“Such a judge seems a most honorable one,” he said.

“And a good one too,” I said, “which is what you asked for: a man with a good soul is good. But that cunning and suspicious fellow, who has committed many injustices and thinks himself crafty and wise, seems formidable among his own kind, because he is on guard and looks to the patterns within himself. Yet when he meets good and older people, he seems foolish in turn, distrustful at the wrong time and ignorant of a sound character, [409d] because he has no pattern of it. But since he encounters bad people more often than good, he seems wise rather than ignorant both to himself and to others.”

“Entirely true,” he said.

“Then it is not this sort of man,” I said, “whom we must seek as our good and wise judge, but the former. For wickedness could never know either virtue or itself, but virtue, in a nature educated over time, will come to know both itself and wickedness. It is this man, it seems to me, who becomes wise, not the bad man. [409e]”

“I agree,” he said.

“So you will establish in your city medicine of the kind we described, together with this kind of judging. They will care for the citizens [410a] who are sound in body and soul; of those who are not, they will let those who are unsound in body die, while those whose souls are incurably bad they themselves will put to death?”

“That has proved best,” he said, “both for the sufferers themselves and for the city.”

“As for the young,” I said, “it is clear that they will take care not to need the courts, because they have practiced that simple music which we said instills temperance.”

“Of course,” he said. [410b]

“And if a man trained in music follows the same path in physical training, will he not choose, if he wishes, to have no need of medicine except when necessity demands?”

“I think so.”

“And in the exercises and hardships themselves he will look to the spirited part of his nature, seeking to arouse that rather than mere strength. Unlike other athletes, he will not arrange his diet and exertions for the sake of bodily power.”

“Exactly,” he said.

“Then, Glaucon,” I said, “those who instituted an education in music and physical training did not do so for the reason some suppose: that one should care for the body and the other for the soul? [410c]”

“Why else?” he asked.

“It seems they instituted both chiefly for the sake of the soul,” I said.

“How?”

“Have you not noticed,” I said, “what happens to the very minds of those who devote their lives to physical training but never touch music, or those who do the reverse?”

“What are you referring to?” he asked. [410d]

“To savagery and harshness on the one hand, and softness and gentleness on the other,” I said.

“I have,” he said. “Those who practice physical training without anything to temper it grow more savage than they should, while those who devote themselves to music grow softer than is good for them.”

“Yet,” I said, “the spirited part of our nature can give rise to savagery: raised rightly it would be brave, but strained beyond measure it becomes hard and difficult, as we might expect.”

“So it seems to me,” he said. [410e]

“And does not the philosophical part possess the gentler disposition? Relaxed too far, it becomes softer than it should be; properly raised, it becomes gentle and disciplined.”

“That is so.”

“And we say that the guardians must possess both of these natures.”

“They must.”

“Then the two must be brought into harmony with one another?”

“Of course.”

“And the person whose natures are harmonized has a temperate and brave

### Book III, 411–417

[411a] soul?”

“Certainly.”

“And in one whose natures are out of tune, it is cowardly and uncultivated?”

“Very much so.”

“Then suppose a man lets music charm him and pour through his ears, as through a funnel, those sweet, soft, and plaintive modes of which we were just speaking, and spends his whole life humming and entranced by song. At first, if he had any spirit, he softened it like iron and made useful what had been hard and useless. [411b] But if he persists and never lets up, submitting continually to its spell, he then melts it away until he has dissolved his spirit and cut the sinews, as it were, from his soul, leaving him a feeble warrior.”

“Indeed,” he said.

“And if,” I said, “he started with no spirit by nature, this happens quickly. But if he had spirit, he weakens it and makes it unstable, quick to flare up over trifles and just as quick to die down. Instead of being spirited, such men become irritable and hot-tempered, full of peevishness. [411c]”

“Exactly.”

“And what if, conversely, a man devotes himself to hard physical training, feasts heartily, and has no share in music or philosophy? At first, as his body becomes strong, does he not fill with pride and spirit, and grow bolder than he was?”

“Certainly.”

“And what if he does nothing else and never has any communion with the Muse? [411d] Whatever love of learning was once in his soul receives no taste of study or inquiry, no share in reason or any other part of music and the arts. Does it not grow feeble, deaf, and blind, since it is neither awakened nor nourished, and its perceptions are never cleansed?”

“So it does,” he said.

“Such a man, I think, becomes an enemy of reason and a stranger to the arts. He no longer uses speech to persuade, but gets his way in everything through force and brutality, like a wild beast, and lives in ignorance and clumsiness, without rhythm or grace. [411e]”

“Exactly so,” he said.

“It seems, then, that for these two parts, the spirited and the philosophical, some god has given human beings two arts, music and physical training—not for soul and body respectively, except as an incidental matter, but for these two parts, so that [412a] they may be brought into harmony by being tightened and relaxed to the proper degree.”

“So it seems,” he said.

“Then the man who blends music and physical training most beautifully, and applies them to the soul with the finest measure, deserves to be called wholly musical and harmonious far more than someone who tunes strings to one another.”

“Reasonably so, Socrates,” he said.

“And will our city, Glaucon, always need someone to oversee this, if its constitution is to be preserved?” [412b]

“It certainly will, more than anything.”

“These, then, are the outlines of education and upbringing. Why should we detail the dances of such people, their hunting and pursuit of game, their athletic contests and horse races? Clearly these things must follow the principles already laid down; it is no longer difficult to discover them.”

“Perhaps not difficult,” he said.

“Very well,” I said. “What must we determine next? Is it not which of these men will govern and which will be governed?” [412c]

“Of course.”

“Is it not clear that the rulers should be older, and those they rule younger?”

“Clear.”

“And that the rulers should be the best among them?”

“That too.”

“And the best farmers are the ones most skilled at farming, are they not?”

“Yes.”

“But since these men must be the best guardians, should they not be those most skilled at guarding the city?”

“Yes.”

“Then they must be intelligent and capable in this task, and also devoted to the city's welfare.” [412d]

“That is so.”

“And a person cares most for what he loves.”

“Necessarily.”

“And he will love most what he believes has the same interests as himself: something whose prosperity, [especially when] it prospers, he thinks will bring prosperity to him, while if it fails, the reverse will follow.”

“So it is,” he said.

“We must therefore select from the other guardians the men who, on our observation throughout their lives, seem most eager in every way to do whatever they think will benefit [412e] the city, and wholly unwilling to do what they think will not.”

“They would be suitable,” he said.

“I think we must watch them at every age, to see whether they guard this conviction well, and whether, neither bewitched nor forced, they throw aside and forget their belief that they must do what is best for the city.”

“What do you mean,” he asked, “by throwing it aside?”

“I will tell you,” I said. “It seems to me that a belief leaves the mind either willingly or unwillingly: willingly, when someone discovers that a false belief was false; unwillingly, in every case where the belief was true. [413a]”

“I understand the willing loss,” he said, “but I need to understand the unwilling one.”

“Why? Do you not also think,” I said, “that people are unwilling to be deprived of good things but willingly part with bad ones? Is being mistaken about the truth not bad, and knowing the truth good? Or do you not think that holding beliefs about things as they are amounts to knowing the truth?”

“You are right,” he said, “and I think people lose a true belief against their will. [413b]”

“And does this happen when they are robbed, bewitched, or forced?”

“I still do not understand,” he said.

“I seem to be speaking like a tragic poet,” I said. “By ‘robbed’ I mean people whose minds are changed by persuasion and people who forget, since a reasoned argument takes away the belief of one and time takes away the belief of the other without their noticing. Surely you understand now?”

“Yes.”

“And by ‘forced’ I mean those whom some pain or suffering causes to change their minds.”

“I understand that too,” he said, “and you are right. [413c]”

“And by ‘bewitched,’ I think you too would mean those who change their minds, whether seduced by pleasure or frightened by fear.”

“Everything that deceives us,” he said, “does seem to bewitch us.”

“As I was just saying, then, we must look for the men who guard best the conviction within them that they must always do what they believe best for the city [for themselves to do]. We must watch them from childhood, giving them tasks in which someone would be most likely to forget this belief or be deceived out of it. We must accept the one who remembers [413d] and is hard to deceive, and reject the other. Is that not so?”

“Yes.”

“We must also impose hardships, pains, and contests on them, and watch for the same thing in these.”

“Right,” he said.

“Then,” I said, “we must contrive a trial of the third kind, enchantment, and observe them. Just as people bring young horses up to noises and commotion to see whether they are easily frightened, so we must bring our young men face-to-face with certain terrors and then turn them toward pleasures, [413e] testing them far more thoroughly than gold in the fire. We must see whether each is hard to bewitch, and bears himself well in every circumstance, a good guardian both of himself and of the music he learned, showing good rhythm and harmony throughout these trials—the kind of man who would be most useful both to himself and to his city. And the one who has been tested at every stage, as a child, a youth, and a grown man, [414a] and has emerged uncorrupted, must be appointed ruler and guardian of the city. We must honor him in life and after death, awarding him the highest honors in burial and other memorials. The one who fails this test we must reject. That, Glaucon,” I said, “seems to me, in outline rather than exact detail, to be how our rulers and guardians should be selected and appointed.”

“That seems about right to me too,” he said. [414b]

“Would it not be most accurate to call these men guardians in the fullest sense, guarding against enemies outside and friends within, so that the former will not wish and the latter will not be able to do harm? And should we not call the young men whom we have been calling guardians auxiliaries and helpers in carrying out the rulers' judgments?”

“I think so,” he said.

“How, then,” I asked, “could we devise one of those useful falsehoods we were speaking about—a noble falsehood by which we might persuade, preferably the rulers themselves, [414c] or, failing that, the rest of the city?”

“What kind?” he asked.

“Nothing new,” I said, “but a Phoenician tale. Such a thing has happened in many places before, as the poets say and have persuaded people; it has not happened in our day, and I do not know if it ever could. Persuading people would take a great deal.”

“You seem reluctant to speak,” he said.

“You will see that I have good reason to hesitate,” I said, “when you hear it.”

“Speak,” he said, “and do not be afraid.” [414d]

“Very well—I do not know how I shall find the courage or the words to say it. I shall try to persuade the rulers themselves first, and then the soldiers and the rest of the city, that the upbringing and education we gave them were like a dream: they merely thought they experienced everything that happened to them then, while in truth they were being formed and nourished beneath the earth, they and their weapons and all their other equipment [414e] being fashioned there. When they were wholly finished, the earth, their mother, sent them up. Now they must plan for and defend the land they inhabit as their mother and nurse, if anyone marches against it, and regard their fellow citizens as brothers, born from the same earth.”

“No wonder,” he said, “you were ashamed to tell this lie.”

[415a] “With good reason,” I said. “But still, listen to the rest of the story. ‘All of you who live in this city are brothers,’ we shall say as we tell them the tale, ‘but when the god molded you, he mingled gold into the birth of those among you fit to rule, and for that reason they are held in highest honor. Into the auxiliaries he mixed silver, and into the farmers and other craftsmen, iron and bronze. Now, because you are all kin, most of the time you will beget children like yourselves, [415b] but sometimes a silver child will be born from gold, or a golden child from silver, and so too with every other sort from another. Accordingly, the god's first and chief command to the rulers is that nothing should receive such vigilant guardianship from them as their children, to see what metal has been mixed into their souls. If their own child is touched with bronze or iron, they must show no pity at all, but [415c] assign the station appropriate to that child's nature and send him to the craftsmen or the farmers. And if among these a child is born touched with gold or silver, they must honor him and raise him up, one kind to be a guardian, the other an auxiliary. For an oracle says that the city will be destroyed when a guardian of iron or bronze guards it.’ Now have you any way to make them believe this story?”

[415d] “Not those people themselves,” he said, “but perhaps their sons, and those who come after them, and other people of later generations.”

“Even that,” I said, “would help them care more for the city and for one another. I think I understand your meaning. As for the tale, it will go wherever public report carries it. Let us now arm these earthborn men and lead them forth under the rulers' command. When they reach the city, let them see where it would be best to make camp, so that from that place they can keep the people inside in check, should anyone refuse to obey the laws, and repel an attacker from outside, should an enemy come against the flock like a wolf. [415e] Once they have set up camp and made the proper sacrifices, let them make places to sleep. What do you say?”

“So they should,” he said.

“And places adequate to shelter them in winter and summer?”

“Of course,” he said. “I take it you mean dwellings.”

“Yes,” I said, “dwellings fit for soldiers, not for moneymakers.”

[416a] “How,” he asked, “does the one differ from the other?”

“I shall try to tell you,” I said. “The most terrible and shameful thing of all for shepherds would surely be to rear dogs as helpers for their flocks in such a way that, from lack of restraint, hunger, or some other bad habit, the dogs themselves would attack the sheep, behaving like wolves instead of dogs.”

“That would be terrible,” he said. “How could it not?” [416b]

“Then we must take every precaution that our auxiliaries do not behave this way toward their fellow citizens, since they are stronger than they are, and become savage masters instead of kindly allies.”

“We must,” he said.

“And would they not have the greatest protection against this if they had truly been well educated?”

“But they have been,” he said.

And I said, “That is more than we can confidently claim, my dear Glaucon. What we can claim is what we said just now: [416c] they must receive the right education, whatever it is, if they are to gain what matters most for being gentle both to one another and to those under their protection.”

“Quite right,” he said.

“Besides this education, any sensible person would say that their dwellings and all their other possessions must be arranged so as neither to stop them from being the best guardians possible [416d] nor to tempt them to harm their fellow citizens.”

“And rightly so,” he said.

“Consider, then,” I said, “whether, if they are to be such people, they should live and be housed in this way. First, none of them shall possess any private property unless it is strictly necessary. Next, none shall have any dwelling or storehouse to which anyone who wishes cannot enter. The necessities required by men who are temperate and [416e] brave athletes of war they shall receive from the other citizens as wages for their guardianship, in an amount sufficient for the year, neither too much nor too little. They shall eat at common messes and live together as in a camp. As for gold and silver, we shall tell them that they always carry divine gold and silver from the gods within their souls, and have no need of human gold and silver. It is not holy to defile possession of the former by mingling it with possession of mortal gold: many impieties have arisen around [417a] the coinage used by most people, whereas the gold within them is pure. They alone among the city's people are therefore forbidden to handle or touch gold or silver, to come under the same roof with it, to wear it, or to drink from vessels of gold or silver. In this way they would preserve themselves and preserve the city. But the moment they acquire private land, houses, and money, they will become householders and farmers instead of guardians, and hostile masters instead of allies to the other citizens. [417b] Hating and hated, plotting against others and themselves the targets of plots, they will spend their entire lives fearing their enemies within far more than those outside, racing then, themselves and the rest of the city, toward imminent ruin. For all these reasons,” I said, “shall we declare that the guardians must be provided with housing and the other things in this way, and shall we make it law, or not?”

“Most certainly,” said Glaucon.

### Book IV, 419–427

[419a] Adeimantus broke in. “What answer will you make, Socrates, if someone says that you are hardly making these men happy, and that through their own doing? The city is truly theirs, yet they enjoy none of its blessings. Others own fields and build fine, spacious houses, furnish them as befits such houses, offer private sacrifices to the gods, entertain guests, and indeed possess what you mentioned just now—gold and silver and everything thought to belong to people destined for happiness. But these men, he might say, appear to sit in the city like hired auxiliaries, [420a] doing nothing but standing guard.”

“Yes,” I said, “and they receive their meals, but no wages besides their food, as the others do. So they cannot go abroad on private business even if they wish, or give money to courtesans, or spend it wherever else they like, as those who are thought happy spend theirs. You are leaving these and many like them out of the indictment.”

“Then let them be included in the indictment,” he said. [420b] “What answer shall we make, then?”

“Yes.”

“If we follow the same road,” I said, “I think we shall find what to say. We shall say that it would be no surprise if these men were the happiest of all even as they are. But we are founding our city with our eyes not on making one class exceptionally happy but on making the whole city as happy as possible. For we thought that in such a city we should most readily find justice, and in the worst-governed city [420c] injustice; by seeing both we might decide the question we have long been pursuing. At present, then, we believe we are shaping a happy city, not by setting a few people apart and making them happy in it, but by making the whole city happy. Presently we shall examine its opposite. Suppose we were painting a statue, and someone approached to reproach us for not applying the most beautiful colors to the most beautiful parts of the figure: its eyes, the most beautiful part, had been painted not purple but black. We might reasonably [420d] answer him this way: ‘My good man, do not imagine we should paint the eyes so beautifully that they cease to look like eyes—or do the same to the other parts. Look instead at whether, by giving each its proper color, we make the whole beautiful.’ So now, too, do not compel us to attach such happiness to the guardians that it would make them anything [420e] rather than guardians. We know how to dress the farmers in splendid robes and deck them with gold, and then tell them to till the land for their pleasure; how to lay the potters on couches beside the fire, drinking and feasting, with the wheel close by so they can make pots whenever they please; and how to make everyone else happy in the same fashion, so that the entire city may flourish. But do not give us such advice: if we followed it, the farmer would no longer be a farmer, [421a] the potter no longer a potter, and no one would retain any of the roles that make a city. The others matter less: if cobblers grow worthless and corrupt and pretend to be cobblers when they are not, that is no disaster for the city. But when the guardians of its laws and of the city are guardians in appearance only, you can see that they destroy the whole city outright; and they alone have the opportunity to govern it well and make it happy. If we, then, are making true guardians, [421b] the least likely of all to harm the city, while our critic is speaking of farmers of a kind, happy hosts at a festival rather than citizens of a city, he must be speaking of something other than a city. We must therefore consider whether, when establishing the guardians, our aim is to secure them the greatest possible happiness, or whether we should look to the city as a whole to see if happiness arises there, while compelling and persuading these auxiliaries and [421c] guardians to become the finest craftsmen at their own work, and all the others to do likewise. Then, as the whole city grows and is well governed, we must let each class share in happiness as its nature allows.”

“I think you speak well,” he said.

“Will you think I speak reasonably of something akin to this?” I asked.

“What is that?” [421d]

“Consider whether these next two things corrupt the other craftsmen and make them bad at their trades.”

“Which things?”

“Wealth,” I said, “and poverty.”

“How?”

“Like this: do you think a potter who becomes rich will still want to attend to his craft?”

“Not at all,” he said.

“And will he become lazier and more careless than he was?”

“Much more.”

“Then he becomes a worse potter?”

“Much worse in that respect too,” he said.

“Again, if poverty leaves him unable to provide tools or anything else his craft requires, the things he makes will be worse, [421e] and he will train his sons or any other apprentices into worse craftsmen.”

“Of course.”

“Both poverty and wealth, then, make the works of the crafts worse, and the craftsmen worse as well.”

“Evidently.”

“So it seems we have discovered two more things that the guardians must keep from slipping into the city unnoticed, by every means in their power.”

“What things?”

[422a] “Wealth and poverty,” I said. “The one breeds luxury, idleness, and a taste for upheaval; the other, servility and poor workmanship, as well as a taste for upheaval.”

“Certainly,” he said. “But consider this, Socrates: how will our city be able to wage war if it has no wealth, especially if it is forced to fight a great and wealthy city?”

“Clearly,” I said, “it will be harder to fight one, [422b] but easier to fight two such cities.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“To begin with,” I said, “if they have to fight, will they not, as trained athletes of war, be fighting rich men?”

“Yes, they will,” he said.

“Now, Adeimantus, would not a single boxer, trained as well as possible for boxing, find it easy to fight two men who are not boxers but are rich and fat?”

“Perhaps not both at once,” he said.

“Not even if he could retreat from the first man who came at him, wheel around to strike him, and do it repeatedly in the hot, stifling sun? [422c] Might a boxer like that not overcome even more such men?”

“He certainly might; that would be no wonder,” he said.

“And do you not think that rich men have more knowledge and experience of boxing than of war?”

“I do,” he said.

“Then, in all likelihood, our athletes will easily fight twice or three times their own number.”

“I grant you that,” he said; “you seem to be right.” [422d]

“And what if they send an embassy to one of the two cities and tell it the truth: ‘We use neither gold nor silver, nor are we permitted to; you are. Fight at our side and take the other city's possessions.’ Do you think anyone hearing this will choose to fight against lean, hardened dogs rather than join those dogs in fighting fat, tender sheep?”

“I think not. But if the wealth of the other cities is gathered into one city,” he said, [422e] “take care that it poses no danger to the city without wealth.”

“How fortunate you are,” I said, “to think any city other than the one we are constructing deserves to be called a city.”

“What else should we call it?” he said.

“We should give the others a grander name,” I said. “Each of them is a great many cities, not a city at all, as the players say. There are at least two, whatever else may be true, at war with each other: [423a] one of the poor and one of the rich. Within each of these are many more. Approach them as one city and you will miss your mark entirely; approach them as many, giving some the money and power of others—or the people themselves—and you will always have many allies and few enemies. As long as your city is governed temperately, as we have just ordained, it will be the greatest city: not greatest in reputation, I mean, but greatest in truth, even if it has only a thousand men to fight for it. For you will not easily find a single city so great among Greeks or barbarians, [423b] though you will find many that seem to be cities many times its size. Do you think otherwise?”

“No, by Zeus,” he said.

“Then this would also be the finest limit for our rulers to observe in deciding how large to make the city, how much territory to set aside for it at that size, and how much to leave alone.”

“What limit?” he asked.

“This, I think,” I said: “let it grow as long as its growth allows it to remain one city, but no further.” [423c]

“And rightly so,” he said.

“Then we shall give the guardians this further instruction: by every means they must see that the city is neither small nor merely great in appearance, but of adequate size and one.”

“That may be an easy instruction for them,” he said.

“Easier still,” I said, “is the one we mentioned before: if a guardian has an inferior child, he must be sent down among the others, while any worthy child born among the others must be brought into the guardians. The point was that each of the other citizens, too, must be directed to the single task for which he is naturally suited, [423d] so that by pursuing his own one work each person may become one, not many, and thus the whole city may grow into one, not many.”

“Yes,” he said, “this is a smaller matter than the other.”

“My dear Adeimantus,” I said, “we are not giving them many great instructions, as someone might suppose. They are all easy, provided the guardians protect the one great thing—or rather, not great but sufficient.” [423e]

“What is that?” he asked.

“Their education and upbringing,” I said. “If they are well educated and become measured men, they will readily see all these things, and others we are now passing over: how to possess women, how to marry and beget children, and how, according to the proverb, all these things should be made as far as possible common among friends.” [424a]

“That would be quite right,” he said.

“Moreover,” I said, “once a constitution starts well, it grows like a rolling circle. Good upbringing and education, when preserved, produce good natures; good natures, receiving such an education in turn, grow even better than those before them, in other respects and in their offspring, as with other animals.” [424b]

“That seems likely,” he said.

“To put it briefly, then, those responsible for the city must hold fast to this, lest its corruption escape them. Above all they must guard against any innovation in gymnastics and music contrary to the established order. They must protect it as far as possible, wary when someone says that people pay the greatest heed to ‘that song which is newest as it passes among the singers,’ lest anyone suppose that the poet means not new songs [424c] but a new way of singing, and praise it. We must neither praise nor accept such a thing. We must beware of changing to a new kind of music, for it puts everything at risk: musical modes are never changed without the greatest laws of the city changing too, as Damon says, and I believe him.”

“Count me among the believers as well,” said Adeimantus. [424d]

“Then it seems the guardians must build their watchpost here, in music,” I said.

“At least lawlessness can easily slip in this way unnoticed,” he said.

“Yes,” I said, “because it seems a kind of play, doing no harm.”

“Nor does it do anything else,” he said, “except settle in little by little and quietly seep into habits and practices. From these it spills over more boldly into people's dealings with one another; then, from those dealings, it advances [424e] against the laws and constitutions with great insolence, Socrates, until at last it overturns everything, private and public.”

“Well,” I said, “is that how it is?”

“So I think,” he said.

“Then, as we said from the outset, our children must take part from the beginning in play that obeys the law. If play becomes lawless, and children with it, it is impossible for law-abiding and serious adults [425a] to grow out of them.”

“Of course,” he said.

“So when children begin by playing well and absorb respect for law through music, the opposite happens to what happens in those other cases: it accompanies them into everything as they grow, restoring even what had earlier gone wrong in the city.”

“True indeed,” he said.

“And they discover even the seemingly minor customs,” I said, “which the others had lost altogether.”

“Which customs?” [425b]

“Such things as young people keeping properly silent before their elders, giving up seats and rising before them, honoring parents, and observing the rules for haircuts, clothing, shoes, their whole bearing, and all things of the kind. Do you agree?”

“I do.”

“But I think it foolish to legislate these things. They do not arise from laws laid down in speech or writing, and such laws could not keep them in place.”

“How could they?”

“It seems, Adeimantus,” I said, “that wherever a person's education sets him on his way, [425c] everything that follows takes the same direction. Does not like always call to like?”

“Certainly.”

“And in the end, I think, we should say that this comes to full fruition as something vigorous, whether good or its opposite.”

“Of course,” he said.

“That is why,” I said, “I would not attempt any further legislation on such matters.”

“Reasonably so,” he said.

“But in the gods' name,” I said, “what about these matters of the marketplace: the contracts people make with one another there, [425d] or, if you wish, agreements with craftsmen; matters of insult and assault, filing lawsuits and appointing juries, and any necessary assessment, collection, or imposition of dues in marketplaces or harbors; and in general all rules governing markets, the city, harbors, and anything else of that sort? Shall we venture to legislate for any of these?”

“It is not worth prescribing them for honorable men,” he said. [425e] “They will easily discover for themselves most of the rules that need to be made.”

“Yes, my friend,” I said, “provided a god grants them preservation of the laws we described earlier.”

“Otherwise,” he said, “they will spend their lives laying down and revising countless such rules, forever expecting to arrive at the best.”

“You mean they will live,” I said, “like invalids who, through lack of self-control, refuse to give up a harmful way of life.”

“Precisely.”

[426a] “And they lead a charming life, to be sure. Their treatment achieves nothing except to multiply and enlarge their illnesses, while they are always hoping that some medicine recommended to them will make them healthy.”

“Yes,” he said, “those are just the ailments of people who are ill in that way.”

“And is it not charming,” I asked, “that they regard as their worst enemy the man who tells them the truth: until they stop drinking, gorging themselves, indulging their sexual appetites, and doing no work, [426b] neither medicines nor cauterizing nor cutting, nor incantations nor amulets nor anything else of the kind will do them any good?”

“Not very charming,” he said. “There is no charm in being angry with someone who gives good advice.”

“You do not seem an admirer of such men,” I said.

“Certainly not, by Zeus.”

“Then you will not praise the city as a whole if it acts as we were just saying. Do not the badly governed cities do the same thing when they forbid their citizens to disturb the constitution as a whole, on pain of death for anyone who does, [426c] yet regard as a good man, profoundly wise and worthy of honor, whoever serves and flatters them most agreeably in their present way of governing, runs to do their bidding, anticipates their wishes, and proves skillful in fulfilling them?”

“They do exactly the same thing, I think,” he said, “and I do not praise them in the least.” [426d]

“And those who are eager and willing to serve such cities—do you not admire their courage and readiness?”

“I do,” he said, “except for those who are deceived by the cities into thinking themselves genuine statesmen because the multitude praises them.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “Can you not forgive these men? Do you think a man unable to measure would fail to believe himself four cubits tall if a great many others, no better able to measure, [426e] told him he was?”

“No,” he said, “not in that case.”

“Then do not be angry. Such men are the most charming of all: they make and revise laws of the sort we just discussed, always thinking they will find some end to abuses in contracts and the other matters I mentioned, unaware that they are really cutting the Hydra to pieces.”

[427a] “That is just what they are doing,” he said.

“For my part,” I said, “I should think that a true lawgiver ought not to occupy himself with this kind of legislation or constitution, whether in a badly or a well-governed city. In the former it is useless and achieves nothing; in the latter anyone could discover some of the necessary rules, and the rest will arise of themselves from the practices already established.” [427b]

“What, then,” he asked, “remains for us to legislate?”

“Nothing for us,” I said, “but for Apollo at Delphi, the greatest, finest, and first of the ordinances.”

“Which ones?” he asked.

“The founding of temples, sacrifices, and the other services owed to gods, divine beings, and heroes; also the burial of the dead and all the rites that must be performed to win the favor of those in the world beyond. We have no knowledge of these things, and if we have any sense, in founding a city [427c] we shall follow no guide other than the ancestral one. For surely this god is the ancestral guide for all human beings in such matters, giving his guidance as he sits at the navel [in the center] of the earth.”

“You speak well,” he said, “and so we must do.”

“So now your city is founded, son of Ariston,” I said. [427d] “Next, find yourself enough light from somewhere and look inside it; enlist your brother, Polemarchus, and the others too, and see if we can discover where justice and injustice lie, how they differ from each other, and which a person who is to be happy must possess, whether or not he escapes the notice of all gods and human beings.”

“That will not do,” said Glaucon. “You promised to make the search yourself, because it would be a sin for you not to come to the aid of justice with every means in your power.” [427e]

“You remind me truly,” I said, “and that is what I must do. But you too must help.”

“We shall,” he said.

“Then I hope to find it this way,” I said. “I think our city, if we have founded it correctly, is wholly good.”

“It must be,” he said.

“Clearly, then, it is wise, brave, temperate, and just.”

“Clearly.”

“So when we find some of these qualities in it, the remainder will be what we have not yet found?”

### Book IV, 428–435

[428a] “Of course.”

“Suppose we were looking for one out of four things in anything at all. If we recognized the one we sought first, that would satisfy us; but if we recognized the other three first, that very fact would reveal what we sought, for clearly it could only be the one left over.”

“You are right,” he said.

“Since these qualities also happen to be four, should we not look for them in the same way?”

“Clearly.”

“The first thing I can see plainly in our city [428b] is wisdom; though there is something curious about it.”

“What is that?” he asked.

“I think the city we have described really is wise: it is well advised, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“And good counsel is evidently a kind of knowledge. People take sound counsel not through ignorance, surely, but through knowledge.”

“Clearly.”

“Yet there are many different kinds of knowledge in the city.”

“Of course.”

“Should we call the city wise and well advised because its carpenters possess knowledge?” [428c]

“Not on that account,” he said. “That would make it skilled at carpentry.”

“Then the knowledge that tells us how best to make wooden furnishings is not what entitles a city to be called wise.”

“No.”

“What about the knowledge of working in bronze, or any other such craft?”

“Not one of them,” he said.

“Nor the knowledge of producing crops from the earth; that would make it skilled at farming.”

“So it seems to me.”

“Well then,” I said, “is there among some of the citizens of the city we have just founded a kind of knowledge by which it takes counsel not about any one thing [428d] within it, but about itself as a whole: how best to conduct its affairs both at home and with other cities?”

“There is indeed.”

“What knowledge is it,” I asked, “and who possesses it?”

“It is the guardians' knowledge,” he said, “and is found among those rulers whom we just called guardians in the full sense.”

“Because of this knowledge, then, what name do you give the city?”

“Well advised,” he said, “and truly wise.”

“Do you think our city will contain more smiths [428e] than guardians of this true kind?”

“Far more smiths,” he said.

“And compared with all the others who bear the name of some craft whose knowledge they possess, will these guardians not be the fewest?”

“By far.”

“Thus a city founded according to nature is wise as a whole by virtue of its smallest class and part, and of the knowledge residing there, in the part that leads and rules. And this class, it seems, is by nature [429a] the smallest—the one whose share is the only kind of knowledge that deserves, above all other kinds, to be called wisdom.”

“What you say is entirely true,” he said.

“So, somehow or other, we have found one of the four qualities, both the thing itself and its place in the city.”

“I think we have found it quite adequately,” he said.

“Now courage itself, and the part of the city where it resides that causes us to call the city courageous, are not very hard to see.”

“How so?” [429b]

“What part other than that which fights in the front ranks and goes to war on its behalf would anyone look at in calling a city cowardly or courageous?” I asked.

“No one would look anywhere else,” he said.

“For I do not think that the courage or cowardice of its other inhabitants determines whether the city is one or the other.”

“No.”

“Then a city is courageous through one part of itself: that part possesses a power to preserve, through everything, the belief about what things are to be feared and what they are like, as the lawgiver laid down [429c] in the course of their education. Is this not what you call courage?”

“I did not quite understand what you said,” he replied. “Tell me again.”

“I mean,” I said, “that courage is a kind of preservation.”

“What kind?”

“Preservation of the belief about what things are to be feared and what they are like, a belief instilled by the law through education. When I said ‘through everything,’ I meant keeping it intact through pain [429d] and pleasure, through desire and fear, without casting it away. If you like, I will give you an image of what I think it resembles.”

“I would like that.”

“You know,” I said, “that when dyers want to dye wool purple, they first select one kind from among so many colors, the white wool, then prepare it with no little care to take the dye as fully as possible, and only then dye it. [429e] Wool dyed in this way becomes colorfast: washing cannot strip the color from it, with soap or without it. But you know what happens to wool dyed otherwise, whether it is another color or even white wool that has not been prepared beforehand.”

“I know,” he said. “The color washes out and the result is ridiculous.”

“Then understand us to have been doing something like that as far as we could when we selected our soldiers and [430a] educated them in music and gymnastics. Do not suppose that our aim was anything but to make them receive the laws, through conviction, as beautifully as possible, like dye, so that their beliefs about what is to be feared and about other matters would be colorfast, owing to the fitness of their nature and upbringing. We did not want that dye washed out by these solvents, formidable at stripping color: pleasure, more potent in this respect than any alkali or lye, [430b] and pain, fear, and desire, more potent than any other solvent. This power, then, to preserve through everything a right and lawful belief concerning what is and is not to be feared is what I call courage, unless you have some other account.”

“I have none,” he said. “For I take it you do not regard as truly lawful a correct belief about these same things acquired without education, such as a beast or a slave might have, and you call it something other than courage.” [430c]

“Entirely true,” I said.

“Then I accept this as courage.”

“Accept it as civic courage,” I said, “and you will be right. We can examine it more thoroughly another time, if you wish. At present we are seeking not courage but justice; for that search, I think, we have done enough.”

“You speak well,” he said.

“Two things remain for us to discern in the city,” I said: [430d] “temperance, and the thing for whose sake we have been seeking everything else, justice.”

“Certainly.”

“How, then, could we find justice without taking any more trouble over temperance?”

“I neither know,” he said, “nor would I wish justice to come into view first if that meant we would no longer examine temperance. If you want to please me, consider temperance before justice.” [430e]

“I do want to,” I said, “if that is no injustice.”

“Consider it, then,” he said.

“We must,” I said. “As seen from here, it resembles a kind of accord and harmony more than the others do.”

“How?”

“Temperance is surely a kind of order, and mastery of certain pleasures and desires. People speak of a man as ‘master of himself,’ though I do not know quite how, and use other such phrases as traces of it. Is that not so?”

“Precisely,” he said.

“But is ‘master of himself’ not an absurd phrase? Whoever is master of himself would also be his own subject, and whoever is subject his own master: [431a] it is the same man described in every case.”

“Of course.”

“Yet this phrase seems to me to mean that within a person's soul there is a better element and a worse one. When what is better by nature masters what is worse, we call the person ‘master of himself’—a term of praise, at least. But when, through bad upbringing or bad company, the better, being smaller, is mastered by the mass of the worse, [431b] we censure this as a disgrace, calling someone in that condition ‘subject to himself’ and undisciplined.”

“That seems right,” he said.

“Now look at our new city,” I said, “and you will find one of those two conditions in it. You will rightly call it master of itself, if a thing in which the better rules the worse may be called temperate and master of itself.”

“I look at it,” he said, “and you are right.”

“You will find many varied desires, [431c] pleasures, and pains chiefly in children and women and household servants, and among the many ordinary people who are called free.”

“Certainly.”

“But the simple and measured desires, guided by reason and true belief with understanding, you will meet in the few who are best endowed by nature and best educated.”

“True,” he said.

“Do you not see these things in your city, too? There, the desires of the many and less worthy [431d] are mastered by the desires and wisdom of the fewer and better.”

“I do,” he said.

“Then if any city deserves to be called master of its pleasures and desires, and of itself, this one does.”

“Absolutely,” he said.

“And temperate too, for all these reasons?”

“Indeed,” he said.

“And if there is any other city in which the rulers and the ruled hold the same belief [431e] about who ought to rule, ours will have that quality as well. Do you agree?”

“Emphatically,” he said.

“When they hold this belief, in which citizens will you say temperance resides: the rulers or the ruled?”

“In both, I suppose,” he said.

“Do you see, then,” I asked, “that our guess just now was fair, when we likened temperance to a kind of harmony?”

“Why?”

“Because unlike courage and wisdom, each of which resides in one part [432a] and makes the city courageous or wise, temperance does not work like that. It stretches through the whole city, like a harmony across the entire scale, making the weakest sing in accord with the strongest and those in between: whether you measure them by understanding, strength, number, wealth, or anything else of that sort. Thus we would be exactly right to call this agreement temperance: a natural accord between the worse and the better over which should rule, both in the city and in each individual.” [432b]

“I agree entirely,” he said.

“Well,” I said, “as far as appearances allow us to judge, we have now detected three qualities in the city. What remains, the quality by which the city would still partake of virtue—what could that be? Clearly, it is justice.”

“Clearly.”

“Now, Glaucon, we must station ourselves around the thicket like hunters, alert lest justice slip away somewhere and vanish from sight. [432c] It is plainly somewhere near. Look, then, and do your best to catch sight of it; perhaps you will see it before I do and point it out to me.”

“If only I could,” he said. “But if you use me as a follower who can see what you show him, you will make better use of me.”

“Follow me, then,” I said, “after joining me in prayer.”

“I will, but you must lead,” he said.

“The ground seems hard to cross,” I said, “and shadowed. It is dark, at any rate, and difficult to search. Still, we must go on.” [432d]

“We must,” he said.

Catching sight of something, I said, “Look, look, Glaucon! I think we have found a track, and I do not believe it will escape us after all.”

“Good news,” he said.

“But what a foolish thing we have done,” I said.

“What thing?”

“It has apparently been rolling at our feet from the very beginning, my friend, and we never saw it. We were utterly ridiculous: like people who sometimes look for the thing they are holding in their hands, [432e] we failed to look at the thing itself and gazed away into the distance. That perhaps is why we missed it.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“I mean,” I said, “that for a long time we seem to have been speaking of it and hearing of it, without realizing that, in a way, it was what we were speaking of.”

“That is a long prelude for someone eager to hear,” he said.

[433a] “Then listen and see whether I have something to say,” I replied. “What we laid down from the beginning as a rule to be followed throughout, when we were founding the city, is, I think, justice—or some form of it. We laid down, and often repeated, if you remember, that each individual must practice one of the city's occupations, the one for which his nature is best suited.”

“We did.”

“And we have heard from many others, and often said ourselves, that doing one's own work and not meddling in many things is justice.” [433b]

“We have.”

“Then this, my friend, seems in some way to be justice, when it comes into being: doing one's own work. Do you know what leads me to think so?”

“No; tell me,” he said.

“I think,” I said, “that what is left in the city after the things we have examined—temperance, courage, and wisdom—is what gave them all the power to come into being, and, once they had come into being, preserves them as long as it remains. And yet we said that justice would be [433c] what remained if we found the other three.”

“That must be so,” he said.

“Moreover,” I said, “if we had to judge which of these qualities, by its presence, would do most to make our city good, it would be hard to decide. Is it the shared conviction of rulers and ruled? The preservation among soldiers of the lawful belief about which things are to be feared and which are not? Or the [433d] understanding and vigilance present in the rulers? Or does the greatest good come from something present in child and woman, slave and free person, craftsman and ruler and subject alike: that each one did his own work, remaining one person and not meddling in many things?”

“It would be hard to decide,” he said. “Of course it would.”

“Then it seems that the power of each person in the city to do his own work competes with its wisdom, temperance, and courage in making the city virtuous.”

“Indeed it does,” he said.

“And would you not say that the thing that competes with those for the city's virtue is justice?” [433e]

“Absolutely.”

“Consider another way of looking at it, and see whether you still agree. Will you assign judgment in lawsuits in the city to its rulers?”

“Of course.”

“And in their judgments, will they seek anything more than to ensure that no one has what belongs to another, or is deprived of what belongs to himself?”

“No, that is what they will seek.”

“Because it is just?”

“Yes.”

“Then we might agree that justice also consists, in a way, in having and [434a] doing what is properly one's own.”

“That is so.”

“Now see if you agree with me here. Suppose a carpenter tries to do a cobbler's work, or a cobbler a carpenter's, and they exchange each other's tools or honors, or one man tries to do both trades. Do you think all these changes would do the city any great harm?”

“Not much,” he said.

“But when a craftsman, or anyone else naturally fitted to make money, [434b] is inflated by wealth, numbers, strength, or some other such advantage and tries to enter the warrior class, or when a warrior tries, without being fit, to enter the class of counselors and guardians, and they exchange their tools and honors—or one person tries to do all these things at once—then I think you too will agree that this exchange of roles and this meddling in many things spell ruin for the city.”

“Absolutely.”

“So when there are three classes, their meddling in one another's work and changing places with one another [434c] do the greatest harm to the city, and would most rightly be called its worst offense.”

“Certainly.”

“And would you not call the greatest offense against one's own city injustice?”

“Of course.”

“So that is injustice. Let us put it this way in turn: when the class of those who earn wealth, the class of auxiliaries, and the class of guardians each tend to their own work within the city, this is the opposite of that offense. Would it be justice, and would it make the city just?” [434d]

“I can see no other way it could be,” he said.

“Let us not state it too firmly just yet,” I said. “If we find that this quality, when present in each individual person, is also justice there, then we will agree—for what else could we say? If not, we will examine something else. For now let us finish the inquiry we undertook when we thought that, if we tried first to see justice in something larger that possessed it, we might more easily discern what it is in an individual. [434e] We decided that the larger thing was a city, and so we founded the best city we could, knowing well that justice would be present in a good city. Let us carry over to the individual what we discovered there; if the two agree, all will be well. If something different appears in the individual, we shall return to the city and test our finding, and [435a] perhaps, by considering the two side by side and rubbing them together like fire-sticks, we will make justice flash forth. When it comes to light, we shall establish it firmly for ourselves.”

“What you say follows the right path,” he said. “We must proceed that way.”

“Now if a person calls a greater thing and a smaller thing by the same name, are they unlike in the respect in which they bear that same name, or alike?”

“Alike,” he said. [435b]

“So a just man, in the very form of justice, will not differ from a just city but will resemble it.”

“He will resemble it,” he said.

“And the city seemed just when the three kinds of nature within it each did their own work. It seemed temperate, courageous, and wise in turn because of certain other conditions and dispositions of these same classes.”

“True,” he said.

“Then, my friend, we shall expect the same of the individual: if he has those same kinds within his soul, [435c] the same conditions will rightly entitle him to the same names as the city.”

“Necessarily,” he said.

“Yet again, my remarkable friend,” I said, “we have stumbled on no easy question about the soul: whether it contains these three kinds or not.”

“It seems no easy question to me,” he said. “Perhaps, Socrates, the saying is true: beautiful things are difficult.”

“So it seems,” I said. “And you may be sure, Glaucon, that in my opinion the precise answer will never be grasped through methods like those we are now using in our discussion. [435d] Another road, longer and more demanding, leads to it. Still, perhaps we can reach an answer worthy of what we have said and examined so far.”

“Would that not satisfy us?” he asked. “For the present it would certainly be enough for me.”

“It will be quite enough for me too,” I said.

“Then do not give up,” he said. “Examine it.” [435e]

“Must we not agree,” I asked, “that the same kinds and dispositions are present in each one of us as in the city? They surely cannot have arrived there from anywhere else. It would be absurd to suppose that the spirited character in cities did not come from the individuals who bear that reputation—people in Thrace and Scythia and more or less throughout the northern region—or that the love of learning, which one might attribute to our own”

### Book IV, 436–442

[436a] “One might chiefly attribute it to the region, or say that the love of money is found especially among the Phoenicians and the people of Egypt.”
“Certainly,” he said.
“That much is so,” I said, “and not hard to recognize.”
“Not at all.”
“But here is a harder question: do we perform each of these things by the same part of ourselves, or, since there are three, each by a different part? Do we learn with one part, feel anger with another, and with a third desire the pleasures of food and procreation and everything [436b] akin to them? Or do we act with the whole soul in each case, whenever we are moved to act? These are the distinctions that will be hard to draw adequately.”
“I think so too,” he said.
“Then let us try this way to determine whether these parts are the same as one another or different.”
“How?”
“It is clear that the same thing will not consent to do or undergo opposites at the same time, in the same respect and in relation to the same thing. So if we find these opposites taking place among them, we shall know that it was not one [436c] thing but more than one.”
“Very well.”
“Consider what I mean.”
“Speak,” he said.
“Is it possible,” I said, “for the same thing to stand still and move at once in the same respect?”
“Not at all.”
“Let us agree more precisely, then, so that we do not dispute the matter as we go on. If someone said that a man who stands still while moving his hands and head is both standing still and moving at once, we would not, I think, accept [436d] that way of speaking. We would say instead that one part of him stands still and another moves. Would we not?”
“We would.”
“And if our speaker grew more ingenious still, making the clever claim that whole spinning tops both stand still and move when they turn with their points fixed in the same spot, or that anything else revolving in a circle on the same base does this, we would not accept it. Such things are not still and moving in the same respects [436e] within themselves. We would say that they have both a straight axis and a circumference, and that in respect of the straight axis they stand still—for it inclines in no direction—while in respect of the circumference they move in a circle. But when the axis tilts to the right or left, forward or backward, as the top turns, then it is not standing still in any respect.”
“And rightly so,” he said.
“Nothing said along these lines, then, will startle us or persuade us in the least that the same thing could ever at once, in the same respect and in relation [437a] to the same thing, undergo opposites, or be opposites, or do opposite things.”
“It certainly will not persuade me,” he said.
“Still,” I said, “so that we need not lengthen our inquiry by taking up every such objection and proving it false, let us assume that this is so and go forward. But let us agree that if these things ever appear otherwise, all our conclusions drawn from this premise will be undone.”
“Yes,” he said, “that is what we should do.” [437b]
“Would you then,” I said, “class nodding assent and shaking the head in denial, reaching to take something and refusing it, drawing something toward oneself and pushing it away—all such things—among opposites of one another, whether as actions or as experiences? That distinction makes no difference here.”
“Yes,” he said, “among opposites.”
“What, then?” I said. “Thirst and hunger and desires in general, and again willingness and wishing: would you not place all these [437c] among the kinds we just named? Would you not say that the soul of one who desires always reaches toward the thing it desires, or draws toward itself what it wishes to have, or again, insofar as it wills that something be provided, assents to it within itself as if answering a question, longing for it to come about?”
“I would.”
“And unwillingness, refusal, and lack of desire—shall we not place these with repelling and driving away from oneself, and with everything opposed to those other things?” [437d]
“How could we not?”
“Since this is so, shall we say that there is a kind called desire, and that the clearest instances of it are what we call thirst and hunger?”
“We shall,” he said.
“One is for drink, the other for food?”
“Yes.”
“Then insofar as thirst is thirst, is it a desire in the soul for anything beyond what we have said? Is thirst, for example, thirst for hot drink or cold, for much or little, or, in a word, for some particular kind of drink? Or, if heat is present [437e] along with thirst, does that addition produce desire for cold drink, and cold the desire for hot? If the thirst is great because of the presence of a great amount, will it produce desire for much drink, and if slight, for little? But thirst itself can never be desire for anything but what it naturally seeks, drink itself; and hunger, likewise, for food?”
“Yes,” he said. “Each desire in itself is only for that which it naturally seeks; its being for this or that kind of thing comes from what is added to it.”

[438a] “We must not let anyone unsettle us while we are off our guard by saying that no one desires drink but good drink, or food but good food. For everyone, it is claimed, desires good things; so, if thirst is a desire, it must be for something good, whether drink or whatever else its object may be, and the other desires likewise.”
“Perhaps,” he said, “the person saying this might seem to have a point.”
“Yet,” I said, “of all things that are related [438b] to something else, some, I think, are qualified in a certain way and related to something qualified; but each thing simply itself is related only to the thing simply itself.”
“I did not understand,” he said.
“Do you not understand,” I said, “that greater is the sort of thing that is greater than something?”
“Certainly.”
“Than something less?”
“Yes.”
“And much greater than something much less. Is that so?”
“Yes.”
“And what was once greater than what was once less, and what will be greater than what will be less?”
“Of course,” he said. [438c]
“And more is related to fewer, double to half, and all such things likewise; heavier to lighter, faster to slower, and hot to cold, and all things of this sort—is that not how it is?”
“Indeed it is.”
“And what of the branches of knowledge? Is the principle not the same? Knowledge itself is knowledge of what can be learned itself, or whatever it is we ought to call its object; but knowledge of a certain kind [438d] is knowledge of an object of a certain kind. Here is what I mean: when there came to be a knowledge of constructing houses, was it not distinguished from other kinds of knowledge, and so named building?”
“Of course.”
“Was that not because it was of a particular kind, unlike any of the others?”
“Yes.”
“Then was it not because its object was of a particular kind that it too became a particular kind? And is it not the same with the other arts and branches of knowledge?”
“It is.”
“Then take this,” I said, “as what I meant, if you understand now: of all things related to something, each thing itself is related simply to its object itself, while a thing qualified in some way is related to an object qualified in some way. [438e] I am not saying that knowledge becomes like the things it knows, so that knowledge of healthy and sick things is healthy and sick, or knowledge of good and bad things good and bad. Rather, because this knowledge came to be not of knowledge's object simply, but of an object of a particular kind—the healthy and the sick—it too became a particular kind. This is why it is no longer called simply knowledge, but, with its particular object added, medicine.”
“I understand,” he said, “and it seems to me to be so.”

[439a] “And thirst,” I said, “would you not place it among things that are related to something? For thirst is surely thirst—”
“Yes,” he said, “for drink.”
“Then a particular kind of thirst is for a particular kind of drink. But thirst itself is neither for much nor little, good nor bad, nor, in short, any particular kind of drink: thirst itself is by nature for drink itself alone?”
“Absolutely.”
“So the soul of a thirsty person, insofar as it is thirsty, wishes for nothing [439b] but to drink; it reaches for that and moves toward it.”
“Clearly.”
“Then if anything pulls it back when it is thirsty, there must be something else in it besides what thirsts and drives it like a beast toward drinking. For we say that the same thing cannot at the same time, with the same part of itself and in relation to the same thing, perform opposites.”
“Certainly not.”
“It would be wrong, I think, to say that an archer's hands are at once pushing the bow away and drawing it toward him. Rather, one hand pushes and the other draws.” [439c]
“Absolutely,” he said.
“Shall we say, then, that there are people who are thirsty but sometimes unwilling to drink?”
“Yes indeed,” he said, “many people, and often.”
“What should one say about them?” I asked. “Is there not in their souls something bidding them drink, but also something restraining them, distinct from and stronger than what bids them?”
“I think so,” he said.
“And does not what restrains them in such cases arise, when it arises, from calculation, while what leads and draws them comes from feelings and diseases?” [439d]
“So it appears.”
“It will not be unreasonable, then,” I said, “to consider them two distinct things, calling the part of the soul with which it calculates the rational part, and the part with which it loves, hungers, thirsts, and flutters after the other desires the irrational and appetitive part, companion of certain satisfactions and pleasures.” [439e]
“No,” he said, “we should be right to think of them that way.”
“Let these two kinds within the soul be distinguished, then,” I said. “But what about spirit, the part by which we feel anger? Is it a third, or akin in nature to one of these two?”
“Perhaps,” he said, “to the latter, the appetitive part.”
“But I once heard an account,” I said, “that I believe: Leontius son of Aglaion was coming up from Piraeus outside the north wall when he noticed some corpses lying by the executioner. He longed to look at them, yet at the same time felt disgust and turned himself away. For a while he struggled and covered his face; but at last,

[440a] overcome by desire, he forced his eyes wide open, ran toward the corpses, and said, ‘There, you wretches! Feast yourselves on the beautiful sight!’”
“I have heard it too,” he said.
“This story,” I said, “shows that anger sometimes wars against the desires, as one thing against another.”
“It does,” he said.
“And do we not notice in many other cases,” I said, “that when [440b] desires force someone against reason, he reviles himself and grows angry with the thing doing violence within him, and that his spirit, as though in a conflict between two parties, becomes an ally of reason? But I think you would not say you had ever found your spirit joining forces with the desires against reason's judgment that they must not act; nor, I think, would you have seen that happen in anyone else.”
“No, by Zeus,” he said. [440c]
“And when a man thinks he has done wrong?” I said. “The nobler he is, is he not the less capable of growing angry, even when hungry or cold or suffering anything of the kind at the hands of someone he believes is acting justly? His spirit, as I say, refuses to rise against that person.”
“True,” he said.
“But when he believes he is being wronged, does not his spirit boil and bristle and fight for what seems just? Enduring hunger and cold and every such hardship, [440d] it prevails and does not desist from its noble efforts until it either wins, dies, or is called back and soothed by the reason within him, as a dog is by its shepherd?”
“Yes,” he said, “it closely resembles what you describe. Indeed, in our city we made the auxiliaries, like dogs, obedient to the rulers, the shepherds of the city.”
“You understand well,” I said, “what I mean. But have you noticed this further point?” [440e]
“What point?”
“That the spirited part now appears to be the opposite of what we thought a moment ago. Then we supposed it was something appetitive; now we say it is far from that: in the civil war of the soul it takes up arms much more readily on the side of reason.”
“Certainly,” he said.
“Is it then distinct from reason too, or a kind of reason, so that the soul contains not three kinds but two, the rational and the appetitive? Or, just as three classes held the city together—the money-making, the auxiliary, and the deliberative—so is there a third part in the soul,

[441a] the spirited, by nature an auxiliary to reason unless corrupted by bad upbringing?”
“It must be a third,” he said.
“Yes,” I said, “provided it proves distinct from the rational part, just as it proved distinct from the appetitive.”
“That is not hard to show,” he said. “One can see it even in children: they are full of spirit from the moment they are born, but some, it seems to me, never attain reason, [441b] and most do so only late.”
“By Zeus, well said,” I replied. “And in animals too one can see that what you say is true. Besides, there is the testimony of Homer's line we quoted before: ‘He struck his breast and rebuked his heart with words.’ For here Homer clearly makes the part that has reckoned what is better and worse [441c] rebuke another part, which is angry without reckoning.”
“You are entirely right,” he said.
“So,” I said, “with difficulty we have swum through this question, and reached a fair agreement that the same kinds are present in the city and in each individual soul, and that their number is the same.”
“That is so.”
“Then it must follow that an individual is wise in the same way and by the same part as the city was wise.”
“Of course.” [441d]
“And that by the same part and in the same manner in which an individual is courageous, the city too is courageous; and that in all else concerning virtue they stand alike?”
“Necessarily.”
“And so, Glaucon, I think we shall say that a man is just in the very way the city was just.”
“That too necessarily follows.”
“But we have not forgotten that the city was just because each of its three classes did its own work.”
“I do not think we have forgotten,” he said.
“Then we must remember that each of us too will be just, and will do his own work, when each of the parts within him [441e] does its own work.”
“We must indeed remember that,” he said.
“Is it not proper for the rational part to rule, since it is wise and has foresight for the whole soul, and for the spirited part to obey and be its ally?”
“Indeed.”
“And will not the blending of music and physical training, as we said, bring these two into harmony, strengthening and nourishing the one with fine words and learning, relaxing the other with gentle encouragement and taming it with harmony and rhythm?”

[442a] “Certainly,” he said.
“And these two, so nurtured and truly taught and trained in their own work, will stand guard over the appetitive part—the largest part of each person's soul, and by nature the most insatiable for money. They will watch lest it grow great and strong by filling itself with the so-called pleasures of the body, [442b] and, instead of doing its own work, attempt to enslave and rule over what its kind has no right to rule, overturning the whole life of all three.”
“Indeed,” he said.
“And would they not also best defend the entire soul and body against enemies from outside, the one taking counsel and the other fighting in front, following its ruler and executing its decisions through courage?”
“That is so.”
“And I think we call each person courageous by virtue of this part, [442c] when the spirit within him preserves through pains and pleasures reason's commands about what is to be feared and what is not.”
“Right,” he said.
“And wise by virtue of that small part which ruled within him and gave those commands, itself possessing knowledge of what benefits each of the three parts and the whole community they form.”
“Indeed.”
“And temperate through their friendship and accord, when the ruling part and the two ruled parts agree that the rational part should rule, [442d] and do not rise against it?”
“Temperance,” he said, “in city and individual alike, is surely nothing other than this.”
“And just, as we have repeatedly said, he will be by virtue of this and in this way.”
“Necessarily.”
“Well then,” I said, “has our view of justice somehow grown dim? Does it seem to be anything other than what it appeared to be in the city?”
“Not to me,” he said.
“For we could make ourselves entirely certain,” I said, “if any doubt still remains in our souls, by bringing the ordinary cases before it.” [442e]
“What cases?”
“Suppose we had to reach an agreement about that city and a man bred and raised in its likeness. Would such a man, having received a deposit of gold or silver, seem likely to steal it? Who, do you think, would believe that

### Book IV, 443–445

[443a] “he, rather than men who are not of this kind, would do such a thing?”
“No one,” he said.
“Would he not also be far from sacrilege, theft, and betrayal, whether of friends in private life or of cities in public life?”
“Far from them.”
“Nor would he be unfaithful in any way to his oaths or other agreements.”
“How could he be?”
“Adultery, neglect of parents, and failure to honor the gods belong to anyone rather than to such a man.”
“To anyone rather than him,” he said. [443b]
“And is the cause of all this not that each part within him does its own work, whether in ruling or in being ruled?”
“That, and nothing else.”
“Do you still seek justice as anything other than this power, which produces men and cities of this kind?”
“By Zeus, I do not,” he said.
“Then the dream we spoke of has come wholly true: we suspected that, as soon as we began to found our city, some god had led us upon a beginning and a pattern [443c] of justice.”
“Most certainly.”
“And so, Glaucon, what we said about the man born a shoemaker rightly practicing shoemaking and doing nothing else, the carpenter doing carpentry, and the others likewise—this was an image of justice, and that is why it helped us.”
“So it appears.”
“But justice in truth was, it seems, something of this kind: not concerned with the outward performance of one's own work, but with what is [443d] within, with oneself and one's own in the truest sense. The just man does not permit the parts of himself to do one another's work or the kinds within his soul to meddle in one another's affairs. Instead, he sets his own house in order in truth; he rules himself, brings himself into order, becomes his own friend, and harmonizes the three parts, exactly like the three notes marking a harmony—the highest, the lowest, and the middle—and any notes that may lie between. He binds all these together [443e] and becomes entirely one out of many, temperate and in tune. Only then does he act, if he acts at all, whether in acquiring wealth, caring for his body, conducting public affairs, or making private agreements. In all these matters he judges and calls just and noble the action that preserves and helps bring about this disposition, and calls the knowledge that governs such action wisdom; but an action that continually dissolves it he calls unjust, and the belief that governs such action ignorance.

[444a] “Entirely true, Socrates,” he said.
“Very well,” I said. “If we were to say we have found the just man and the just city, and what justice is within them, I do not think we would seem to be lying.”
“By Zeus, we would not,” he said.
“Shall we say it, then?”
“Let us.”
“So be it,” I said. “For next, I think, we must examine injustice.”
“Clearly.” [444b]
“Must it not, in turn, be a kind of civil war among these three parts, a meddling in one another's affairs and doing one another's work, and a rebellion by some part against the soul as a whole, seeking to rule it without right, though its nature is such that it should be a servant to the part whose kind is fit to rule, not to serve? Some such disorder, I think, and the confusion and wandering of these parts, is what we shall call injustice, intemperance, cowardice, ignorance, and, in sum, every kind of vice.”
“Exactly so,” he said. [444c]
“Then,” I said, “what it is to act unjustly and commit injustice, and again to do what is just, must now be plainly evident, if injustice and justice themselves are evident.”
“How so?”
“Because,” I said, “these actions are no different from what produces health and disease in the body: they work in the soul as those things work in the body.”
“In what way?” he said.
“Healthy practices produce health, and unhealthy ones disease.”
“Yes.”
“And just actions produce justice, [444d] while unjust ones produce injustice?”
“Necessarily.”
“And producing health means establishing the parts of the body so that they rule and are ruled by one another according to nature; producing disease means making them rule and be ruled by one another contrary to nature.”
“It does.”
“And likewise,” I said, “producing justice means establishing the parts of the soul so that they rule and are ruled by one another according to nature; producing injustice means making them rule and be ruled contrary to nature?”
“Precisely,” he said.
“So virtue would seem to be a kind of health, beauty, and good condition [444e] of the soul, and vice its disease, ugliness, and weakness.”
“That is so.”
“And do not noble pursuits lead to the attainment of virtue, shameful pursuits to vice?”
“Necessarily.”
“What remains for us to examine now, it seems, is

[445a] whether it is profitable to act justly, pursue what is noble, and be just, whether or not one is known to be so; or to commit injustice and be unjust, so long as one does not pay the penalty or become better through punishment.”
“But Socrates,” he said, “the question now seems ridiculous to me. If the body is so corrupted in its nature that life seems unlivable, even with every kind of food and drink and all wealth and power, can life be livable when the nature of that very part by which we live is thrown into disorder and [445b] corrupted? Could it be livable if a man could do whatever he wished, except the one thing that would free him from vice and injustice and enable him to acquire justice and virtue—now that each of these has been shown to be what we have described?”
“It is ridiculous,” I said. “Yet since we have come this far, we must not weary of seeing as clearly as possible that these things are so.”
“By Zeus,” he said, “this is the last thing we should weary of.” [445c]
“Come then,” I said, “and you will see how many forms vice has, at least those I think worth seeing.”
“I am following,” he said. “Only speak.”
“Indeed,” I said, “now that we have climbed to this lookout in our argument, it seems to me that virtue has one form, while vice has countless forms, four of which are worth noting.”
“What do you mean?” he said.
“There seem to be as many kinds of soul as there are distinct forms of constitution,” I said.
“How many?” [445d]
“Five constitutions,” I said, “and five kinds of soul.”
“Tell me what they are,” he said.
“I say,” I answered, “that the constitution we have described is one kind, though it may bear either of two names. If one man outstanding among the rulers arises, it may be called kingship; if several, aristocracy.”
“True,” he said.
“This, then,” I said, “I count as one form. For whether [445e] several men or one arise to govern, they will change none of the city's laws worth speaking of, if they have received the upbringing and education we have described.”
“That is unlikely,” he said.

### Book V, 449–456

[449a] “Then I call a city and constitution of this kind good and right, and a man of this kind as well. The others I call bad and mistaken, if this one is right—both in the governance of cities and in the formation of the character of individual souls. They fall into four kinds of vice.”

“What kinds?” he asked.

I was about to describe them in sequence, as each seemed to me to [449b] pass into the next. But Polemarchus, who sat a little farther from Adeimantus, stretched out his hand and took hold of his cloak high by the shoulder. He drew Adeimantus toward him, leaned forward himself, and spoke in a low voice. We heard nothing else he said, but we did hear this: “Shall we let him go, then, or what shall we do?”

“Certainly not,” said Adeimantus, now speaking aloud.

“And what is it,” I asked, “that you will not let go?”

“You,” he said. [449c]

“Why, exactly?” I asked.

“You seem to be taking the easy way out,” he said, “and stealing away a whole part of the argument, no small one, to avoid going through it. You thought you could escape notice by saying offhand that, as to women and children, everyone knows that friends will have all things in common.”

“But was I not right, Adeimantus?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “But that ‘right,’ like everything else, needs an account of what form their community will take; there could be many forms. [449d] So do not leave out the one you mean. We have long been waiting, expecting you at some point to mention how children will be conceived and, once born, how they will be raised, and the whole community of women and children that you speak of. We think that whether this is conducted rightly or wrongly makes a great difference to the constitution as a whole. Now that you are turning to another constitution without adequately explaining this one, we have resolved—as you heard— [450a] not to let you go until you have discussed all this as you did the rest.”

“And count me a party to that vote,” said Glaucon.

“Indeed, Socrates,” said Thrasymachus, “you may consider it our unanimous decision.”

“What a thing you have done,” I said, “by laying hold of me! What a vast argument you are setting in motion again about the constitution, as if from the beginning. I was glad to think I had already covered it, and would have been content if someone had accepted things as they were stated then and let them stand. In calling these questions up [450b] now, you do not know what a swarm of arguments you are rousing. I saw it then and passed them by, for fear they would cause a great deal of trouble.”

“What?” said Thrasymachus. “Do you think these men came here now to pour gold, rather than to listen to arguments?”

“Yes,” I said, “but only arguments of a reasonable length.”

“For sensible people, Socrates,” said Glaucon, “a whole lifetime is a reasonable measure for listening to arguments of this kind. Never mind us: do not tire of explaining, as you see fit, the matter we ask about—what community of women and children our guardians are to have, and how the young are to be brought up [450c] in that period between birth and education, which seems the most laborious of all. Try to tell us how it should be managed.”

“It is not easy, my fortunate friend,” I said, “to explain. It raises even more doubts than the matters we discussed before. One may doubt whether the proposals are possible, and even if they were perfectly possible, one would still doubt whether they are best. [450d] That is why I hesitate to touch them, my dear companion, for fear the argument might seem a wishful dream.”

“Do not hesitate,” he said. “Your listeners are neither foolish nor incredulous nor hostile.”

“My excellent friend,” I said, “you say that, I suppose, to encourage me?”

“I do.”

“Then you are doing precisely the opposite,” I said. “If I trusted myself to know what I was saying, the encouragement would be apt: before wise and friendly people, speaking truths one knows about the greatest and [450e] dearest matters is safe and heartening. But to put forth arguments while doubting and searching, as I am doing, [451a] is frightening and precarious—not because I fear making myself ridiculous; that is childish—but because, if I slip from the truth, I shall fall and drag my friends down with me in a matter where a fall is least allowable. I bow before Adrasteia, Glaucon, for what I am about to say. I hope that unintentionally killing someone is a lesser wrong than deceiving anyone about what is fine, good, and just in our institutions. Such a risk is better taken among enemies than [451b] friends. So much for your fine encouragement.”

Glaucon laughed. “But Socrates,” he said, “if we suffer any injury from your argument, we acquit you as we would of a killing: you shall be innocent, and no deceiver of ours. Take heart and speak.”

“Well,” I said, “according to the law a man acquitted of killing is innocent too. If that holds there, it likely holds here as well.”

“Then speak, at least on that account,” he said.

“I must now say in reverse order,” I said, “what perhaps [451c] I should have said in its proper sequence then. But perhaps it is fitting, after bringing the men's drama fully to its end, to bring on the women's drama next, especially since you call for it so insistently. For people born and educated as we have described, there is, to my mind, no right way to possess and employ women and children except by following the course we first set out on. We undertook in our argument, I think, to appoint the men as guardians of a herd.”

“Yes.” [451d]

“Let us follow that course, then, giving them a comparable way of breeding and upbringing, and consider whether it suits us.”

“How?” he asked.

“Like this. Do we think the female guard dogs ought to guard what the males guard, hunt alongside them, and share in all their work? Or should the females stay at home, unable to act because they bear and nurse their puppies, while the males do the work and take all responsibility for the flocks? [451e]”

“Let them share in everything,” he said, “though we employ the females as weaker and the males as stronger.”

“Can one employ an animal for the same tasks,” I asked, “without giving it the same nurture and training?”

“No.”

“If, then, we are to employ women for the same tasks as men, we must teach them the same things.”

[452a] “Yes.”

“And music and physical training were given to the men.”

“Yes.”

“Then women too must be given both these arts, as well as the practice of war, and be employed in the same way.”

“That seems likely, from what you say.”

“Perhaps,” I said, “much of what we are saying would appear ridiculous by present custom if put into practice as proposed.”

“Very much so.”

“And what,” I asked, “seems most ridiculous to you? Plainly it is women exercising naked in the wrestling grounds with [452b] men—not only the young but the older women too, just like the old men at the gymnasiums who, wrinkled and no longer pleasing to the eye, nevertheless love their exercise.”

“By Zeus,” he said, “under present conditions it would certainly look ridiculous.”

“Yet since we have begun this discussion,” I said, “we must not fear the jokes of the wits, whatever they might say about such a change, whether in exercise, [452c] in music, or above all in bearing arms and riding horses.”

“You are right,” he said.

“But now that we have begun, we must press on toward the hardest part of the law, asking those jesters to be serious rather than play their customary part. Let us remind them that not long ago the Greeks thought it shameful and ridiculous for men to be seen naked, as most non-Greeks do now. When first the Cretans, and then the Spartans, began exercising naked, [452d] the wits of the day could make comedy of it all. Do you not think so?”

“I do.”

“But once experience showed, I think, that stripping was better than covering up for all these activities, the ridicule visible to the eyes was swept away by the excellence disclosed in reason. That showed how foolish a person is to consider anything laughable except what is bad, and how a man who sets out to make people laugh, fixing his gaze on any sight but that of folly [452e] and vice as his object of ridicule, takes seriously some standard of beauty other than the good.”

“Quite so,” he said.

“Must we not first agree about this proposal, then—whether it is possible or not—and allow anyone who wants to challenge it, whether in play or in earnest, to dispute whether [453a] the female human nature can share in every task of the male sex, in none at all, or in some but not others? And to which of these does warfare belong? Would that not be the fairest way to begin, and likely to bring us to the fairest conclusion?”

“By far,” he said.

“Then shall we ourselves take the opposing side,” I asked, “on behalf of others, so that their case is not besieged without a defender? [453b]”

“Nothing prevents it.”

“Let us say on their behalf: ‘Socrates and Glaucon, no one else need dispute with you. When you began founding the city you were founding, you agreed that each individual, according to nature, should do the one work proper to him.’”

“We did agree, I think. How could we deny it?”

“‘And does not a woman differ greatly from a man in nature?’”

“Of course she does.”

“‘Then ought not each be assigned different work [453c] appropriate to their own nature?’”

“Certainly.”

“‘How can you fail now, and contradict yourselves by saying that men and women ought to do the same things when their natures are so far apart? What defense can you offer for this, my remarkable friend?’”

“Not an easy one to give on the spot,” he said. “But I shall ask you—I am asking you—to explain the argument in our defense, whatever it may be.”

“These, Glaucon,” I said, “and many other objections [453d] of the kind were what I foresaw long ago. I feared them, and hesitated to touch the law concerning the possession and upbringing of women and children.”

“By Zeus,” he said, “it does not look easy.”

“No,” I said. “But here is the fact: whether a person falls into a little swimming pool or into the middle of the greatest sea, he still has to swim.”

“Certainly.”

“So we too must swim and try to save ourselves from this argument, hoping some dolphin may take us on its back or that some other unlikely rescue may come. [453e]”

“So it seems,” he said.

“Come, then,” I said, “let us see whether we can find a way out. We agree that different natures should undertake different work, and that women and men have different natures; yet we now say that these different natures should undertake the same work. That is the charge against us?”

“Exactly.”

[454a] “How formidable, Glaucon,” I said, “is the power of the art of contradiction!”

“Why?”

“Because,” I said, “many people seem to me to stumble into it without knowing it. They think they are engaging in dialogue, not quarreling, because they cannot examine what is said by dividing it into kinds. Instead they chase after contradictions in the bare words, using contention rather than dialectic with one another.”

“Many people do fall into that condition,” he said. “But is it aimed at us now? [454b]”

“Absolutely,” I said. “We seem to be falling unwittingly into contradiction ourselves.”

“How?”

“We cling to the phrase ‘different natures must not have the same pursuits’ with great boldness and contentiousness, yet we have never examined what kind of sameness or difference of nature we meant, or with reference to what, when we assigned different pursuits to different natures and the same pursuits to the same nature.”

“No,” he said, “we did not examine it. [454c]”

“So it seems we are free to ask ourselves whether bald men and long-haired men have the same nature or opposite natures. And after agreeing that their natures are opposite, if bald men make shoes, we can forbid long-haired men to do so; or if the long-haired make shoes, forbid the others.”

“That would be absurd,” he said.

“Is it absurd,” I asked, “for any reason but this: at that time we did not mean sameness and difference of nature in every respect, but attended only to the kind of difference and likeness [454d] relevant to the pursuits themselves? For example, we said that a man with the aptitude for medicine and a woman with the aptitude for medicine have the same nature in soul. Do you not agree?”

“I do.”

“But someone with an aptitude for medicine and someone with an aptitude for carpentry have different natures?”

“Surely.”

“Then,” I said, “if the male and female sexes appear to differ with regard to some art or other pursuit, we shall say each should be assigned that pursuit accordingly. But if they differ only in that the female bears children [454e] and the male begets them, we shall say that this in no way proves that women and men differ with respect to the matter we are discussing. We shall still believe our male guardians and their women should follow the same pursuits.”

“And rightly,” he said.

“Then next we ask the person who says otherwise [455a] to teach us precisely in what art or pursuit involved in the ordering of a city the nature of woman is not the same as man's, but different.”

“That is fair.”

“Perhaps someone else might say what you said a little while ago: it is not easy to give a satisfactory answer at once, but after consideration it is not difficult.”

“He might.”

“Then shall we ask our opponent to follow along [455b] as we try to show him that there is no pursuit peculiar to women in the government of a city?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“‘Come, answer us,’ we shall say to him. ‘Was this what you meant by saying one person is naturally suited to a task and another unsuited: that one learns something easily and the other with difficulty; that after a little teaching one makes many discoveries in the subject learned, while the other, even after much teaching and practice, cannot retain what was taught; and that for one the body's powers sufficiently serve the mind, while for the other they hinder it? [455c] Are there any qualities other than these by which you distinguish the naturally suited from the unsuited for each task?’”

“No one,” he said, “would name others.”

“Do you know anything practiced by human beings in which the male sex does not possess all these qualities to a greater degree than the female? Need we take the time to speak of weaving, making cakes, and preparing boiled dishes, where the female sex is supposed to excel, and where its defeat would be most laughable of all? [455d]”

“You speak the truth,” he said. “One sex is, broadly speaking, surpassed by the other in everything. Yet many women are better than many men at many things; in general, however, it is as you say.”

“So, my friend, there is no pursuit among those who govern a city that belongs to a woman because she is a woman, or to a man because he is a man. Natural capacities are distributed alike among both creatures, and by nature a woman shares in all pursuits, [455e] as a man does; though in all of them a woman is weaker than a man.”

“Certainly.”

“Shall we then assign everything to men and nothing to women?”

“How could we?”

“For we will say, I think, that one woman has a gift for medicine and another has not, one is musical by nature and another without music.”

“Certainly.”

[456a] “And is not one skilled in exercise and war, while another is unwarlike and has no love of exercise?”

“So I think.”

“What of a lover of wisdom and a hater of it? One has spirit, another none?”

“That too.”

“Then one woman has the nature of a guardian and another does not. Did we not select men with such a nature to be guardians?”

“We did.”

“So a woman and a man may have the same nature for guarding a city, except that the one is weaker and the other stronger.”

“So it appears. [456b]”

“Women of that kind, then, must be chosen to live with men of that kind and guard alongside them, since they are capable and kindred to the men in nature.”

“Certainly.”

“And should not the same pursuits be given to the same natures?”

“They should.”

“So we have come round to where we started and agree that giving music and physical training to the women of the guardians is not against nature.”

“Not at all.”

“Then the law we laid down was neither impossible nor a mere wish, [456c] since we established it in accordance with nature. Rather, the practices that now oppose it seem more contrary to nature.”

“So it seems.”

“And our inquiry was whether our proposals were possible and best?”

“It was.”

“We have agreed that they are possible?”

“Yes.”

“Next we must agree that they are best?”

“Plainly.”

“To make a woman a guardian, it will not be one education that makes our men guardians and another that makes our women, [456d] especially when it takes up the same nature in both?”

“It will not.”

“What is your opinion on this?”

“On what?”

“Do you think to yourself that one man is better and another worse? Or do you consider all men alike?”

“Not at all.”

“In the city we are founding, which men do you think we have made better: the guardians, who received the education we described, or the shoemakers, trained in shoemaking?”

“An absurd question,” he said.

“I understand,” I said. “And are the guardians not the best of the citizens? [456e]”

“By far.”

“And will these women not be the best of women?”

“By far, in their turn,” he said.

“Is anything better for a city than to have women and men who are as excellent as possible?”

“Nothing.”

“And music and physical training, provided as we have

### Book V, 457–464

[457a] described, will bring that about?”

“How could they not?”

“So the law we laid down was not only possible, but the best for a city.”

“So it was.”

“The women of the guardians, then, must take off their clothes, since they will be clothed in virtue instead of cloaks; they must share in war and in the rest of the city's defense, and undertake no other work. Of these duties the lighter should be given to the women rather than the men, because of the weakness of their sex. The man [457b] who laughs at naked women exercising for the sake of what is best plucks an unripe fruit from the tree of comic wisdom: he seems to know neither what he laughs at nor what he is doing. For it is and will remain the finest saying that what is beneficial is beautiful, and what is harmful, ugly.”

“Certainly.”

“Then let us say that in speaking of the law concerning women we have escaped one wave without being altogether swept away: we have ordained that our male and female [457c] guardians must share in every pursuit, and our argument seems at least consistent with itself in calling this both possible and beneficial.”

“You have escaped no small wave,” he said.

“You will not call it large,” I said, “when you see the next one.”

“Speak, and let me see,” he said.

“The law following from this and the other laws that preceded it is, I believe, this.”

“What law?”

“All these women are to be held in common by all these men. No woman is to live privately with any one man; the children [457d] too are to be held in common, and no parent shall know his own child nor any child its parent.”

“That,” he said, “is a much greater challenge to belief than the other, both as to whether it is possible and whether it is beneficial.”

“I do not think,” I said, “that anyone would dispute its benefit: that women and children should be held in common would be the greatest good, if only it could be done. But I think there would be a great deal of dispute about whether it is possible. [457e]”

“Both questions,” he said, “would be thoroughly disputed.”

“You join two arguments against me,” I said. “I thought I might escape the first if you agreed it was beneficial, leaving me only the question of its possibility.”

“But your attempt to escape did not go unnoticed,” he said. “You must account for both.”

“I must submit to judgment,” I said. “But grant [458a] me this much: let me enjoy a holiday, as idle minds are accustomed to feast themselves with fantasies when they walk alone. Before such people have discovered how they will attain what they desire, they pass over that question, so as to spare themselves the labor of considering whether it is possible. Assuming they have what they want, they at once arrange everything else and take delight in describing what they will do once they have it; so they make an already idle soul [458b] idler still. Now I too am growing soft, and wish to postpone those questions and examine later how these things can be possible. For the present I will assume that they are possible and consider, if you permit me, how the rulers will arrange them when they come to pass, and how their practice would be most advantageous of all to the city and its guardians. Let me first examine these matters with you, and the other questions afterward, if you permit it.”

“I permit it,” he said. “Go on and examine them.”

“I think,” I said, “that if our rulers deserve [458c] that name, and their assistants likewise, the latter will be willing to carry out their orders and the former to give them, obeying the laws themselves in some matters and following their pattern in the others left to their discretion.”

“That is likely,” he said.

“You, then, as their lawgiver, just as you selected the men, must select and present the women, so far as possible of like nature. Since they have common dwellings and common meals, and no one has any such thing in private possession, they will be together. Mingling in the gymnasiums and throughout their upbringing, they will be led, I think, by their inborn necessity to unite with one another. Does that not seem an inevitable outcome to you? [458d]”

“Not by geometrical necessity,” he said, “but by the necessity of love, which is likely to be more compelling than geometry in persuading and drawing the multitude.”

“Very much so,” I said. “But after that, Glaucon, to mate without order or do anything else at random would be neither holy in a city of happy people, nor would the rulers allow it. [458e]”

“No,” he said, “it would not be right.”

“Plainly, then, we must next make marriages as sacred as possible; and the most beneficial marriages would be sacred.”

“Certainly.”

[459a] “How will they be most beneficial? Tell me this, Glaucon: I see that you have a good number of hunting dogs and pedigreed birds at home. By Zeus, have you given any thought to their matings and breeding?”

“What about them?” he asked.

“First, even among those of fine stock, are not some individuals outstanding?”

“Yes.”

“Do you breed equally from all of them, or are you eager to breed chiefly from the best?”

“From the best. [459b]”

“And from the youngest, or the oldest, or chiefly from those in their prime?”

“From those in their prime.”

“And if they are not bred this way, do you think your stocks of birds and dogs will greatly deteriorate?”

“I do,” he said.

“What about horses,” I asked, “and the other animals? Is it somehow different with them?”

“That would be strange,” he said.

“Good heavens, dear friend,” I said, “how excellent our rulers will have to be, if matters stand the same way with the human race. [459c]”

“They do stand that way,” he said. “But what do you mean?”

“That they will have to use many remedies,” I said. “When bodies do not need drugs, but are willing to obey a regimen, we think even a lesser physician adequate. But when drugs are necessary, we know that a bolder physician is needed.”

“True. But why do you say so?”

“Because,” I said, “our rulers will apparently have to make considerable use of falsehood and deception for the benefit [459d] of those they rule. And we said, I believe, that all such devices could be useful as a kind of medicine.”

“And rightly so,” he said.

“This right use appears to be especially important in marriages and the begetting of children.”

“How so?”

“By what we have agreed,” I said, “the best men must mate with the best women as often as possible, and the worst with the worst as seldom as possible. The children of the former must be raised, but not those of the latter, if the flock is to be as excellent as possible. [459e] And all these arrangements must remain unknown to everyone except the rulers themselves, if the herd of guardians is to be as free from faction as possible.”

“Quite right,” he said.

“Then we must institute festivals at which we will bring together brides and bridegrooms, with sacrifices, and our poets must compose [460a] hymns fitting for the marriages performed. The number of marriages we shall leave to the rulers, so that they can maintain, as far as possible, a constant population, taking account of wars, diseases, and all such contingencies, and so keep our city from growing either too large or too small.”

“Right,” he said.

“And some ingenious drawing of lots must, I think, be devised, so that each time the inferior man is paired off he blames chance and not the rulers.”

“Certainly,” he said.

[460b] “And the young men who distinguish themselves in war or anywhere else must be given honors and prizes, including more abundant opportunities to lie with women, so that this too will provide a pretext for fathering as many children as possible from such men.”

“Right.”

“Then the children born at any time will be taken into the care of the officials appointed for this purpose, whether these are men or women or both—for surely offices, too, are shared by women and men.”

“Yes. [460c]”

“I imagine they will take the children of the good to a nursery, entrusting them to nurses who live apart in a particular district of the city. But the children of the inferior, and any child of the others born with a disability, they will hide away in a place secret and unknown, as is fitting.”

“If,” he said, “the guardian stock is to remain pure.”

“Will they not also see to their feeding, bringing the mothers to the nursery when their breasts are full, and taking every measure to ensure that none recognizes her own child? [460d] They will procure other women with milk if the mothers themselves are not enough, make sure these mothers nurse for a moderate time, and assign the sleepless nights and all the other labor to wet nurses and attendants.”

“You are making childbearing very easy for the guardians' women,” he said.

“As it should be,” I said. “But let us pursue our original subject. We said that children should be begotten by people in their prime.”

“True. [460e]”

“Do you agree, then, that a moderate span of prime is twenty years for a woman, and thirty for a man?”

“Which years do you mean?” he asked.

“For a woman,” I said, “the period from the age of twenty until forty, when she may bear children for the city; and for a man, from the time he passes the peak of his speed in running until the age of fifty-five, when he may beget children for the city.”

[461a] “At least for both,” he said, “those are the years of prime in body and mind.”

“Then if anyone older or younger than these ages undertakes to beget children for the community, we shall declare his error unholy and unjust. He is planting a child in the city who, if born without detection, will not have been conceived under the sacrifices and prayers which priestesses, priests, and the whole city will offer at each marriage—that from good parents ever better children may be born, and from useful parents [461b] still more useful ones. Rather, this child will have been begotten in darkness amid dreadful lack of restraint.”

“Right,” he said.

“The same law applies,” I said, “if a man still of begetting age approaches a woman of childbearing age without the ruler's having joined them. We shall say that he is giving the city a bastard child, without a pledged marriage and without consecration.”

“Exactly right,” he said.

“But once the women and men have passed beyond the age for having children, I think we shall leave them free to unite [461c] with whom they wish, except that a man must not unite with his daughter or mother, his daughter's daughters or his mother's female ancestors; nor a woman with her son or father or their descendants or forebears. Even then we shall strictly command them above all to keep any conception from seeing the light, and, if a child does come to birth despite them, to arrange matters on the understanding that no upbringing is available for it.”

“That is fairly put,” he said. “But how [461d] are they to recognize their fathers and daughters, and the other relations you mentioned just now?”

“In no way,” I said. “From the day a man becomes a bridegroom, he will call all the children born in the tenth or seventh month afterward his sons if male and daughters if female, and they will call him father. He will call their children his grandchildren, and they in turn will call those of his generation grandfathers and grandmothers. Those born during the period when their mothers and fathers were having children [461e] will call each other brothers and sisters, and so, as we just said, they will not unite with one another. Yet the law will allow brothers and sisters to live together if the lot falls that way and the Pythia gives her sanction.”

“Quite right,” he said.

“That, Glaucon, is the nature of the community of women and children for your city's guardians. What remains is to establish by argument that it follows from the rest of the constitution and is by far the best arrangement. Shall we proceed in that way?”

[462a] “By Zeus, we shall,” he said.

“Would this not be the beginning of our agreement: let us ask ourselves what is the greatest good we can name in the founding of a city, the end at which the lawgiver should aim in making its laws, and what is the greatest evil. Then we can examine whether the arrangements just discussed fit the pattern of good, and not that of evil.”

“Above all else,” he said.

“Have we any greater evil for a city than what tears it apart and makes it many cities [462b] instead of one? Or any greater good than what binds it together and makes it one?”

“No.”

“Does not sharing pleasure and pain bind it together, when, so far as possible, all the citizens rejoice and grieve alike at the same things coming into being and passing away?”

“Indeed it does,” he said.

“And does not private feeling about such things dissolve it, when some are overwhelmed with grief and others [462c] with joy at the same events affecting the city and its people?”

“Of course.”

“Does this not happen when the people in the city do not say ‘mine’ and ‘not mine’ of the same things at the same time? And likewise of what belongs to others?”

“Exactly.”

“Then the city in which the greatest number say ‘mine’ and ‘not mine’ of the same things in the same way is the best governed?”

“By far.”

“And it comes closest to being like one human being? When, for instance, one of us injures a finger, the entire community of body and soul, bound into one order under the governing principle within it, feels the injury, and the whole shares the pain of the part that suffers. That is why we say the person has pain in his finger. [462d] The same holds for every other part of a human being, both when a part suffers pain and when it enjoys relief.”

“The same holds,” he said. “And to answer your question, the best-governed city comes closest to such a person.”

“When one of its citizens suffers some good or evil, then, such a city will surely say, more than any other, that the one affected is part of itself, and the whole city will share either the joy or the grief. [462e]”

“It must, if it has good laws,” he said.

“It is time,” I said, “to return to our own city and examine whether the conclusions of our argument apply most fully to it, or to some other city instead.”

“We should,” he said.

[463a] “Well, then, are there rulers and people in other cities, and in this one too?”

“There are.”

“Will all of them call one another citizens?”

“How could they not?”

“But besides citizens, what does the populace in other cities call its rulers?”

“In most cities, masters. In democracies, by that very name—rulers.”

“What of the populace in ours? Besides citizens, what does it call its rulers? [463b]”

“Saviors and defenders,” he said.

“And what do the rulers call the populace?”

“Those who pay their wages and provide their food.”

“And what do rulers in other cities call their peoples?”

“Slaves,” he said.

“What do rulers call one another?”

“Fellow rulers,” he said.

“And ours?”

“Fellow guardians.”

“Can you name a ruler in another city who might call one fellow ruler a member of his family and another a stranger?”

“Many of them.”

“And does he not consider and speak of the family member as his own, [463c] and the stranger as not his own?”

“Yes.”

“What about your guardians? Could any one of them regard or address a fellow guardian as a stranger?”

“Not at all,” he said. “For everyone he meets he will regard as a brother or sister, a father or mother, a son or daughter, or a descendant or ancestor of these.”

“Excellent,” I said. “But tell me one thing more. Will your laws give them only the names of kinship, [463d] or require that they act in all things according to those names? With regard to fathers, for instance, will they observe everything custom requires: respect, care, and obedience to parents, knowing that otherwise neither gods nor men will favor them, since they would be acting neither piously nor justly? Will these, or different teachings, be sounded in children's ears by all the citizens from the beginning, concerning those designated as their fathers and all their other relations? [463e]”

“These,” he said. “It would be absurd if they spoke the names of kinship with their lips alone, without the deeds.”

“Then in this city, more than in any other, all will join in saying what we spoke of just now whenever anyone fares well or badly: ‘One of my own fares well,’ or ‘One of my own fares badly.’”

“Perfectly true,” he said.

[464a] “Did we not say that this conviction and expression bring with them a shared experience of pleasure and pain?”

“And rightly so.”

“Then our citizens will share most fully in what they call their own, and by sharing in that they will share most fully in pain and pleasure?”

“By far.”

“And is it not their community of women and children, along with the rest of our arrangements, that brings this about for the guardians?”

“More than anything else,” he said. [464b]

“Yet we agreed that this was the greatest good for a city, likening a well-governed city to a body in its response to the pleasures and pains of one of its parts.”

“And rightly we agreed,” he said.

“Then the community of children and women among the city's defenders has proved to be the cause of its greatest good.”

“Most certainly,” he said.

“And we are consistent with our earlier conclusions as well. For we said, I think, that these people must have no private houses, no land, [464c] and no property, but should receive their sustenance from the others as payment for guarding them and spend it all in common, if they are to be guardians in truth.”

“Right,” he said.

“Do not those earlier provisions, as I say, and the ones we are discussing now make them still more truly guardians? Do they not prevent them from tearing the city apart by calling different things ‘mine,’ each dragging into his own house what he can acquire apart from the others, another into another house, and each having different wives and children, which produce private pleasures and pains because they belong to each alone? [464d] Instead, holding one conviction about what belongs to them, they will all strive for the same end, sharing, so far as possible, one experience of pain and pleasure.”

“Exactly,” he said.

“And will lawsuits and accusations against one another not all but vanish among them, because they own nothing private but their bodies and hold everything else in common? Thus they will be free from the factional disputes that arise when people struggle over wealth or possession of children and relations. [464e]”

“They must be wholly free of those,” he said.

“Nor would lawsuits over violent assault or abuse be justified among them. We shall say that it is honorable and just for contemporaries to defend themselves against contemporaries, since this makes care of the body necessary.”

“Right,” he said.

### Book V, 465–472

[465a] “And this law, too, is sound,” I said. “If anyone should be angry with another, by satisfying his anger in this way he would be less likely to go on to more serious feuds.”

“Certainly.”

“An elder, moreover, will be authorized to rule and discipline all who are younger.”

“Clearly.”

“And, as is natural, no younger person will ever attempt to use force against an elder, or strike him, unless the rulers command it. Nor, I imagine, will he dishonor him in any other way. For two guards will be enough to restrain him: fear and reverence—reverence preventing him from laying hands [465b] on one who might be his parent, and fear that others will come to the victim’s aid, some as sons, others as brothers, others as fathers.”

“That is how it follows,” he said.

“So the laws will ensure that the men live at peace with one another in every respect?”

“At profound peace.”

“And if these men have no factions among themselves, there is no danger that the rest of the city will ever be divided against them or against itself.”

“None at all.”

“As for the least of the evils they will escape, I shrink [465c] from even mentioning them, they are so unseemly: the poor flattering the rich, the hardships and suffering involved in raising children and making money to support a necessary household of servants—borrowing some of it, disowning some obligations, gathering the money by every means, depositing it with wives and servants, and entrusting them with its management. What they endure over all this, my friend, is obvious, ignoble, and not worth recounting. [465d]”

“Obvious even to a blind man,” he said.

“They will be rid of all these troubles, and live a life more blessed than the life for which Olympic victors are called blessed.”

“How so?”

“The victors are counted happy for a small fraction of what our people possess. Their victory is finer, and their upkeep at public expense more complete. For their victory saves the entire city; both they and their children receive food and all else life requires, and from their own city they receive honors [465e] while alive and a fitting burial when they die.”

“Splendid honors indeed,” he said.

“Do you remember,” I said, “how earlier someone—I cannot remember who—reproached us for failing to make the guardians happy,

[466a] when they might have everything belonging to the citizens but have nothing? And we said that we would consider that point later if occasion arose; for the present we were making the guardians into guardians, and the city as happy as we could, rather than shaping one class within it for happiness alone.”

“I remember,” he said.

“Now, then, if the life of the auxiliaries seems far finer and better than that of Olympic victors, does it resemble [466b] the life of shoemakers, or of other craftsmen, or of farmers?”

“I think not,” he said.

“Yet what I said then is fair to say here as well: if a guardian tries to be happy in such a way that he ceases to be a guardian, and if a life so moderate, secure, and, as we maintain, excellent does not satisfy him, but some foolish and childish notion of happiness seizes him and drives [466c] him, by the power he holds, to appropriate everything in the city, he will learn that Hesiod was truly wise when he said that the half is somehow greater than the whole.”

“If he takes my advice,” he said, “he will remain with this life.”

“So you agree,” I said, “to the sharing between women and men that we have described—sharing in education, children, and the guardianship of the other citizens? Both when they remain in the city and when they go to war, they must guard together [466d] and hunt together like hounds, sharing everything in every way as far as they can; in doing so, they will act for the best, and not against the nature of female and male, which fits them for partnership with each other?”

“I agree,” he said.

“Then what remains,” I said, “is to determine whether such a partnership can arise among human beings as it does among other animals, and in what way it is possible.”

“You have anticipated,” he said, “what I was about to ask. [466e]”

“As for their conduct in war,” I said, “I think it is clear how they will fight.”

“How?” he asked.

“They will campaign together and take to war those among their children who are strong enough, so that, like the children of other craftsmen, they may observe the work they will have to perform once they are grown.

[467a] Besides watching, they will serve and assist in everything to do with war, and attend to their fathers and mothers. Have you not noticed what happens in the crafts? The sons of potters spend a long time serving and observing before they put their hands to pottery.”

“Indeed.”

“Should those craftsmen train their children more carefully than the guardians train theirs, through experience and observation of their proper work?”

“That would be absurd,” he said.

“And every animal fights especially fiercely [467b] when its offspring are present.”

“That is so. But there is no small danger, Socrates, that if our people suffer a defeat, as often happens in war, they will lose their children as well as themselves and leave the rest of the city unable to recover.”

“You speak the truth,” I said. “But do you think our first obligation is to arrange that they never face any danger?”

“Not at all.”

“And if they must run a risk, should it not be one that will make them better if they succeed?”

“Clearly. [467c]”

“Do you think it makes so little difference, and is so little worth the risk, whether children who will become warriors observe warfare or not?”

“No; it makes a difference for the purpose you describe.”

“Then we must begin by making children spectators of war, while devising means to keep them safe. That will be well, will it not?”

“Yes.”

“In the first place,” I said, “their fathers, to the extent that human judgment permits, will not be ignorant but discerning about which [467d] campaigns are dangerous and which are not.”

“That is likely,” he said.

“They will take them on some campaigns and avoid taking them on others.”

“Right.”

“And they will put in charge of them not the least capable commanders, I imagine, but men whose experience and age qualify them to be both leaders and tutors.”

“As they should.”

“But we shall say that many things have happened to many people contrary to expectation.”

“Indeed.”

“To meet such contingencies, my friend, we must give the children wings from their earliest years, so they can fly away if need be. [467e]”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“We must put them on horseback as young as possible; once they have learned to ride, take them to watch on horses not spirited or combative but as swift of foot and easy to rein as can be found. Thus they will have the finest view of their own future work and, if necessary, the safest escape, following older guides.”

“I think you are right,” he said.

[468a] “Now what about war itself?” I asked. “How should your soldiers behave toward one another and toward the enemy? Does my view seem right to you, or not?”

“Tell me what it is,” he said.

“Should we not assign anyone among them who deserts his post, throws away his weapons, or commits some similar act of cowardice to the status of craftsman or farmer?”

“Certainly.”

“And should we not give anyone captured alive by the enemy as a gift to his captors, to do what they wish with their prize? [468b]”

“Absolutely.”

“And the man who distinguishes himself and wins renown: should he not first be crowned on campaign by the youths and children serving with him, each in turn? Do you agree?”

“I do.”

“And be greeted with a clasp of the hand?”

“That too.”

“But I suppose you will not agree to this next thing,” I said.

“What is it?”

“That he should kiss and be kissed by each of them.”

“I agree most emphatically,” he said. “And I would add this to the law: [468c] while they are on that campaign, no one he wishes to kiss may refuse him. That way, if he happens to love someone, male or female, he will be more eager to win the prize for valor.”

“Well said,” I replied. “We have already said that a good man will have more opportunities for marriage than others and be chosen for such unions more often, so that as many children as possible may be born from him.”

“So we have,” he said.

“And according to Homer, too, it is right to honor brave young men in this fashion. For Homer said that Ajax, when he distinguished himself in war, was honored [468d] with ‘the long cuts of the chine,’ as a fitting tribute to one who is young and courageous, and one that strengthens him even as it honors him.”

“Exactly right,” he said.

“Then we shall follow Homer in this matter at least,” I said. “At sacrifices and all such occasions, according to the measure of their merit, we shall honor the brave with hymns and the tributes just mentioned, as well as with ‘seats of honor, cuts of meat, [468e] and brimming cups,’ so that while we honor them, we also train our good men and women.”

“An excellent proposal,” he said.

“Very well. Of those who die on campaign after distinguishing themselves, shall we not say first that they belong to the golden race?”

“Above all.”

“And shall we not believe Hesiod when he says that after some of that race die,

[469a] ‘They become pure spirits dwelling on earth, noble, warding off evil, guardians of mortal men’?”

“We certainly shall.”

“Then we shall ask the god how we must bury these godlike and divine people, and what special rites to use, and bury them in whatever way he directs.”

“How could we do otherwise?”

“And thereafter we shall tend their tombs [469b] and revere them as those of divine spirits? And we shall establish the same practice when someone dies of old age or in another way, if he was judged outstandingly good during his life?”

“That would be just,” he said.

“Now, how will our soldiers treat their enemies?”

“In what respect?”

“First, on enslavement: do you think it right for Greeks to enslave Greek cities, or should they prevent others from doing so as far as they can, and make it their practice to spare the Greek [469c] people, guarding against enslavement by foreigners?”

“By every measure,” he said, “it is better to spare them.”

“Then they themselves must own no Greek slave and must advise other Greeks to do likewise?”

“Certainly,” he said. “That way they would be more likely to turn against the foreigners and leave one another alone.”

“And what of stripping the dead after a victory, except for their weapons?” I said. “Is that proper? Does it not give cowards an excuse [469d] to avoid the fighting, as though they were doing some necessary duty when they crouch over a corpse? Have not many armies already been destroyed by such plundering?”

“Indeed they have.”

“And does it not seem servile and greedy to despoil a corpse, and the mark of a petty, womanish mind to think that the dead body is the enemy, when the enemy has flown away and left behind what he fought with? Do you think those [469e] who do this behave any differently from dogs that rage against the stones thrown at them but do not touch the one who threw them?”

“Not in the least,” he said.

“Then we must put an end to stripping the dead and to preventing their bodies from being recovered?”

“We must indeed, by Zeus,” he said.

“Nor shall we carry weapons to the temples as offerings—particularly weapons taken from Greeks—if we care at all

[470a] about good relations with the other Greeks. Indeed, we should fear bringing such things from our own kin into a sanctuary as a pollution, unless the god directs otherwise.”

“Exactly right,” he said.

“What about ravaging Greek land and burning houses? How do you think your soldiers should treat their enemies in these matters?”

“I would gladly hear your judgment,” he said.

“My own judgment,” I said, “is that they should do neither, [470b] but should take away the harvest of that year. Shall I tell you why?”

“Certainly.”

“It seems to me that, just as there are two names, war and civil strife, so there are two distinct things, arising from two distinct kinds of division. By these two I mean, on the one hand, what belongs to us and is akin to us; on the other, what is foreign and strange. Enmity among kindred is called civil strife; enmity with foreigners is called war.”

“What you say is not at all unreasonable,” he said. [470c]

“Consider whether this next point is reasonable too. I maintain that the Greek people are their own kin and family, but foreign and strange to the non-Greek peoples.”

“Well said,” he replied.

“So when Greeks fight non-Greeks, and when non-Greeks fight Greeks, we shall say they wage war and are enemies by nature, and call this enmity war. But when Greeks do such a thing to Greeks, we shall say that they are friends by nature, that in this condition Greece is sick and divided, [470d] and call this enmity civil strife.”

“I agree,” he said, “that we should regard it so.”

“Consider, then, what happens in what everyone now acknowledges to be civil strife. When a city is divided and each side ravages the other’s fields and burns its houses, the strife seems accursed, and neither party seems to love its city—for otherwise neither would dare to strip the land that nourished and mothered them. But it would be a measured course for the victors to take away the harvest [470e] of the defeated, with the thought that one day they will be reconciled and will not be at war forever.”

“That way of thinking,” he said, “is far more humane than the other.”

“Well, then,” I said, “will the city you are founding not be a Greek city?”

“It must be,” he said.

“And will its people not be good and humane?”

“Very much so.”

“And lovers of their fellow Greeks? Will they not regard Greece as their own home and share in the sanctuaries of the other Greeks?”

“Most certainly.”

[471a] “Then they will regard a dispute with Greeks, as with kin, as civil strife, and will not even call it war?”

“No.”

“And they will conduct their dispute with reconciliation in view?”

“Certainly.”

“They will discipline them with goodwill, not punish them to enslave or destroy them, acting as correctors, not as enemies.”

“So they will,” he said.

“Being Greeks, then, they will not ravage Greece or burn homes, nor will they claim that everyone in each city is their enemy—men, women, and children alike—but only the few who are responsible for the dispute. [471b] And for all these reasons they will be unwilling to devastate their land, since most of its people are friends, or to destroy their houses. They will pursue the dispute only until those responsible are compelled by the suffering of the innocent to pay the penalty.”

“I agree,” he said, “that our citizens should deal with their opponents in this way, but should treat non-Greeks as Greeks now treat one another.”

“Then shall we make this a law for the guardians too: neither to ravage land [471c] nor to burn houses?”

“Let us,” he said. “This law and the ones before it are sound.”

“But it seems to me, Socrates, that if anyone lets you talk about such matters, you will never return to the question you pushed aside before all this began: how this constitution could come into being, and by what means it might be possible. I grant that if it did come into being, all would be well with the city where it arose; and I can add what you have omitted: that its citizens would fight [471d] their enemies superbly because they would be least likely to abandon one another, knowing and calling one another by these names: brothers, fathers, sons. And if the women joined the campaign as well, either in the same ranks or posted behind the men, to strike fear into the enemy and offer aid if ever the need arose, I know they would be invincible from every quarter. I see, too, how many benefits at home you have left unmentioned. [471e] But since I agree that they would have all these benefits and ten thousand more if this constitution came about, say no more about them. Let us now try to convince ourselves of this very thing: that it is possible, and how it is possible. We can leave the rest aside.”

[472a] “You have made a sudden assault on my argument,” I said, “and have no mercy on my hesitation. Perhaps you do not know that after I have barely escaped two waves, you are bringing upon me the greatest and most difficult of the three. Once you have seen and heard it, you will readily forgive me for having good reason to hesitate and fear to state and examine so astonishing a proposal.”

“The more you say things like that,” he replied, “the less likely we are [472b] to release you from explaining how this constitution can come into being. Speak, then, and delay no longer.”

“First,” I said, “we must remember that we came to this point in our search for the nature of justice and injustice.”

“We must, but what follows?” he asked.

“Nothing, except this: if we find what justice is, shall we demand that the just man differ from justice itself in no respect, but be in every way exactly as justice [472c] is? Or shall we be content if he comes as close to it as possible and has a greater share in it than anyone else?”

“We shall be content with that,” he said.

“It was as a model, then,” I said, “that we sought what justice itself is, what a perfectly just man would be like if he came into existence, and likewise what injustice is and what the most unjust man would be like. We sought to look at them and at how they appear to us with regard to happiness and its opposite, so that we would have to agree, concerning ourselves too, that whoever most resembles [472d] either of them will receive the most similar share of that one’s lot. We did not do it to prove that such men could actually exist.”

“What you say is true,” he replied.

“Do you think a painter would be any less good for painting a model of the most beautiful person and rendering every feature adequately in his picture, if he could not prove that such a man could exist?”

“By Zeus, I do not,” he said.

“And were we not also,” I said, “making a model [472e] in speech of a good city?”

“Certainly.”

“Do you think our account is any less sound because we cannot prove that a city could be governed in the way we described?”

“Not at all,” he said.

“That, then,” I said, “is the truth of it. But if, to oblige you, I must also make every effort to show how and under what conditions it might be most nearly possible, grant me once again the same points for this demonstration.”

“What points?”

### Book V, 473–480

[473a] “Can anything be done exactly as it is described? Or is it in the nature of action to come nearer to truth in speech than in deed, even if someone thinks otherwise? Do you agree, or not?”

“I agree,” he said.

“Then do not compel me to show that everything we have described in speech must happen in precisely the same way in practice. If we can discover how a city might be governed as closely as possible to what we have said, then say that we have [473b] discovered how the things you demand can be possible. Will you not be satisfied with that? I know I would.”

“And so would I,” he said.

“Next, it seems, we must try to discover and show what now goes wrong in cities and prevents them from being governed in this way, and what smallest change could bring a city to this kind of constitution—preferably a single change, or if not that, two, or if not, the fewest in number and the slightest in force. [473c]”

“Certainly,” he said.

“I think we can show that one change would transform a city,” I said, “though it is neither small nor easy. It is possible, however.”

“What change?” he asked.

“Here I am,” I said, “at what we likened to the greatest wave. I shall speak, even if the wave of laughter and disrepute is about to overwhelm me altogether. Hear what I have to say.”

“Speak,” he said.

“Unless,” I said, “the philosophers become kings [473d] in our cities, or those who are now called kings and rulers genuinely and adequately pursue philosophy, and these two things—political power and philosophy—come together, while the many natures that now pursue one or the other separately are forcibly excluded, there can be no end to troubles for our cities, my dear Glaucon, nor, I think, [473e] for the human race. Nor will the constitution we have now described in speech ever be born into the realm of possibility and see the light of the sun. This is what has long made me reluctant to speak: I see how contrary to expectation it will sound. For it is hard to see that neither a person nor a city can be happy in any other way.”

And he said, “Socrates, you have hurled out a claim and an argument that, once uttered, will bring against you a great many people, and no mean ones either. Picture them now flinging off their cloaks,

[474a] seizing whatever weapon comes to hand, and charging naked at full stretch to work wonders on you. If you cannot fend them off with argument and escape, you will indeed pay the penalty in mockery.”

“Are you not the cause of this predicament?” I asked.

“And glad of it,” he said. “Still, I shall not abandon you. I shall defend you as best I can—with goodwill and encouragement, and perhaps with answers more apt than another’s. With such an ally, [474b] try to show those who doubt you that what you say is possible.”

“I must try,” I said, “since you offer so powerful an alliance. If we are to escape the people you speak of, I think we must distinguish for them which philosophers we mean when we dare say that philosophers must rule. Once they are clearly identified, we can defend ourselves by showing [474c] that some are naturally suited to engage in philosophy and lead in a city, while the others should not engage in it but should follow a leader.”

“It is time to draw that distinction,” he said.

“Come then, follow me along this path, if we can find some adequate way to explain it.”

“Lead on,” he said.

“Shall I need to remind you,” I said, “or do you remember that when we say someone loves a thing, if the claim is right, he must be seen to love not one part of it and reject another, but to cherish all of it? [474d]”

“You will have to remind me,” he said. “I do not quite follow.”

“Another man might say that, Glaucon,” I replied, “but it does not suit a man of passion to forget that every youth in the bloom of beauty somehow stings and stirs a lover of boys, seeming worthy of his attention and affection. Is that not how you lovers act toward the beautiful? One boy, because his nose is snub, you praise as charming; another’s hooked nose you call regal; the one whose nose lies between them you say has the finest proportions. You call dark boys manly to look upon and fair ones children of the gods. And ‘honey-pale’—do you think that name [474e] was invented by anyone but a lover, speaking fondly and making light of pallor if it appears in a boy in his prime? In short, you invent every sort of excuse

[475a] and use every sort of expression so as not to reject a single boy in the flower of youth.”

“If you choose to use me as your example when describing the ways of lovers,” he said, “I shall allow it for the sake of the argument.”

“What about lovers of wine?” I said. “Do you not see them do the same thing, welcoming every wine on every pretext?”

“Indeed.”

“And you see, I think, that lovers of honor, if they cannot command an army, will command a third of a tribe, and if they cannot receive honor from men of greater [475b] and higher standing, they are glad to receive it from lesser and humbler men, since it is honor itself they desire.”

“Exactly.”

“Now tell me whether you affirm or deny this: when we call someone a lover of a thing, shall we say he desires the whole kind, or one part and not another?”

“The whole,” he said.

“Then shall we not also say that the philosopher desires wisdom, not one part of it and not another, but all of it?”

“True.”

“So a man who resents learning, especially [475c] while young and still unable to judge what is useful and what is not, we will not call a lover of learning or a philosopher. Just as we do not say that a man who is particular about his food is hungry or desires food or loves eating: he is a poor eater, not a lover of food.”

“And rightly so,” he said.

“But the man who is willing to taste every kind of learning, gladly turns toward it, and cannot get enough of it—this man we may rightly call a philosopher. Is that not so? [475d]”

And Glaucon said, “Then you will have many strange philosophers. All those who love spectacles seem to me to fit your description, because they enjoy learning about what they see. And those who love to listen are very odd candidates for philosophers: they would never willingly attend arguments and discussions of this kind, but as if they had leased out their ears to hear every chorus, they rush about to the Dionysian festivals, missing none in city or village. Shall we call all these people philosophers, and those who study such things and the petty crafts as well? [475e]”

“By no means,” I said. “They resemble philosophers, but are not.”

“Whom do you mean by the true philosophers?” he asked.

“Those who love to behold the truth,” I said.

“That is right enough,” he said. “But what do you mean by it?”

“It would not be easy to explain to anyone else,” I said, “but I think you will agree with me on this.”

“On what?”

“Since the beautiful is opposite to the ugly, they are two.”

[476a] “Of course.”

“And since there are two, each is one?”

“That too.”

“And the same account applies to the just and the unjust, the good and the bad, and all the Forms. Each is itself one; but through its association with actions and bodies and with the other Forms, each appears everywhere in many manifestations.”

“You are right,” he said.

“Here, then,” I said, “is my distinction: on one side are those you just mentioned, lovers of sights, lovers of arts, and practical men; on the other are those we are discussing, the only people rightly called philosophers. [476b]”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“The lovers of sounds and sights,” I said, “welcome beautiful voices, colors, shapes, and all the works fashioned from them. But their thought cannot see or welcome the nature of the beautiful itself.”

“That is certainly so,” he said.

“And those who can approach the beautiful itself and see it by itself—would they not be rare? [476c]”

“Very rare.”

“Then consider someone who recognizes beautiful things but does not recognize beauty itself, and who cannot follow anyone who guides him toward knowledge of it. Does he seem to you to live awake or in a dream? Think about it. Is not dreaming, whether asleep or awake, the taking of a likeness not as a likeness but as the very thing it resembles?”

“I would certainly say,” he replied, “that such a person is dreaming.”

“And the man who takes the opposite view—who believes there is beauty itself [476d] and can discern both it and the things that share in it, without mistaking the participants for beauty itself or beauty itself for the participants—does he seem to live awake or in a dream?”

“Very much awake,” he said.

“Would it not be right, then, to call this man’s thought knowledge, since he knows, and the other man’s thought opinion, since he only holds an opinion?”

“Certainly.”

“What if the man whom we say has opinion rather than knowledge grows angry with us and disputes the truth of our account? [476e] Could we find a way to soothe and gently persuade him, while concealing from him that he is unwell?”

“We must,” he said.

“Come, consider what we should say to him. Or shall we question him this way: tell him that if he knows anything we do not begrudge him his knowledge, but would be glad to see him know something. Then ask him this: does a man who knows know something, or nothing? Answer on his behalf.”

“I shall answer,” he said, “that he knows something.”

“Something that is, or something that is not?”

[477a] “Something that is. For how could anything that is not be known?”

“So do we have sufficient ground for this, however many ways we might examine it: that what fully is is fully knowable, and what in no way is is wholly unknowable?”

“More than sufficient.”

“Very well. If there is something that both is and is not, would it not lie between that which purely is and that which in no way is?”

“Between them.”

“Then, since knowledge belongs to what is, and ignorance necessarily to what is not, we must seek for this intermediate thing something intermediate [477b] between ignorance and knowledge, if there is such a thing.”

“Certainly.”

“Do we say that there is such a thing as opinion?”

“Of course.”

“Is it a different power from knowledge, or the same?”

“A different one.”

“Then opinion is set over one thing and knowledge over another, each according to its own power.”

“Yes.”

“And knowledge is by nature directed toward what is, to know what it is like. But perhaps I must first make a distinction another way.”

“How? [477c]”

“We shall say that powers are a kind of thing that exists: by them we are able to do what we can, and so is everything else that has an ability. Sight and hearing, for example, are powers, if you understand the kind of thing I mean.”

“I do understand,” he said.

“Then hear how they appear to me. In a power I see no color, no shape, none of the features that I see in many other things, by looking at which I distinguish some things from others. With a power, [477d] I look only to what it is directed toward and what it accomplishes. On that basis I have named each one a power. Those directed toward the same object and accomplishing the same thing I call the same power; those directed toward something different and accomplishing something different I call different powers. What do you do?”

“The same,” he said.

“Come back to our subject then, my good friend,” I said. “Do you say that knowledge itself is a power, or in what class do you place it?”

“In that class,” he said, “as the strongest of all powers. [477e]”

“And shall we place opinion among the powers, or in some other class?”

“Among the powers, of course,” he said. “For opinion is precisely that by which we are able to form opinions.”

“But a little while ago you agreed that knowledge and opinion were not the same.”

“How could anyone with any sense,” he said, “identify what cannot err with what can err?”

“Well said,” I replied. “Clearly, then, we agree that opinion is different from knowledge.”

[478a] “Different.”

“So each of them naturally has a different object and accomplishes a different thing?”

“It must.”

“Knowledge, surely, is directed toward what is, to know how it is?”

“Yes.”

“And opinion, we say, forms opinions?”

“Yes.”

“About the very same thing that knowledge knows? Will the knowable and the object of opinion be the same? Or is that impossible?”

“Impossible, by what we have agreed,” he said. “If different powers naturally have different objects, and both opinion [478b] and knowledge are powers, each different from the other, as we say, it follows that the knowable and the object of opinion cannot be the same.”

“So if what is is knowable, the object of opinion must be something other than what is?”

“Something other.”

“Does opinion then concern what is not? Or is it impossible even to form an opinion about what is not? Consider: does not a person forming an opinion direct his opinion toward something? Can one form an opinion and yet form it about nothing?”

“That is impossible.”

“So the person who forms an opinion has an opinion about some one thing?”

“Yes.”

“But what is not would most correctly be called not some one thing, but nothing at all. [478c]”

“Certainly.”

“And we necessarily assigned ignorance to what is not, and knowledge to what is?”

“Rightly,” he said.

“So opinion concerns neither what is nor what is not?”

“No.”

“Then opinion would be neither ignorance nor knowledge?”

“So it seems.”

“Does it lie outside both, surpassing knowledge in clarity or ignorance in obscurity?”

“Neither.”

“Does opinion, then,” I asked, “seem to you darker than knowledge but brighter than ignorance?”

“Much brighter,” he said. [478d]

“And does it lie between the two?”

“Yes.”

“Then opinion would be between them.”

“Exactly.”

“Did we not say earlier that if anything should appear to be and not to be at once, it would lie between what purely is and what in no way is; and that neither knowledge nor ignorance would be directed toward it, but whatever appeared between ignorance and knowledge?”

“Right.”

“And now what we call opinion has appeared between these two?”

“It has. [478e]”

“What remains for us, it seems, is to discover what partakes of both being and not being, and could not rightly be called either in its pure form. Then, if it appears, we may justly call it the object of opinion, assigning extremes to the extremes and what lies between to what lies between. Is that not so?”

“So it is.”

“Given these points, let that fine fellow tell me,” I shall say, “and answer me:

[479a] he who believes in no beautiful itself, no single Form of beauty that remains always the same, but recognizes many beautiful things—that lover of spectacles who cannot bear to hear anyone say that beauty is one, or justice one, and likewise the rest. ‘Among these many beautiful things, my good man,’ we shall ask him, ‘is there any that will not also appear ugly? Among the just things, any that will not appear unjust? Among the holy, any that will not appear unholy?’ [479b]”

“No,” he said. “They must appear in some respect beautiful and ugly, and likewise with everything else you ask about.”

“And the many things that are double: do they appear any less half than double?”

“Not at all.”

“And the things we call large and small, light and heavy: will they be called by these names any more than by their opposites?”

“No,” he said. “Each will always have both descriptions.”

“Then is each of these many things any more what one says it is than it is not?”

“They resemble those ambiguous sayings at banquets,” he said, [479c] “and the children’s riddle about the eunuch and the bat—what he threw at her and what he threw it from. These things, too, have both aspects. One cannot firmly conceive any of them either as being or as not being, as both, or as neither.”

“What, then, will you do with them?” I asked. “Can you put them anywhere better than between being and not being? They surely will not appear more obscure than what is not and thus less real than that, [479d] nor brighter than what is and thus more real than that.”

“Quite true,” he said.

“So it seems we have found that the many conventional judgments held by the many concerning beauty and the other things roll about somewhere between what is not and what purely is.”

“We have found it.”

“And we agreed beforehand that if anything of that sort appeared, it should be called the object of opinion, not of knowledge, since the intermediate power grasps what wanders in between.”

“We agreed. [479e]”

“Therefore, those who behold many beautiful things but do not see the beautiful itself, nor can follow someone who leads them to it, and who see many just things but not the just itself, and so with everything else—these people, we shall say, have opinions about all these things but know none of the things they hold opinions about.”

“Necessarily,” he said.

“And what of those who behold the things themselves, each always remaining the same? Must they not know them, rather than merely hold opinions?”

“That too must be so.”

“Then shall we say that the latter cherish and love the things

[480a] over which knowledge has power, and the former the things over which opinion has power? Do we not remember saying that those people love and behold beautiful sounds and colors and the like, yet cannot bear to admit that the beautiful itself exists?”

“We remember.”

“Will we be wrong, then, to call them lovers of opinion rather than philosophers, lovers of wisdom? Will they be very angry with us if we say so?”

“Not if they listen to me,” he said. “For no one ought to be angry with the truth.”

“Then those who cherish each thing that itself is must be called philosophers, not lovers of opinion?”

“Absolutely.”

### Book VI, 484–492

[484a] “So, Glaucon,” I said, “after a long and arduous argument, we have at last brought to light who the philosophers are and who are not.”

“Perhaps,” he said, “it could hardly have been done briefly.”

“Apparently not. Yet I think they would have come into clearer view if we had only this to discuss, and did not still have so much to traverse before we can see how the life of the just person differs [484b] from that of the unjust.”

“What comes next, then?” he asked.

“What else,” I said, “but the next question? Since philosophers are those able to grasp what remains forever in the same condition, while those who cannot, wandering among things many and various, are not philosophers, which of the two should lead the city?”

“How should we put the answer fairly?” he asked.

“Whichever are shown capable of guarding the laws and customs of cities,” I said, “those are the ones to appoint [484c] guardians.”

“Right,” he said.

“And this,” I said: “is it clear whether the guardian set to watch over anything should be blind or keen-sighted?”

“How could it not be clear?” he said.

“Do you think those who truly lack knowledge of the being of each thing differ at all from the blind? They have no clear pattern in their souls, and cannot, like painters looking toward the truest original, continually referring back to it [484d] and studying it as exactly as possible, establish laws here concerning beautiful, just, and good things when laws need establishing, or preserve the laws already established by guarding them.”

“By Zeus,” he said, “there is little difference.”

“Shall we then appoint these as guardians rather than those who know the being of each thing, yet are no less experienced than the others and inferior in no other part of virtue?”

“It would be absurd to choose anyone else,” he said, “if they lack nothing in the other respects; for in this very thing, virtually the greatest, they would excel.”

[485a] “Then let us explain how the same people can possess both this and the other qualifications.”

“Certainly.”

“As we said at the beginning of this discussion, we must first understand their nature. And I think that if we reach sufficient agreement on that, we shall agree both that the same people can possess these qualities and that no others should lead cities.”

“How?”

“Let this, then, be agreed about philosophic natures: [485b] they are always in love with the learning that reveals to them that being which is forever, untouched by the wanderings of coming-to-be and decay.”

“Agreed.”

“And further,” I said, “they love all of it and willingly let go of no part, small or great, more honored or less, as we explained earlier in speaking of lovers of honor and of other lovers.”

“You are right,” he said.

“Now consider whether those who are to be what we described must also possess [485c] this further quality in their nature.”

“What quality?”

“Truthfulness: they must willingly admit no falsehood whatever, but hate it and cherish truth.”

“That is likely,” he said.

“Not only likely, my friend; one who is by nature a lover of something must love everything akin and dear to the beloved.”

“Right,” he said.

“Can you find anything more closely akin to wisdom than truth?”

“How could I?”

“Can the same nature, then, love both wisdom and [485d] falsehood?”

“Not at all.”

“Then the genuine lover of learning must strive for every kind of truth, as ardently as possible, from earliest youth.”

“Absolutely.”

“And we know, surely, that when a person's desires flow powerfully in one direction, they are weaker elsewhere, as when a stream is diverted into one channel.”

“Of course.”

“In the person whose desires have flowed toward learning and everything of that sort, they will, I think, be concerned with the pleasure of the soul itself, in its own right, and abandon pleasures that come through the body—provided he is a philosopher in truth, not [485e] merely in appearance.”

“Necessarily so.”

“Such a person will be temperate, too, and in no way a lover of money; for the things that make money, with all its expense, an object of eager pursuit are more properly someone else's concern than his.”

“So it is.”

[486a] “Here is something else you must consider when judging whether a nature is philosophic or not.”

“What?”

“Watch lest it harbor any illiberality. Pettiness, surely, is the very opposite of what belongs to a soul destined always to reach toward the whole of things, divine and human alike.”

“Most true,” he said.

“Then do you suppose that someone whose mind possesses grandeur and a vision of all time and all being can regard human life as a thing of great importance?”

“Impossible,” he said. [486b]

“And such a person will not regard death as something terrible?”

“Least of all.”

“So a cowardly and illiberal nature, it seems, could have no share in true philosophy.”

“I think not.”

“What, then? Can someone orderly, neither money-loving nor illiberal nor boastful nor cowardly, become harsh in dealings with others or unjust?”

“No.”

“So when you examine whether a soul is philosophic, you will look even in youth to see whether it is just and gentle, or unsociable and savage.”

“Certainly.” [486c]

“Nor, I think, will you overlook this.”

“What?”

“Whether it learns easily or with difficulty. Can you expect anyone ever to love a pursuit adequately if he follows it with pain and scarcely makes a little progress?”

“No.”

“And if he cannot retain anything he learns, being full of forgetfulness, can he possibly be anything but empty of knowledge?”

“How could he?”

“Then, laboring to no purpose, don't you think he will end by hating both himself and his pursuit?”

“How could he not?” [486d]

“Let us never, then, include a forgetful soul among those sufficiently fit for philosophy; we must require a good memory.”

“By all means.”

“And surely we would say that a nature without grace or harmony tends nowhere but toward excess.”

“Of course.”

“Do you think truth is akin to excess or to measure?”

“To measure.”

“Then besides the other qualities, let us seek a mind naturally measured and gracious, whose inborn disposition will readily guide it toward the Form of each thing that is.”

“Certainly.” [486e]

“Well, do you think any of the qualities we have described are unnecessary, or fail to follow one another in a soul destined to have a sufficient and complete share in being?”

[487a] “They could not be more necessary,” he said.

“Can you find fault, then, with a pursuit that no one could practice adequately unless he were by nature retentive, quick to learn, great-souled, gracious, and a friend and kinsman to truth, justice, courage, and temperance?”

“Not even Momus,” he said, “could find fault with that.”

“And when people of this kind have matured through education and age,” I said, “would you not entrust the city to them alone?” [487b]

Then Adeimantus said, “Socrates, no one could contradict you on these points. But here is what happens to your listeners whenever you speak like this. They think that, through inexperience in questions and answers, they are led a little astray by the argument at each question; when all those small deviations are added together at the end, a great error appears, contradicting their original position. And just as unskilled players are finally hemmed in by experts at the board game and have no move to make, so they too are finally hemmed in and have nothing [487c] to say, by a different kind of game played not with pieces but with words. Yet this does nothing to settle the truth. I say this with an eye to our present case. Someone might say to you now that he cannot oppose you in words on each separate question, but sees in practice that those who take up philosophy and, instead of studying it in youth for the sake of an education [487d] and then leaving it, linger with it longer—the great majority become altogether eccentric, not to say thoroughly wicked; while even those thought most decent are rendered useless to their cities by the very pursuit you praise.”

Hearing this, I said, “Do you think those who say this are lying?”

“I don't know,” he said, “but I should be glad to hear what you think.”

“You would hear that I think they speak the truth.” [487e]

“Then how can it be right to say that cities will never be rid of their troubles until philosophers rule in them, when we agree that philosophers are useless to them?”

“You ask a question,” I said, “that calls for an answer in the form of an image.”

“And you, I suppose,” he said, “are quite unaccustomed to speaking in images.”

“Very well,” I said. “You mock me after drawing me into so [488a] hard a demonstration! Hear the image, then, and see all the better how clumsy I am at making comparisons. What happens to the best men in their dealings with cities is so strange that there is no single other situation like it; one must draw the likeness from many things in defending them, as painters combine goat-stags and other such creatures. Imagine this happening on one ship or several: a shipowner larger and [488b] stronger than everyone aboard, but rather deaf, rather shortsighted, and no better equipped in seamanship; and sailors quarreling with one another over the helm, each thinking he ought to steer, though none has ever learned the art or can name his teacher or the time when he learned. What is more, they insist it cannot be taught, and stand ready to cut to pieces anyone who says it can. They continually crowd around [488c] the shipowner, pleading and doing everything they can to make him hand over the rudder to them. Sometimes, if others prevail over them, they kill those others or throw them off the ship. Then, having subdued the noble shipowner with mandrake, drink, or some other means, they take command of the ship and use up its stores, drinking and feasting as men of their sort might be expected to do while they sail. Moreover, they praise [488d] and call a man a sailor, a pilot, and a master of seamanship if he is clever at securing command for them by persuading or coercing the shipowner; anyone who is not they condemn as useless. Of the true pilot they have no understanding: that he must attend to the year, the seasons, the heavens, the stars, the winds, and everything else belonging to his art if he is truly to command a ship. As for learning how to steer [488e] whether others want it or not, they think it impossible to acquire both that skill and its practice together with the art of navigation. When such things happen aboard ships, don't you think the true pilot would actually be called a stargazer, a chatterer, and a useless man [489a] by those sailing on ships organized in this way?”

“Certainly,” said Adeimantus.

“I don't think,” I said, “you need the image explained in detail to see its likeness to the attitude of cities toward true philosophers; you understand what I mean.”

“Indeed I do,” he said.

“Then first teach this image to the man who wonders why philosophers are not honored in cities, and try to persuade him that it would be far more astonishing [489b] if they were honored.”

“I will,” he said.

“And tell him that you speak truly when you say that the best philosophers are useless to the many. But bid him blame their uselessness on those who do not make use of them, not on the decent men themselves. A pilot does not naturally beg sailors to accept his command, nor do the wise naturally go to the doors of the rich. The man who devised that clever saying spoke falsely. The truth is that anyone who is ill, whether rich or poor, must go to the doors of physicians, [489c] and everyone needing to be ruled must go to the person capable of ruling. It is not for a ruler, if he is truly of any use, to beg those he rules to let him rule. You will not err if you compare today's political rulers to the sailors we described, and those whom they call useless and star-gazing talkers to the true pilots.”

“Quite right,” he said.

“Under these circumstances, then, it is not easy for the best pursuit to win esteem among people who pursue its opposite. But by far the gravest and strongest slander against philosophy comes from those who claim to practice it. Your critic of philosophy says that [489d] most of those who turn to it are utterly wicked, and the best are useless; and I agreed that you spoke truly. Did I not?”

“Yes.”

“Have we now explained the reason for the decent ones' uselessness?”

“Fully.”

“Shall we next examine why the majority inevitably become wicked, and try, if we can, to show that philosophy is not responsible for this either?” [489e]

“By all means.”

“Let us speak and listen, then, recalling the point from which we described the nature a person must have to become noble and good. [490a] Truth, if you remember, led that nature first of all; a person had to pursue it in every way, or else, being a fraud, have no share in true philosophy.”

“That is what we said,” he replied.

“And this one point is sharply at odds with current opinion about him, isn't it?”

“Very much so,” he said.

“Would this be a fair defense of our position, then? The genuine lover of learning is by nature driven to contend for being, and does not [490b] rest with the many particular things that seem to be. He goes forward; his love neither grows dull nor gives out until he touches the very nature of what each thing is, with that part of the soul suited to grasp it—the part akin to it. Drawing near with that part and joining with what truly is, he gives birth to understanding and truth; then he knows, truly lives and is nourished, and only then is delivered of his labor pains, not before.”

“That is as fair a defense as could be,” he said.

“Then would such a man have any part in loving falsehood, or rather in hating it altogether?” [490c]

“In hating it,” he said.

“When truth leads the way, I think we could never say that a chorus of evils follows her.”

“How could we?”

“Rather, a sound and just character follows, with temperance attending it.”

“Right,” he said.

“And why marshal the rest of the philosopher's natural company all over again? You remember that courage, greatness of soul, quickness to learn, and memory proved to be their proper companions. You objected that everyone would have to [490d] agree with what we say, yet, setting aside our arguments and looking at the people in question, would claim to see some who are useless and most who are wicked in every way. We are now examining the cause of this slander, asking why most become wicked; and this is why we have taken up the nature of true philosophers once more and defined it as necessity required.”

“So we have,” he said. [490e]

“Now,” I said, “we must look at the corruption of this nature: how it is destroyed in most people, though a small remnant escapes, those called not wicked but useless. [491a] After that, we must look at the natures that imitate it and take up its pursuit: what kinds of souls come to a pursuit unworthy of them and beyond their powers, go astray in many ways, and everywhere attach to philosophy, in everyone's eyes, the reputation you speak of.”

“What kinds of corruption do you mean?” he asked.

“I shall try to describe them if I can,” I said. “Everyone, I think, will agree that a nature possessing all the qualities we assigned it just now, if it is to become a philosopher in the fullest sense, arises rarely among human beings, and in very few. Don't you think so?” [491b]

“Very much so.”

“Consider, then, how many great perils beset these few.”

“What perils?”

“Strangest of all to hear, each one of the qualities for which we praised this nature destroys the soul that possesses it and tears it away from philosophy. I mean courage, temperance, and all the qualities we listed.”

“That sounds strange,” he said. [491c]

“And besides these, all the things called good corrupt and draw it away: beauty, wealth, bodily strength, powerful family connections within the city, and everything akin to these. You see the general shape of what I mean.”

“I do,” he said, “but I would gladly hear a more exact account.”

“Then grasp the whole matter properly,” I said, “and it will become clear to you, and what we said before about these things will no longer seem strange.”

“How shall I do that?” he asked. [491d]

“We know that every seed and living thing, whether a plant of the earth or an animal, if it fails to obtain the nourishment, season, and place appropriate to it, is deficient in what it needs in proportion to its strength: the stronger it is, the more it lacks. For what is bad is more opposed to what is good than to what is not good.”

“Of course.”

“It stands to reason, then, that the finest nature fares worse under unsuitable nourishment than an inferior one.”

“It does.” [491e]

“Shall we say likewise, Adeimantus, that the best-endowed souls become exceptionally bad when they meet with a bad education? Or do you think great crimes and unalloyed wickedness spring from an inferior nature, not a vigorous one ruined by its upbringing, while a weak nature can never be the cause of great good or great evil?”

“No,” he said, “it is as you say.”

[492a] “So the nature we assigned to the philosopher, if it receives the learning appropriate to it, must, I think, grow into every virtue; but if it is sown and planted where it does not belong and brought up there, it grows toward every opposite, unless some god happens to come to its aid. Or do you too believe, as most do, that certain young men are corrupted by sophists, and certain private sophists corrupt them to any significant degree? Is it not rather the very people who say this who are the greatest sophists, educating most completely and shaping young and old, men and women, into whatever they wish?” [492b]

“When do they do this?” he asked.

“When the multitude sits together in assemblies, law courts, theaters, camps, or any other gathering of a crowd, and with a great uproar condemns some things said or done and praises others, extravagantly in either direction, shouting and clapping, while the rocks and the place where they meet echo back [492c] twice the din of their praise and blame. In such a setting, what heart do you think a young man has, as the saying goes? What private education of his [could] hold out, rather than be overwhelmed by such blame and praise and swept along wherever that current carries him? Will he not call the same things beautiful and shameful as they do, pursue what they pursue, and become just like them?”

“He can hardly do otherwise, Socrates,” he said. [492d]

“And yet,” I said, “we have not mentioned their greatest compulsion.”

“What is it?” he asked.

“What these educators and sophists add in deeds when words do not persuade. Don't you know they punish anyone who disobeys them with loss of rights, fines, and death?”

“I know it very well,” he said.

“What other sophist, then, or what private person's arguments directed against these could possibly prevail?” [492e]

“None, I think,” he said.

“No,” I said; “indeed, even to attempt it is great folly. For a human character educated by them toward a different kind of virtue neither comes into being nor has come into being nor ever will. We must except a divine character from our account, my friend, as the proverb says. You may be sure that whatever survives and

### Book VI, 493–500

[493a] becomes what it ought to be in such a condition of political life—you will not be wrong to say that a divine dispensation preserved it.”

“I think so too,” he said.

“Now add this to your understanding,” I said.

“What?”

“Each of the private teachers who takes a fee, whom these people call sophists and regard as their rivals, teaches nothing other than the opinions the multitude forms when assembled, and calls this wisdom. It is as if someone were raising a huge, powerful beast and made a careful study of its moods and [493b] appetites: how to approach it and where to touch it, when it is fiercest or gentlest and what brings on either state, what sounds it habitually makes in each circumstance, and what sounds from another person soothe or provoke it. Suppose that, having learned all this by living with it over time, he called his knowledge wisdom, organized it into an art, and set out to teach it, though he had no true understanding of which of the beast's opinions and appetites were beautiful or shameful, [493c] good or bad, just or unjust. He would assign all these names according to the great animal's judgments, calling what pleases it good and what troubles it bad, with no further account to give, and calling what is necessary just and beautiful, although he had neither seen the real difference between the necessary and the good nor could show it to another. By Zeus, would you not find such a teacher absurd?”

“I would,” he said.

“[493d] Do you see any difference between him and someone who thinks wisdom consists in understanding the moods and pleasures of the motley multitude when it gathers, whether in painting, music, or politics? For if a person associates with the crowd and puts his poetry, some other handiwork, or service to the city on display, making the multitude his master beyond what is unavoidable, a so-called Diomedean necessity forces him to do what they applaud. But have you ever heard one of these men offer an account, not laughable, showing that what the crowd applauds really is good and beautiful?”

“I doubt,” he said, “that I ever shall.” [493e]

“Bearing all this in mind, remember one thing: can a multitude ever accept, or believe in, the beautiful itself instead of the many beautiful things, or any one thing itself instead of its many instances? [494a]”

“Certainly not,” he said.

“Then it is impossible,” I said, “for a multitude to be philosophic.”

“Impossible.”

“And philosophers must therefore be censured by them.”

“They must.”

“And also by those private teachers who associate with the crowd and seek its approval.”

“Clearly.”

“From all this, what prospect do you see for a philosophic nature to stay with its pursuit and reach its goal? Think back to what we established: quickness to learn, memory, courage, and greatness of soul belong to this nature.” [494b]

“Yes.”

“Will such a person not stand out among all children from the start, especially if his body matches his soul?”

“Of course he will,” he said.

“And as he grows older, both his family and his fellow citizens will want to use him for their own purposes, I imagine.”

“Of course.” [494c]

“So they will fall at his feet with requests and honors, courting his future power in advance with flattery.”

“That is what usually happens,” he said.

“What do you think,” I asked, “such a man will do amid all this, especially if he comes from a great city and is wealthy and wellborn there, handsome as well as tall? Will he not be filled with impossible hopes, imagining himself capable of managing [494d] the affairs of Greeks and foreigners alike, and on this account lift himself high, swollen with empty pretension and pride, without understanding?”

“Indeed he will,” he said.

“If someone quietly approaches a person in this state and tells him the truth—that he lacks understanding and needs it, and that it cannot be acquired without submitting to the discipline of acquiring it—do you think he can readily hear this amid so many evils?”

“Far from it,” he said.

“[494e] Suppose, though,” I said, “that because of his good nature and some kinship with these arguments, he somehow senses their truth and turns and is drawn toward philosophy. What do we think the people who believe they are losing his services and companionship will do? Will they not say and do everything they can to keep him from being persuaded, and do everything to the one persuading him to make him powerless, laying plots in private and bringing public charges against him?”

[495a] “They surely will,” he said.

“Is there any way, then, for such a person to practice philosophy?”

“Hardly.”

“Do you see,” I said, “that we were not wrong to say that even the very qualities of a philosophic nature, when they receive a bad upbringing, contribute in a way to its falling away from its pursuit, along with what are called good things—wealth and all such advantages?”

“We were right,” he said.

“This, my extraordinary friend,” I said, “is how far and how deeply [495b] the finest nature may be ruined and corrupted, though it is rare to begin with, as we say. And it is from such men that those who do the greatest evil to cities and private individuals arise, as well as those who do the greatest good, if the current happens to carry them that way. A small nature never does anything great for anyone, whether an individual or a city.” [495b]

“Very true,” he said.

“These people, then, [495c] fall away, though philosophy belongs most properly to them. They leave her desolate and unfulfilled, while they themselves lead lives that are neither fitting nor true. And others, unworthy intruders, enter into her company as if she were an orphan bereft of kin; they disgrace her and fasten on her the reproaches you say her critics make: that some of her companions are worth nothing, and most deserve blame for many evils.” [495c]

“That is what people say,” he replied.

“And reasonably so,” I said. “For other little men see this territory deserted yet filled with splendid names and pretensions. [495d] Like prisoners fleeing from jail to take refuge at shrines, they gladly leap from their trades into philosophy, especially the cleverest at their own petty craft. Even in her present state philosophy retains a dignity grander than the other crafts. Many aspire to it who are incomplete in nature, whose bodies have been maimed by their trades and manual work, [495e] and whose souls have likewise been stunted and crushed by their menial occupations. Is it not inevitable?”

“Entirely,” he said. [495e]

“Do you think they look any different,” I asked, “from a short, bald coppersmith who has made some money, lately released from chains, freshly washed at the baths, wearing a new cloak and arrayed as a bridegroom, about to marry his master's daughter because her father is poor and left alone?”

“Not very different,” he said. [496a]

“What children would such a pair likely bring forth? Bastards and weaklings, surely?”

“Necessarily.”

“And when those unworthy of education approach philosophy and consort with her in a manner unworthy of her, what thoughts and opinions shall we say they produce? Are they not what truly deserve the name of sophisms, with nothing legitimate in them and nothing [worthy of] genuine understanding?”

“Absolutely,” he said.

“Very few remain, then, Adeimantus,” I said, “who [496b] consort with philosophy as she deserves. Perhaps there is a noble and well-brought-up character, kept away from corruption by exile, who remains faithful to her by nature for want of those who would corrupt him; or a great soul is born in a little city, despises its affairs, and looks beyond them. A few of good nature may also come to her from another craft, rightly despising their own. There might also be a restraint capable of holding someone back, such as that [496c] of our companion Theages: all the other conditions for falling away from philosophy are present in Theages, but the infirmity of his body keeps him out of politics and holds him fast. As for my own case, the divine sign, it is hardly worth mentioning; it has come to scarcely anyone before me, if to anyone at all. Now these few who have become philosophers and tasted how sweet and blessed a possession philosophy is, who have also seen enough of the madness of the many, and seen that hardly anyone acts soundly in the affairs of cities, and that there is [496d] no ally with whom a man can go to defend justice and remain safe—such a man is like someone who has fallen among wild beasts. Unwilling to join in their wrongdoing and unable alone to withstand all their savagery, he would perish before doing his city or his friends any good, and be of no use either to himself or to others. Considering all this, he keeps quiet and minds his own affairs, like a man who takes shelter behind a little wall when wind drives dust and rain in a storm. Seeing the others filled with lawlessness, he is content if he can somehow live his life here unstained by injustice and impious [496e] deeds, and depart from it with good hope, gracious and at peace.”

[497a] “Yet he would have accomplished no small thing before departing,” he said.

“Nor the greatest,” I said, “since he has not found a constitution suited to him. Under one that suited him he would grow greater himself and preserve the public good along with his own. So much for the sources of philosophy's bad name and why she does not deserve it; I think we have said enough, unless you have something more to add.”

“I have nothing more to add on that point,” he said. “But which of the present constitutions do you say suits her?” [497b]

“Not a single one,” I said. “My very complaint is that no present political order is worthy of a philosophic nature. That is why it becomes twisted and altered. As a foreign seed sown in another soil commonly loses its own character and is overcome by the native growth, so now this kind of nature cannot hold to its own power but falls into an alien character. But if it obtains the finest constitution, as it is itself the finest, it will show that it is truly divine, while all the other kinds of natures and pursuits are human. I can see that your next question will be what this constitution is.” [497c]

“You have it wrong,” he said. “I meant to ask whether it is the very one we have described while founding our city, or another.”

“In other respects, this very one,” I said. “But we said even then that there must always be something in the city that holds the same understanding of the constitution that you, its lawgiver, held when you established the laws.”

“Yes, we did,” he said. [497d]

“But we did not make it clear enough,” I said, “for fear of the objections you raised, which have made clear how long and difficult its demonstration is. And what remains is not altogether easy to explain.”

“What remains?”

“How a city may take up philosophy without being destroyed. For everything great is precarious, and as the saying goes, what is beautiful is truly hard.”

“All the same,” he said, “let the demonstration come to its end by making this clear.” [497e]

“It will not be unwillingness,” I said, “that prevents me, but lack of ability, if anything. Here beside me, you will see my eagerness. See even now how eagerly and boldly I am about to say that a city must engage in this pursuit in the opposite way from its present practice.”

“How?”

“At present,” I said, “even those who take it up do so as boys just emerging from childhood. [498a] In the interval before household management and moneymaking claim them, they approach its most difficult part and then leave it behind, even those reputed the most devoted to philosophy. By its most difficult part I mean the study of arguments. Later, if invited by others engaged in it, they think it a great thing even to agree to listen, regarding it as a sideline. And by old age, except for a very few, they are extinguished far more completely than [498b] Heraclitus's sun, since they are not rekindled.”

“How should it be, then?” he asked.

“Entirely the opposite. As boys and youths they should undertake education and philosophy suited to their youth, taking excellent care of their bodies while these are growing to maturity, so as to secure an instrument for philosophy. As age advances and the soul begins to reach perfection, they should intensify the soul's exercises. And when their strength wanes and they are free of political duties and campaigns, those who are to live happily and, after death, meet with a destiny there befitting the life they have lived should at last be left free to range at will, doing nothing else except as an incidental task.” [498c]

“You certainly sound eager, Socrates,” he said. “But I think most of your listeners will oppose you with even greater eagerness and refuse to be persuaded in the slightest, beginning with Thrasymachus.”

“Don't set me against Thrasymachus,” I said, “when we have only just become friends and were not enemies before. We shall spare no effort until we persuade him and the others, or at least do something useful for that life when they are born again and meet with arguments of this kind.” [498d]

“A short time you have in mind,” he said.

“No time at all,” I said, “compared with the whole of time. Still, it is no wonder the many do not believe what we say. Never have they seen what we are speaking of come to pass. [498e] Rather, they have seen phrases deliberately made to resemble one another, not arguments that have come together naturally as ours have. Nor have they ever seen a man matched and made as like to virtue as humanly possible, in word and deed alike, [499a] ruling in a city of like character—not one man, let alone several.”

“Never,” he said.

“Nor, my good friend, have they heard enough arguments that are noble and free, arguments that strain in every way to seek the truth for the sake of knowing it, while holding far off those clever, contentious devices aimed only at reputation and quarrels, whether in courts or private gatherings.”

“No, they have not,” he said.

“For these reasons,” I said, “and foreseeing this, we spoke then despite our fears, compelled by the truth: no city, constitution, or individual can ever become perfect until some chance necessity forces these few philosophers, not wicked but now called useless, to care for a city, whether they wish it or not, and forces the city to obey; or until a true love of true philosophy falls by some divine inspiration upon the sons of those now in power or upon the rulers themselves. I say there is no reason to maintain that either of these things, or both, is impossible. Otherwise we would rightly be laughed at for speaking only in the language of wishful prayer. Don't you agree?” [499b] [499c]

“I do.”

“If, then, in the boundless time past some necessity has forced those supreme in philosophy to take charge of a city, or if it is happening now in some foreign land far beyond our sight, or if it will happen in the future, we are ready to defend in argument that the constitution we have described has existed, does exist, and will exist whenever this Muse takes possession of a city. It is not impossible, and we do not speak of impossibilities; but we too admit it is difficult.” [499d]

“I think so too,” he said.

“But you will say that the many do not think so?” I asked.

“Perhaps,” he said.

“My friend,” I said, “do not accuse the many so severely. [499e] They will think differently if, instead of contending with them, you gently address them and remove the slander against the love of learning, showing them whom you mean by philosophers and [500a] distinguishing their nature and pursuit as we just did, so that they do not think you mean the people they have in mind. [Even if they look at them in that way, will you claim that they will not change their minds and answer differently?] Do you think anyone whose own nature is generous and gentle grows angry at one who is not angry, or envies one who is free of envy? Let me anticipate you: I think that a nature so harsh arises in a few, not in the multitude.”

“I think so too, certainly,” he said. [500b]

“Then agree with this as well: those responsible for the multitude's harsh attitude to philosophy are the outsiders who burst in where they do not belong, abusing one another, delighting in hostility, and always making people the subject of their arguments—conduct least fitting to philosophy.”

“Very much so,” he said.

“For surely, Adeimantus, someone whose mind is truly fixed on things that are has no leisure to look down upon [500c] human affairs, quarrel with people, and fill himself with envy and ill will. Instead, looking at things ordered and forever the same, seeing them neither wronging nor wronged by one another, but all arranged in harmony and according to reason, such people imitate them and make themselves as like them as they can. Or do you think it possible for a person not to imitate what he admires and lives in company with?”

“Impossible,” he said.

“Then the philosopher, keeping company with what is divine and orderly, becomes orderly and divine so far as a human being can, though slander abounds in every sphere.” [500d]

“Indeed.”

“If, then,” I said, “some necessity compels him to put into practice what he sees there, shaping human characters in private and public life instead of shaping only his own, do you think he will prove a poor craftsman of temperance, justice, and every virtue belonging to a community?”

“Far from it,” he said.

“But if the many realize that what we say of him is true, will they be angry with philosophers and distrust us when we say that a city can never be happy unless it is drawn by painters who use the divine pattern?” [500e]

“They will not be angry, if they realize it,” he said.

“But then—

### Book VI, 501–508

[501a] “What manner of painting do you mean?”

“Taking the city and human characters as their canvas,” I said, “they would first wipe it clean—not at all an easy thing. But you know this is precisely how they would differ from others at the outset: they would refuse to touch either a person or a city, or draw up laws, until they had received a clean canvas or made it clean themselves.”

“And rightly so,” he said.

“After that, don't you think they would sketch the outline of the constitution?”

“Of course.” [501b]

“Then, as they worked it out, I think they would look repeatedly in both directions: toward what is just, beautiful, temperate, and everything of that kind by nature, and again toward what they were producing among human beings. By mingling and blending their ways of life, they would create the human likeness, taking their measure from what Homer called the godlike and god-resembling quality that arises in human beings.”

“Right,” he said.

“And I imagine they would erase one feature and paint in another [501c] until they had made human characters, as far as possible, beloved of the gods.”

“At any rate,” he said, “the painting would be most beautiful.”

“Then,” I said, “are we persuading those people whom you said were marching against us in battle formation that the painter of constitutions is the kind of person we were praising to them before—the very one they resented us for entrusting with cities? Are they growing a little gentler as they hear this?”

“Much gentler,” he said, “if they have any sense.” [501d]

“For how will they dispute it? Will they say philosophers are not lovers of what is and of truth?”

“That would be absurd,” he said.

“Or that their nature, as we described it, is not akin to what is best?”

“Nor that.”

“What then? That such a nature, when it receives the pursuits proper to it, will not become perfectly good and philosophical, if any nature can? Or will they claim this rather for the people we excluded?” [501e]

“Surely not.”

“Will they still be fierce with us when we say that until the philosophical kind takes control of a city there will be no end to evils for city or citizens, and the constitution we are telling of in words will never find its fulfillment in deeds?”

“Perhaps less fierce,” he said.

“Would you like us to say,” I asked, “not merely that they are less fierce, but

[502a] that they have become altogether gentle and persuaded, so that, if nothing else, shame will make them agree?”

“By all means,” he said.

“Let them, then,” I said, “be persuaded of that. But will anyone dispute this: that among the children of kings or rulers there might be some whose natures are philosophical?”

“No one,” he said.

“And can anyone say that, once born, they must inevitably be corrupted? That it is hard for them to survive, we [502b] too concede; but will anyone contend that in all time not a single one of them could ever survive?”

“How could they?”

“And yet,” I said, “one such person, if he arose and had a city willing to obey him, would suffice to accomplish all the things now thought incredible.”

“He would suffice,” he said.

“For if a ruler laid down the laws and ways of life we have described,” I said, “it is surely not impossible that the citizens would be willing to follow them.”

“Not in the least.”

“But is it so astonishing and impossible that others should come to think what we think?” [502c]

“I don't think so,” he said.

“And that these arrangements would be best, if they were possible, we have, I believe, shown sufficiently already.”

“Yes, sufficiently.”

“So now, it seems, we reach this conclusion about our legislation: what we propose would be best if it came to pass, and hard, but not impossible, to bring about.”

“That is our conclusion,” he said.

“Now that we have brought that question to its end, with difficulty, we must speak of what remains: by what means, through what studies [502d] and practices, the saviors of our constitution will come into being, and at what ages each is to take up each pursuit.”

“We must,” he said.

“It was no cleverness of mine,” I said, “to pass over earlier the troublesome question of the possession of women, the begetting of children, and the appointment of rulers, though I knew that the whole truth would prove both contentious and difficult. For now the necessity of going through those things has come upon us just the same. [502e] The questions of women and children are finished, but that of rulers must be taken up, as it were, from the beginning. We said,

[503a] if you remember, that they must show themselves devoted to their city when tested by pleasures and pains, and must never be seen casting off this conviction amid labors, fears, or any other change of fortune. Whoever could not hold fast was to be rejected; but whoever came through every trial unalloyed, like gold tested in fire, was to be established as a ruler and given honors and prizes both in life and after death. Something like that is what we said, while the argument slipped past and concealed [503b] itself, afraid to stir the question now before us.”

“What you say is entirely true,” he said. “I remember.”

“For I was hesitant, my friend,” I said, “to say what we have now dared to say. But now let it stand, boldly spoken: we must appoint philosophers as the most exacting guardians.”

“Let it stand,” he said.

“Consider, then, how few of them you are likely to have. The parts of the nature we described as necessary for them seldom consent to grow together in one person; for the most part they arise separately.” [503c]

“What do you mean?” he said.

“You know that quick learners, people with good memories, keen minds, and sharp wits, and all the qualities that go with these, are not usually also high-spirited and large-minded in the way needed to live with order, calm, and steadiness. Such people are carried wherever their quickness takes them, and every trace of stability leaves them.”

“What you say is true,” he said.

“On the other hand, those steadfast, unchanging characters [503d] whom one might trust more readily for their reliability, and who are hard to shake with fear in war, are the same when it comes to learning: they are sluggish and slow to understand, as if numbed, and fill up with sleep and yawns whenever they have to work at anything of that sort.”

“That is so,” he said.

“Yet we say they must share fully and admirably in both sets of qualities; otherwise we must give them neither the most exacting education, nor honor, nor power.”

“Right,” he said.

“Do you not think such a combination will be rare?”

“How could it not?” [503e]

“They must be tested, then, in the labors, fears, and pleasures we spoke of before. And we should now add what we omitted then: they must be exercised in many studies to see whether their nature can bear the greatest studies too, or [504a] whether it will lose courage, as people do in other trials.”

“It certainly makes sense to test them so,” he said. “But what do you call the greatest studies?”

“You remember, I expect,” I said, “how we distinguished three kinds in the soul and brought them together to determine what justice, temperance, courage, and wisdom each are.”

“If I did not remember,” he said, “I would not deserve to hear the rest.”

“And do you remember what was said before that?”

“What was that?” [504b]

“We said that to see these things as beautifully as possible there was another, longer road, and that by traveling it we could see them clearly; but that we could offer demonstrations consistent with what had been said earlier. You said that would suffice, and so our account was given then, short of exactness, as it seemed to me. Whether it satisfied you is for you to say.”

“It seemed adequate to me,” he said, “and to the others too.” [504c]

“But, my friend,” I said, “a measure of such things that falls even a little short of reality is hardly adequate; nothing incomplete is the measure of anything. Yet some people sometimes think they have enough already and need seek no further.”

“Yes,” he said, “many suffer from that through laziness.”

“And there is no affliction a guardian of a city and its laws needs less,” I said.

“Naturally,” he said.

“Such a person, then, my friend,” I said, “must travel the longer road, [504d] and labor no less at learning than at physical training; otherwise, as we said just now, he will never reach the end of the greatest and most fitting study.”

“Are these not the greatest studies, then?” he said. “Is there something still greater than justice and the things we discussed?”

“Something greater,” I said. “And even in these matters we must not look at a mere sketch, as we have now, but must not leave the most finished work undone. Would it not be ridiculous to strain every effort over other things of little worth [504e] so that they might be as exact and pure as possible, yet not think the greatest things worthy of the greatest exactness?”

“Very much so,” he said. “[The thought is well worth considering.] But as for this greatest study and what its subject is, do you think anyone will let you go without asking what you mean?”

“Hardly,” I said. “Ask away. You have certainly heard it often enough, but now either you do not recall, or else you intend

[505a] to make trouble for me by pressing the point. I suspect it is the latter. For you have often heard that the Form of the Good is the greatest study: by their relation to it just things and all the rest become useful and beneficial. You know well enough that this is what I am about to say, and, besides, that we do not know it adequately. But if we do not know it, then even if we know everything else as fully as possible, you know it will do us no good—any more than possessing anything [505b] without the Good. Or do you think there is any gain in acquiring every possession unless it is good, or in understanding everything else without the Good, while understanding nothing beautiful and good?”

“By Zeus, I do not,” he said.

“Yet you also know that most people take the Good to be pleasure, while the more sophisticated take it to be wisdom.”

“Of course.”

“And those who hold the latter view, my friend, cannot show what wisdom they mean, but end by being forced to say that it is wisdom of the Good.”

“Which is utterly ridiculous,” he said. [505c]

“How could it not be?” I said. “They reproach us for not knowing the Good, and then speak to us as though we knew it: they say it is wisdom of the Good, as if we understood what they meant once they uttered the name ‘Good.’”

“Entirely true,” he said.

“And those who define the Good as pleasure? Are they any less deeply lost than the others? Are they not forced to admit that some pleasures are bad?”

“Very much so.”

“So they are compelled, I think, to admit that the same things are both good and bad. Isn't that so?” [505d]

“Of course.”

“Then it is clear that there are many great disputes about it?”

“How could it not be?”

“And isn't this clear too? Many people would choose things that only seem just and beautiful, even if they were not, and would still act upon them, possess them, and be thought to possess them. But where good things are concerned, no one is satisfied with merely seeming goods: people seek what really is good, and here everyone disdains mere appearance.”

“Very much so,” he said.

“This, then, is what every soul pursues and for whose sake it [505e] does everything, sensing that it is something; yet the soul is perplexed and cannot adequately grasp what it is, or hold a firm conviction about it as it does about other things, and so loses whatever benefit there might be in those other things. Shall we say that the best people in our city, into whose hands we entrust everything, [506a] must remain in such darkness about a thing so great and so important?”

“Certainly not,” he said.

“I think,” I said, “that just and beautiful things will have a guardian of little worth if he does not know in what way they are good; and I suspect that no one will know them adequately before he knows that.”

“Your suspicion is sound,” he said.

“Will our constitution, then, be perfectly ordered if [506b] it is watched over by a guardian who knows these things?”

“It must be,” he said. “But tell me, Socrates: do you say the Good is knowledge, or pleasure, or something other than these?”

“There you are,” I said. “For some time it has been plain that other people's opinions about it would not satisfy you.”

“Nor does it seem right to me, Socrates,” he said, “that someone who has spent so long working on these matters can state the opinions of others but not his own.” [506c]

“Well,” I said, “does it seem right to you for someone to speak as though he knew what he does not know?”

“Not as though he knew,” he said, “but he should be willing to say what he believes, as a belief.”

“What?” I said. “Have you not noticed how shameful opinions without knowledge all are? Even the best of them are blind. Do people who hold a true belief without understanding seem any different to you from blind people walking the right road?”

“No different,” he said.

“Would you rather behold what is shameful, blind, and crooked, when you can hear what is clear and beautiful from others?” [506d]

“By Zeus, Socrates,” Glaucon said, “don't turn away when you are almost at the end. It will be enough for us if you discuss the Good as you discussed justice, temperance, and the other things.”

“And for me too, my friend,” I said, “that would be more than enough. But I fear I may not be able to do it; eager as I am, I might make a spectacle of myself and invite laughter. No, my good friends, let us leave aside for now what the Good itself [506e] is; reaching even my present notion of it seems beyond the force of our present undertaking. But I am willing to speak of what appears to be its offspring and its closest likeness, if that pleases you; otherwise, let us leave it.”

“Speak,” he said. “You can pay us the account of the father another time.”

[507a] “I wish,” I said, “I could pay it and you could receive it, instead of receiving only the interest, as you will now. But receive this interest, the offspring of the Good itself. Take care, though, that I don't inadvertently deceive you by paying you a counterfeit account of the interest.”

“We shall take care as best we can,” he said. “Only speak.”

“Once we have come to an agreement,” I said, “and I have reminded you of what we said earlier, and what we have often said at other times too.” [507b]

“What is that?” he asked.

“We say there are many beautiful things and many good things, and so with each kind; we distinguish them in speech.”

“Yes, we do.”

“And we speak also of the Beautiful itself and the Good itself. In the same way, for all the things we then posited as many, we now posit in turn one Form for each, as each is one, and call it what each thing is.”

“That is so.”

“And we say the many things can be seen but not thought, while the Forms can be thought but not seen.”

“Exactly.” [507c]

“By what in ourselves, then, do we see things that can be seen?”

“By sight,” he said.

“And by hearing we hear things that can be heard, and by the other senses perceive everything perceptible?”

“Of course.”

“Have you noticed,” I said, “how lavishly the maker of the senses fashioned the power of seeing and being seen?”

“Not especially,” he said.

“Consider it this way. Do hearing and sound need some other kind of thing, in addition, for the one to hear and the other to be heard—something third that must be present, [507d] without which neither hearing nor being heard can happen?”

“They need nothing,” he said.

“And I think,” I said, “that many other senses—perhaps all of them—need nothing of the sort. Can you name one that does?”

“No,” he said.

“But don't you see that sight and visible things need something in addition?”

“How so?”

“Even if sight resides in the eyes and their owner tries to use it, and color is present in the objects, unless a third kind of thing, naturally suited to this very purpose, is present, [507e] you know sight will see nothing and the colors will remain unseen.”

“What thing do you mean?” he asked.

“What you call light,” I said.

“True,” he said.

“So sight and the power of being seen are yoked together by a bond of no slight worth, more precious than the bonds joining the other senses to their objects,

[508a] if light is indeed precious.”

“It is far from worthless,” he said.

“Which of the gods in heaven can you name as master of this light, by which our sight sees most beautifully and visible things are seen?”

“The one you would name, and everyone else,” he said. “Clearly you mean the sun.”

“Does sight stand in this relation to that god?”

“What relation?”

“Sight is not the sun, either in itself or in the organ in which it arises, [508b] which we call the eye.”

“Certainly not.”

“But of all the organs of sense the eye is, I think, the most sunlike.”

“By far.”

“And the power it possesses is dispensed to it from the sun, as a kind of outflow?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“And so the sun, though not itself sight, is the cause of sight and is seen by sight itself?”

“That is so,” he said.

“Then this,” I said, “is what I mean by the offspring of the Good, begotten by the Good in its own likeness: as the Good is in the intelligible realm toward understanding and what is understood, [508c] so is the sun in the visible realm toward sight and what is seen.”

“How?” he said. “Explain it further.”

“You know,” I said, “that when someone turns the eyes toward things whose colors receive not the light of day but only the glimmer of night, the eyes grow dim and seem almost blind, as though clear sight were no longer in them?”

“Very much so,” he said. [508d]

“But when one turns them toward what the sun illuminates, they see clearly, and it becomes apparent that sight dwells in those same eyes.”

“Of course.”

“Understand the soul in the same way. When it fixes itself on something lit by truth and being, it understands and knows it, and seems to possess intelligence. But when it turns to what is mingled with darkness, what comes to be and passes away, it holds opinions and sees dimly, changing its opinions this way and that, and again seems to lack intelligence.”

“So it seems,” he said. [508e]

“Say, then, that what gives truth to things known and the power of knowing to the knower is the Form of the Good. It is the cause of knowledge and truth; and though you must think of it as itself an object of knowledge, and though knowledge and truth are both beautiful, you will be right to hold it other and more beautiful still than they are. Knowledge

### Book VI, 509–511

[509a] and truth, like light and sight in the other realm, are rightly thought sunlike, but not rightly thought to be the sun. So here too it is right to think both of them like the Good, but not right to think either of them is the Good itself. We must honor the condition of the Good even more highly.”

“What an extraordinary beauty you describe,” he said, “if it gives knowledge and truth, yet is itself above them in beauty. Surely you are not saying that it is pleasure.”

“Mind your words,” I said. “Look further instead at its image in this way.” [509b]

“How?”

“You will say, I think, that the sun gives visible things not only the power to be seen, but also their coming into being, growth, and nourishment, though it is not itself coming into being.”

“Of course not.”

“Say likewise that the things we know receive from the Good not only their being known, but also their being and their essence; the Good is not essence, but is still beyond essence, surpassing it in dignity and power.” [509c]

And Glaucon said, with a laugh, “Apollo! What a divine excess!”

“You are to blame,” I said, “for forcing me to say what I think about it.”

“Don't stop now,” he said. “At least continue through the comparison with the sun, if you have left anything out.”

“I have left a great deal out,” I said.

“Then don't leave out even a little of it,” he said.

“I suspect I will leave out much,” I said. “Still, insofar as I can speak now, I will not willingly omit anything.”

“Please don't,” he said.

[509d] “Then understand,” I said, “that, as we have said, there are these two, one ruling over the intelligible kind and realm, the other over the visible—I will not say ‘heaven,’ lest you think I am playing tricks with the word. Do you grasp these two kinds, the visible and the intelligible?”

“I do.”

“Imagine, then, a line divided into two unequal parts, and divide each part again in the same ratio, both the visible kind and the intelligible. According to their relative clarity and obscurity, one section in the visible part [509e] will consist of images. By images I mean, first,

[510a] shadows, then reflections in water and in everything made of dense, smooth, shining matter, and everything else of this sort, if you follow me.”

“I do follow.”

“Take the other section to contain the things these images resemble: the living creatures around us, every sort of plant, and the entire class of manufactured things.”

“I take it so,” he said.

“Would you also be willing to say,” I asked, “that the division reflects a difference in truth and its absence: as what is believed stands to what is known, so a likeness stands to what it resembles?” [510b]

“Certainly,” he said.

“Consider next how the intelligible part must be divided.”

“How?”

“In one section the soul is compelled to investigate by using the things imitated in the first section as images, proceeding from hypotheses not toward a first principle but toward a conclusion. In the other it proceeds from a hypothesis toward an unhypothetical first principle and makes its way without the images used in the former section, through the Forms themselves, with the Forms themselves as its means.”

“I haven't properly understood what you mean,” he said.

[510c] “Let me try again,” I said. “What I am about to say will be easier to understand after that introduction. I think you know that those who work in geometry, arithmetic, and similar disciplines assume the odd and the even, shapes, the three kinds of angles, and other things akin to these in each field of inquiry. They take these as hypotheses, as though they knew them, and think it unnecessary to give any account of them, either to themselves or to others, [510d] since they are obvious to everyone. Starting from these, they proceed through the rest of the argument until, consistently, they arrive at the conclusion they set out to examine.”

“Yes,” he said, “that much I certainly know.”

“And you know that they also use visible figures and reason about them, though they are not thinking of these figures, but of the things they resemble. They reason for the sake of the square itself and the diagonal itself, not the diagonal [510e] they draw, and similarly in other cases. The very things they mold and draw, which themselves cast shadows and have images in water, they use in turn as images, seeking

[511a] to see those things themselves that no one can see except by thought.”

“What you say is true,” he said.

“This, then, is the kind I called intelligible. Yet in the search for it the soul is compelled to use hypotheses and does not move toward a first principle, because it cannot rise above its hypotheses. It uses as images the very things that are imitated by the things in the lower section, and which, in comparison with those lower things, have been judged clear and honored as such.”

[511b] “I understand,” he said, “that you mean what falls under geometry and its kindred arts.”

“Now understand that by the other section of the intelligible I mean what reason itself grasps through the power of dialectic. It treats its hypotheses not as first principles but as hypotheses in the true sense, like stepping-stones and points of departure, so that it may ascend to the unhypothetical first principle of all things. Once it has grasped that, it follows what follows from that principle and descends in this way to a conclusion, [511c] making no use whatever of anything perceptible, but proceeding through the Forms themselves, from Forms to Forms, and ending in Forms.”

“I understand,” he said, “though not fully, for you seem to be describing a considerable undertaking. But I do see that you want to distinguish what the science of dialectic contemplates in being and the intelligible as clearer than what the so-called arts contemplate. They treat hypotheses as first principles; those engaged in them must contemplate their subjects through thought and not the senses, but because they investigate from hypotheses rather than by ascending to a first principle, [511d] you think they do not attain understanding of those subjects, though they are intelligible when apprehended with their first principle. And it seems to me that you call the condition of geometers and their like thought, not understanding, because thought is something between belief and understanding.”

“You have taken my meaning perfectly,” I said. “Now take these four conditions arising in the soul as corresponding to the four sections: understanding for the highest, thought [511e] for the second, belief for the third, and conjecture for the last. Set them in proportion, judging that they share in clarity to the same extent that their objects share in truth.”

“I understand,” he said, “and agree, and arrange them as you say.”

### Book VII, 514–522

[514a] “Next,” I said, “compare our nature, in respect of education and its absence, to this experience. Imagine human beings in an underground, cave-like dwelling, with an entrance open to the light stretching the whole length of the cave. They have been there since childhood, bound by the legs and neck so that they remain in place and look only straight ahead [514b], unable because of the bonds to turn their heads. Light comes to them from a fire burning high above and far behind them; between the fire and the prisoners runs an elevated road. Imagine a low wall built alongside it, like the screens that showmen set between themselves and their audience, above which they display their marvels.”

“I see,” he said.

“Then see people carrying all kinds of objects along this wall [514c], projecting above it, statues

[515a] of men and other creatures fashioned from stone and wood and every sort of material. As one might expect, some of the carriers speak, others are silent.”

“A strange image,” he said, “and strange prisoners.”

“Like us,” I said. “To begin with, do you think such people have seen anything of themselves or one another except the shadows cast by the fire on the cave wall opposite them?”

“How could they,” he said, “if they have been forced to keep their heads still [515b] all their lives?”

“And of the objects carried past them? Would they see anything else?”

“Of course not.”

“If they could talk to one another, would they not think they were naming real things when they named what they saw?”

“Necessarily.”

“And what if the prison had an echo from the opposite wall? Whenever one of the passersby spoke, would they suppose the voice belonged to anything other than the passing shadow?”

“By Zeus, I would not,” he said. [515c]

“Then such people would take nothing else for the truth but the shadows of the manufactured objects.”

“They certainly would,” he said.

“Now consider,” I said, “what their release from bonds and their cure from folly would be like if this happened to them naturally. Suppose one prisoner were freed and suddenly compelled to stand, turn his neck, walk, and look toward the light. Doing all this would hurt him, and the glare would prevent him from seeing the things whose shadows he used to see [515d]. What do you think he would say if someone told him that then he was seeing empty nonsense, but now, nearer to what is real and turned toward more real things, he sees more truly? And suppose his guide pointed out each passing object and forced him to answer questions about what it is. Would he not be at a loss, and believe that the things he saw before were truer than those now being shown him?”

“Much truer,” he said. [515e]

“And if he were forced to look toward the light itself, would his eyes not ache? Would he not turn away and flee back to the things he can see, thinking them genuinely clearer than what he is being shown?”

“Yes,” he said.

“And if someone dragged him from there by force up the steep, rough ascent, and did not let go until he had hauled him into sunlight, would he not be in pain

[516a] and angry at being dragged? And when he reached the light, would his eyes not be so filled with its radiance that he could see not one of the things now called true?”

“Not immediately,” he said.

“He would need to grow accustomed to it, I think, if he were to see the things above. First he would most easily make out shadows; next, in water, reflections of people and other things; afterward the things themselves. From these he could go on to look at the things in the heavens and the heavens themselves more easily at night, gazing at the light of [516b] stars and moon, than by day at the sun and its light.”

“Of course.”

“Finally, I think, he could look upon the sun—not its images in water or in some foreign setting, but the sun itself, in its own place—and contemplate what it is.”

“He must,” he said.

“And after that he would begin to reason about it: that it provides seasons and years, governs everything [516c] in the visible realm, and is in some way the cause of all the things they used to see.”

“Clearly he would come to that conclusion after the others,” he said.

“Now if he remembered his first home, the wisdom there, and his fellow prisoners, would he not consider himself fortunate for the change and pity them?”

“Very much so.”

“Suppose they had honors, praises, and prizes among themselves for whoever saw most sharply what passed before them, best remembered which things were accustomed to come before, which after [516d], and which together, and so was most adept at predicting what would come next. Do you think he would long for those rewards and envy those honored and powerful among them? Or would he feel as Homer says, and greatly prefer ‘to labor as a field hand for another man, a landless man,’ and endure anything rather than hold those opinions and live that life?” [516e]

“I think,” he said, “he would accept anything rather than live that way.”

“And consider this,” I said. “If such a man went down again and sat in his old seat, would his eyes not be filled with darkness on his sudden return from the sun?”

“They certainly would,” he said.

“And if, while his vision was still dim, before his eyes had adjusted—and this adjustment would take no little time—he had to compete in judging those shadows with the prisoners who had never left,

[517a] would he not invite laughter? Would they not say that he went up and came back with ruined eyes, and that it was not worth even attempting the ascent? And if they could somehow lay hands on the man who tried to release them and lead them up, would they not kill him?”

“They certainly would,” he said.

“Now, my dear Glaucon,” I said, “this whole image [517b] must be applied to what we said before. The realm disclosed by sight must be likened to the prison dwelling, and the firelight there to the power of the sun. If you take the ascent and the sight of the things above as the soul’s ascent into the intelligible realm, you will not mistake my expectation, since it is mine you wish to hear. Whether it happens to be true, perhaps a god knows. At any rate, this is how it appears to me: in the realm of knowledge the Form of [517c] the Good is the last thing seen, and seen only with difficulty. Once seen, it must be understood as the cause of all that is right and beautiful in everything: in the visible realm it gives birth to light and its master, and in the intelligible realm it is itself master, providing truth and understanding. Whoever would act wisely, in private or in public, must see it.”

“I agree,” he said, “as far as I am able.”

“Then agree with me in this too,” I said, “and do not wonder that those who have reached that height are unwilling to attend to human affairs: their souls are always eager to spend their time above. [517d] That is only natural, if our image holds true.”

“Natural indeed,” he said.

“And would you find it surprising,” I said, “if someone returning from divine contemplation to human troubles behaved awkwardly and appeared utterly ridiculous, still blinking and not yet accustomed to the darkness around him, when forced to contend in the courts or elsewhere about the shadows of justice, or the images that cast those shadows, and to argue [517e] about how these are conceived by people who have never seen justice itself?”

“Not surprising in the least,” he said.

[518a] “But anyone with sense,” I said, “would remember that the eyes can be troubled in two ways, for two reasons: by a passage from light into darkness, and by one from darkness into light. Recognizing that the same holds for the soul, whenever he saw one disturbed and unable to make things out, he would not laugh without thinking. He would consider whether it had come from a brighter life and was darkened through unfamiliarity, or whether, coming from deeper ignorance toward a brighter place, it was dazzled by the greater radiance [518b]. Then he would count the first soul fortunate in its experience and life, and pity the second. If he wished to laugh at that second soul, his laughter would be less ridiculous than laughter directed at the soul that has come down from the light above.”

“Very measured words,” he said.

“Then, if this is true,” I said, “we must think of education as follows: it is not what some claim to make it. They claim, I believe, that they put knowledge into the soul where none exists [518c], as though putting sight into blind eyes.”

“They do make that claim,” he said.

“But our present argument,” I said, “shows that each soul has this power within it, and an instrument by which it learns. Just as an eye could not turn from darkness toward the light without the whole body turning, so this instrument must turn with the whole soul away from the world of becoming until it can bear to contemplate what is, and the brightest part of what is. This, we say [518d], is the Good. Is it not?”

“Yes.”

“Education, then, would be the art of this turning: how the soul may be turned about most easily and effectively. It would not be an art of putting sight into the soul, but of arranging for an existing power of sight, turned in the wrong direction and looking where it should not, to turn aright.”

“So it seems,” he said.

“The other so-called virtues of the soul, then, seem akin to those of the body: though not there at first, they can actually be produced later through habits and exercises [518e]. But the power of understanding appears to belong to something far more divine. It never loses its capacity; through being turned, however, it becomes useful and beneficial,

[519a] or, conversely, useless and harmful. Have you never noticed how keenly the little soul of a man called wicked but clever sees, how sharply it discerns the objects toward which it is turned? Its sight is no poor thing, but it has been forced into the service of vice, and the more keenly it sees, the more evil it works.”

“Indeed I have,” he said.

“Yet if a soul of this nature had been cut free from childhood, if the leaden weights akin to becoming had been pruned away from it [519b]—weights that grow upon it through eating and such pleasures and indulgences, and turn its vision downward—then, freed from them and turned toward what is true, this same power in these same people would see those things with the same piercing clarity with which it now sees the things toward which it is turned.”

“That is likely,” he said.

“And is it not likely,” I said, “indeed necessary from what we have said, that neither the uneducated, who have no experience of truth [519c], nor those allowed to spend all their lives in education, will ever govern a city adequately? The first have no single goal in life toward which all their actions, private and public, should be directed; the second will not willingly act, thinking themselves already settled in the Islands of the Blessed while still alive.”

“True,” he said.

“It is our task as founders,” I said, “to compel the finest natures to attain the study we formerly called the greatest: to see the Good [519d] and make that ascent. And once they have climbed and seen enough, we must not permit them what is permitted now.”

“What is that?”

“To remain up there,” I said, “refusing to descend again to the prisoners and share in their labors and honors, whether these are of little or of great worth.”

“Then,” he said, “shall we do them an injustice and make them live a worse life when a better one is possible for them?” [519e]

“Again, my friend,” I said, “you forget that the law is not concerned with securing exceptional happiness for one group in the city. It contrives to bring happiness to the city as a whole, harmonizing the citizens by persuasion and necessity, making them share with one another

[520a] the benefit each can contribute to the community. The law itself produces such people in the city not to let each go where he likes, but to employ them to bind the city together.”

“True,” he said. “I had forgotten.”

“Consider, then, Glaucon,” I said, “that we will not wrong those who become philosophers among us. We will speak justly to them when we compel them to care for and guard the others. We will say: ‘Philosophers arising in other [520b] cities rightly take no part in their cities’ labors. They grow there of themselves, against the will of each government, and it is only fair that what grows of itself, owing its nurture to no one, should not be eager to pay anyone for its upbringing. But we have brought you into being, for yourselves and the rest of the city, as leaders and kings in a hive; we have educated you better and more completely than they, and made you more capable of sharing [520c] in both lives. So each in turn must go down to live among the others and grow accustomed to seeing in the dark. Once accustomed, you will see a thousand times better than those who dwell there; you will recognize each image for what it is and what it represents, because you have seen the truth about beautiful, just, and good things. Thus our city will be governed in waking reality, not in a dream, as most cities now are, ruled by people who fight one another over shadows and contend for power [520d] as if it were some great good. The truth, surely, is this: the city whose prospective rulers are least eager to rule must be governed best and with the least faction; a city with rulers of the opposite kind, in the opposite way.’”

“Certainly,” he said.

“Do you think our pupils, hearing this, will disobey us and refuse to share the work of the city in their turns, though they may spend most of their time together in the pure realm?” [520e]

“Impossible,” he said. “We shall be assigning just duties to just people. Yet each will go to rule as to an unavoidable necessity, the very opposite of today’s rulers in every city.”

“So it is, my friend,” I said. “If you can discover

[521a] for those who will rule a life better than ruling, your city can be well governed. There alone will the truly rich rule—not rich in gold, but in what a happy person needs as wealth: a good and intelligent life. But if people who are poor and hungry for private goods enter public office, thinking they must seize their good from there, good government is impossible. Power then becomes a prize fought over, and such domestic, internal war destroys both the rulers and the rest of the city.”

“Entirely true,” he said. [521b]

“Can you name,” I said, “any life besides that of true philosophy which looks down on political office?”

“By Zeus, I cannot,” he said.

“And those who come to power must not be in love with it. Otherwise rival lovers will fight them.”

“Of course.”

“Whom else, then, will you compel to take charge of the city but those who best understand how a city is governed well, and who have other honors and a life better than political life?”

“No one else,” he said. [521c]

“Shall we now consider how such people will arise, and how one may lead them into the light, as some are said to have risen from Hades to the gods?”

“Of course I want to,” he said.

“This, it seems, will not be the turning of a potsherd, but the turning of a soul from a kind of night-bound day to true day: an ascent to what is, which we shall call true philosophy.”

“Certainly.”

“Then we must examine which studies possess such [521d] power.”

“Of course.”

“What study, then, Glaucon, could draw the soul from becoming toward being? But as I speak, I recall another point: did we not say these people must be athletes of war in their youth?”

“We did.”

“So the study we seek must possess this quality as well.”

“Which?”

“It must not be useless to warriors.”

“Indeed it must not, if that is possible,” he said.

“Now we educated them before in gymnastics and music [521e].”

“Yes,” he said.

“Gymnastics, of course, is concerned with what comes to be and passes away: it oversees the growth and decay of the body.”

“So it appears.”

“Then this cannot be the study we seek.”

[522a] “No.”

“What about music as we described it before?”

“But that,” he said, “was the counterpart of gymnastics, if you remember. It trained the guardians through habits, giving them a kind of harmony through melody, not knowledge, and a sense of rhythm through rhythm; and its stories, whether mythical or more truthful, cultivated other kindred habits. It held no study leading toward [522b] the sort of thing you are seeking now.”

“You remind me with perfect accuracy,” I said. “It contained nothing of the kind. But, my extraordinary Glaucon, what would? All the crafts, after all, appeared to be merely mechanical—”

“Of course. But what study is left besides music, gymnastics, and the crafts?”

“Well,” I said, “if we have nothing left to choose outside these, let us take something that extends through them all.”

“What?” [522c]

“Something common to all crafts, all thought, and all sciences, which everyone must learn first.”

“What is it?” he said.

“The humble business,” I said, “of distinguishing one and two and three; in short, number and calculation. Is it not true that every craft and every science must have some share in these?”

“Very much so,” he said.

“And warfare too?” I asked.

“Most necessarily,” he said. [522d]

“In the tragedies Palamedes makes Agamemnon a thoroughly ridiculous general, time after time. Have you not noticed? He says that after inventing number he arranged the army’s ranks at Troy and counted the ships and everything else, as if before that nothing had been counted and Agamemnon did not even know how many feet he had, since he could not count. What sort of general do you think that would make him?”

“A strange one indeed,” he said, “if the story were true.” [522e]

“Shall we set down the ability to calculate and count as another necessary study for a warrior?” I said.

“Above all,” he said, “if he is to understand anything at all of troop formations—or, rather, if he is to be human.”

“Do you notice,” I said, “what I notice about this study?”

“What is it?”

### Book VII, 523–530

[523a] “It seems to be one of the studies we seek, naturally leading toward understanding; yet no one uses it rightly, though it has a power to draw the soul entirely toward being.”

“What do you mean?” he said.

“I will try,” I said, “to explain what I think. Join me in looking at the things I distinguish for myself as leading where we have said, or not leading there; agree or disagree, so that we may see more clearly whether I have guessed rightly.”

“Show me,” he said.

“I will,” I said. “If you can see it, some things in perception [523b] do not summon the understanding to examine them, because perception judges them adequately. Others insist that it examine them, because perception gives no sound account of them.”

“You must mean,” he said, “things seen from a distance and things painted with deceptive shading.”

“That is not quite what I mean,” I said.

“Then what do you mean?” he said.

“Those which do not summon it,” I said, “are the things that do not issue in opposite perceptions at once [523c]. Those that do, I set down as summoning it, whenever perception shows one thing no more clearly than its opposite, whether it strikes from near or far. You will understand what I mean more clearly this way. Let us say these are three fingers: the little finger, the next, and the middle finger.”

“Certainly,” he said.

“Understand that I am speaking of them seen close at hand. Now consider this about them.”

“What?”

“Each appears equally a finger [523d], and in that respect it makes no difference whether it is seen in the middle or at the end, whether white or black, thick or thin, or anything of the sort. For in all these cases the soul of most people is not compelled to ask the understanding what a finger is. Sight has never indicated to it that a finger is at the same time the opposite of a finger.”

“No, it has not,” he said.

“So naturally such a perception would neither summon [523e] nor awaken understanding.”

“Naturally.”

“But what of their size and smallness? Does sight judge these adequately, and does it make no difference to it whether a finger is placed in the middle or at the end? And similarly, does touch judge thickness and thinness, softness and hardness? Do the other senses not also disclose such things inadequately? Or does

[524a] each of them act like this: first, the sense appointed to perceive hardness must also perceive softness, and it reports to the soul that it perceives the same thing as both hard and soft?”

“That is so,” he said.

“Then in such cases must the soul not be at a loss as to what that sense means by hard, if it also calls the same thing soft? And as for the sense that perceives light and heavy, what does light or heavy mean if it reports that the heavy is light and the light is heavy?” [524b]

“These reports are strange to the soul indeed,” he said, “and need examination.”

“Then it is natural,” I said, “that in such cases the soul first tries to summon calculation and understanding to examine whether each thing reported to it is one or two.”

“Of course.”

“And if they appear to be two, does each appear both distinct and one?”

“Yes.”

“So if each is one, and both are two, it will conceive the two as separate [524c]. It could not conceive two that were inseparable as two, but only as one.”

“Right.”

“Now we say sight saw both large and small, but did not see them separate: it saw a kind of mixture. Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“To make this clear, understanding was compelled in turn to see large and small not as mixed but as distinct—just the opposite of sight.”

“True.”

“Is it not from here that the question first occurs to us: what, then, are the large and the small?”

“Absolutely.”

“And so we named one intelligible, the other visible.” [524d]

“Quite right,” he said.

“That is what I was trying to say just now: some things summon thought and some do not. I define as summoning it those things that enter perception along with their opposites, and as not awakening understanding those that do not.”

“Now I understand,” he said, “and that seems right to me.”

“What then? To which kind do you think number and the one belong?”

“I do not see,” he said.

“Reason from what we have said,” I replied. “If the one itself is adequately seen by itself, or apprehended by some other sense [524e], it would not draw us toward being, as we said of the finger. But if some opposite is always seen along with it, so that it seems no more one than its opposite, there would be need of something to decide the matter. The soul would then be compelled to puzzle over it, to search, to stir thought within itself, and to ask what the one itself is. In this way the study of

[525a] the one would be among the studies that lead the soul and turn it toward the vision of being.”

“Yet sight of the one most certainly has this character,” he said. “We see the very same thing both as one and as an unlimited multitude.”

“And if this is true of the one,” I said, “is the same true of every number?”

“Of course.”

“Now calculation and arithmetic deal entirely with number.”

“Certainly.” [525b]

“And these plainly lead toward truth.”

“Wonderfully so.”

“Then they would seem to be among the studies we seek. The warrior needs to learn them for arranging troops; the philosopher, because he must emerge from becoming and grasp being, or he will never become capable of calculation.”

“That is so,” he said.

“And our guardian happens to be both warrior and philosopher.”

“Of course.”

“It would be fitting, then, Glaucon, to establish this study by law and persuade those who will take part in the highest affairs of our city [525c] to pursue calculation and engage with it, not as amateurs, but until they reach contemplation of the nature of numbers through understanding itself. They must practice it not for buying and selling, like merchants and shopkeepers, but for war and for the soul’s own easier turning from becoming toward truth and being.”

“Beautifully said,” he replied.

“And now,” I said, “having spoken of the study of calculation [525d], I realize how refined it is, and how useful in many ways for our purpose, provided a person practices it for knowledge and not for trade.”

“How so?” he said.

“In the very way we just discussed: it powerfully leads the soul upward and compels it to discuss numbers themselves, never accepting a discussion in which someone offers it numbers embodied in things visible or tangible. You know how those expert in these matters react if anyone tries in argument to divide the one itself [525e]: they laugh and refuse to accept it. If you cut it into fractions, they multiply it, taking care that the one should never appear not as one, but as many parts.”

“What you say is entirely true,” he said.

[526a] “What do you think, Glaucon, they would answer if someone asked them: ‘My remarkable friends, what numbers are you talking about, in which the one has the qualities you require—each unit equal to every other in every way, without the slightest difference, and containing no part within itself?’ What do you think they would say?”

“That they are talking about numbers accessible only to thought, impossible to handle in any other way.”

“Then you see, my friend,” I said, “that this study really does seem necessary [526b] for us: it plainly compels the soul to use understanding itself in pursuit of truth itself.”

“Indeed,” he said, “it does that most powerfully.”

“And have you noticed this? Those naturally gifted at calculation are, as a rule, quick at every study; and even the slow, if educated and exercised in this one, all make progress in becoming quicker than they were, even if they gain no other benefit.”

“That is so,” he said. [526c]

“And in my opinion you would not easily find many studies, if any, that demand more labor in learning and practicing than this one.”

“You would not.”

“For all these reasons we must not neglect it, but must educate our best natures in it.”

“I agree,” he said.

“Let this be our first study,” I said. “Now let us see whether the second, which follows it, is of any use to us.”

“What is it? Do you mean geometry?” he said.

“Precisely,” I said. [526d]

“Insofar as it bears on warfare,” he said, “its usefulness is clear. For laying out camps, seizing positions, drawing up and extending armies, and all the other formations of troops in battles and on the march, a man trained in geometry would be quite different from the same man without it.”

“But for such purposes,” I said, “a small portion of geometry and calculation would suffice. We must examine whether its greater, more advanced part tends toward that other goal [526e]: making it easier to behold the Form of the Good. Everything tends there, we say, that compels the soul to turn toward the region where the happiest part of being is, which it must see by every means.”

“You speak rightly,” he said.

“So if geometry compels the soul to contemplate being, it is relevant; if becoming, it is not.”

“That is what we say.”

[527a] “Now no one with even a little experience of geometry will dispute this with us,” I said: “the nature of this science is the exact opposite of the language its practitioners use when they discuss it.”

“How so?” he said.

“They speak in a fashion both laughable and unavoidable. They talk as if they were doing things, and making all their arguments for the sake of action: ‘squaring,’ ‘extending,’ ‘adding,’ and so on. Yet the entire study [527b] is pursued for the sake of knowledge.”

“Exactly,” he said.

“Then we must agree on this further point.”

“What point?”

“That its knowledge concerns what always is, not something that comes to be at one time and perishes at another.”

“Easy to agree to,” he said. “Geometric knowledge concerns what always is.”

“It would therefore draw the soul toward truth, my noble friend, and foster a philosopher’s mind by turning upward what we now wrongly direct downward.”

“As far as anything can,” he said. [527c]

“Then as strongly as you can,” I said, “you must require that the people of your beautiful city by no means neglect geometry. Its incidental benefits are not small either.”

“What are they?” he asked.

“Those you mentioned relating to war,” I said. “And for the better grasp of every study, we know there is an immense difference between someone acquainted with geometry and someone who is not.”

“By Zeus, an immense difference,” he said.

“Shall we set this down as the second study for the young?”

“Let us,” he said. [527d]

“What next? Shall we make astronomy third? Or do you disagree?”

“I certainly agree,” he said. “A keener awareness of seasons, months, and years is useful not only for farming and navigation but no less for generalship.”

“You are charming,” I said, “for you seem afraid of the crowd, lest they think you are prescribing useless studies. But it is a considerable thing, and difficult to believe, that each of these studies purifies and rekindles an instrument of the soul [527e] that other pursuits destroy and blind—an instrument worth saving more than ten thousand eyes, since by it alone truth is seen. Those who share this belief will find your words wonderfully sound; those who have no awareness of it will naturally think you are saying nothing, since they can see no other benefit in these studies worth mentioning. So consider

[528a] at once to which people you are speaking. Or perhaps you address neither group, but conduct this discussion chiefly for your own sake, without begrudging another any benefit they might gain from it.”

“That is what I choose,” he said: “to speak, ask, and answer chiefly for my own sake.”

“Then go back a step with me,” I said, “for we did not choose correctly what comes next after geometry.”

“What did we choose?” he asked.

“After the plane,” I said, “we chose a solid in motion [528b] before considering the solid by itself. The right sequence after the second dimension is the third, concerned with the dimension of cubes and whatever has depth.”

“Yes,” he said, “but that subject does not seem to have been discovered yet, Socrates.”

“There are two reasons,” I said. “No city honors it, so it is studied feebly, being difficult; and researchers need a director, without whom they could not make discoveries. Such a person is difficult to find in the first place, and even if found, as things stand [528c] those who pursue this study, full of pride, would not listen to him. But if the whole city directed the study alongside them and honored it, they would listen, and through continuous, vigorous investigation its nature would be revealed. Even now, despised and stunted by the many, and pursued by researchers unable to explain its use, it grows despite all these obstacles through its own appeal. It would be no wonder if its nature came to light.” [528d]

“Indeed,” he said, “its appeal is extraordinary. But explain more clearly what you said just now. You counted the study of the plane as geometry.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Then at first,” he said, “you put astronomy after it, but later you went back.”

“In my haste to go through everything quickly,” I said, “I have slowed myself down. The study of the third dimension follows next, but because it is in a ridiculous state of neglect, I passed it over and named astronomy after geometry [528e], astronomy being the motion of bodies with depth.”

“You are right,” he said.

“So let us set down astronomy as the fourth study,” I said, “assuming that the study now passed over comes into being, if the city takes it up.”

“That is reasonable,” he said. “And since you reproached me just now, Socrates, for praising astronomy crudely, I now praise it on the grounds on which you approach it [529a]. It is obvious to everyone, I think, that astronomy compels the soul to look upward and leads it from things here to things there.”

“Perhaps obvious to everyone but me,” I said. “That is not how it seems to me.”

“How, then?” he said.

“As now practiced by those who claim to lead people toward philosophy, it makes the soul look very much downward.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“You have a generous conception,” I said, “of what the study of things above consists in. Apparently [529b] you would think that if someone craned his head back to study painted figures on a ceiling, he was contemplating them with his understanding, not with his eyes. Perhaps your view is right and mine is naive. But I cannot think that any study makes the soul look upward except one concerned with what is and what is invisible. If someone tries to learn something perceptible, whether gaping upward or squinting downward, I say he will never learn it—for knowledge [529c] has no such object—and his soul looks downward, not upward, even if he learns while floating on his back on land or at sea.”

“I stand corrected,” he said. “You were right to rebuke me. But how did you mean astronomy should be learned differently from its present practice, if people are to learn it profitably for the end we have described?”

“Like this,” I said. “The patterns embroidered in the heavens, since they are embroidered in the visible realm, must be considered the finest and most exact of visible things [529d], yet far inferior to the true things: the movements in which true speed and true slowness, in true number and in all true shapes, move in relation to one another and carry what is within them. These are grasped by reason and thought, not sight. Or do you think otherwise?”

“Not at all,” he said.

“Then the embroidered heavens must be used as models for the study of those other things, just as we might use [529e] exceptionally well-drawn and carefully worked diagrams by Daedalus or some other craftsman or painter. A person experienced in geometry, seeing such works, would consider them beautifully executed, but would find it ridiculous to examine them in earnest in the hope of obtaining from them the truth

[530a] about equal or double proportions, or any other ratio.”

“How could that not be ridiculous?” he said.

“Do you not think,” I said, “that a genuine astronomer would feel the same on looking at the movements of the stars? He would believe that the maker of the heavens arranged them and everything in them as beautifully as such works could be arranged. But as for the proportions of night to day, and of these to the month, of the month to the year, and of the other stars [530b] to these and to one another, would he not find it absurd to suppose that, because they are bodily and visible, they always remain exactly the same without the slightest variation, and to seek by every means to grasp their truth?”

“That is how it seems to me now,” he said, “as I hear you.”

“Then we will pursue astronomy, like geometry, by means of problems,” I said, “and leave aside the things in the heavens, if by truly engaging in astronomy we are to turn the soul’s naturally intelligent part from useless [530c] to useful.”

“The task you prescribe is many times greater than the astronomy now practiced,” he said.

“I think,” I said, “we shall prescribe the other studies in the same way, if we are to be of any use as lawgivers. But can you remind me of another suitable study?”

“Not just now,” he said.

“Motion, though, presents not one but several kinds [530d], as I think. A wise person might be able to name them all; two, at least, are evident even to us.”

“What are they?”

“Besides astronomy, its counterpart.”

“What is that?”

“It seems,” I said, “that as eyes are made for astronomy, so ears are made for harmonious motion, and these two sciences are sisters, as the Pythagoreans say, and as we, Glaucon, agree. Or what do we say?”

“We agree,” he said. [530e]

“Then since the task is vast,” I said, “we will ask them what they say about these subjects, and whether there is anything else besides. Through all this we shall keep watch over our own concern.”

“What is that?”

“That those we educate must never attempt to learn any part of these studies in an incomplete way, failing to reach the end toward which everything must tend, as we were saying just now about astronomy. Or do you not know that”

### Book VII, 531–538

[531a] “And do they not do something similar with harmony? Measuring the audible concords and notes against one another, they labor, like the astronomers, over something that cannot be brought to completion.”

“By the gods, yes,” he said, “and absurdly so. They speak of certain ‘densities’ and strain their ears, as if hunting for a sound next door. Some say they can still hear a note between two others, and that this is the smallest interval by which one should measure; others dispute this, saying the notes already sound alike. Both parties [531b] put their ears before their understanding.”

“You mean,” I said, “those excellent fellows who harass the strings and put them to the test, twisting them around the tuning pegs. But lest the image grow too long—with blows struck by plectrums, and charges, denials, and boasts from the strings—I will leave the image there. I do not mean them, but the men we said just now we would question about harmony. For they do the same thing as the astronomers: [531c] they search for numbers in these audible concords, but do not rise to questions about which numbers are harmonious and which are not, and why in either case.”

“That is an extraordinary undertaking you describe,” he said.

“A useful one, at least,” I said, “for the pursuit of the beautiful and the good; but pursued for any other purpose, useless.”

“That seems likely,” he said.

“And I think,” I said, “that if our study of all the subjects we have gone through [531d] comes to grasp their communion and kinship with one another, and reasons out the ways they are related, the work will contribute something to the end we desire and will not be labor spent in vain. Otherwise it will be in vain.”

“I suspect as much myself,” he said. “But that is a tremendous task you are describing, Socrates.”

“Do you mean the prelude,” I said, “or something else? Do we not know that all this is a prelude to the very melody we have to learn? Surely you do not think that those who are skilled in these subjects are dialecticians. [531e]”

“By Zeus, no,” he said, “except for a very few whom I have met.”

“And do you suppose,” I said, “that people unable to give an account or receive one will ever know anything of what we say they must know?”

“No, not that either,” he said.

[532a] “Then, Glaucon,” I said, “this is at last the melody that dialectic brings to its close. Though intelligible, it can be imitated by the power of sight, which we said first tries to look upon living creatures themselves, then upon the stars themselves, and finally upon the sun itself. So too, when someone undertakes through dialectic and reasoning alone, without any of the senses, to press toward what each thing itself is, and does not give up until [532b] he grasps with understanding what the Good itself is, he arrives at the end of the intelligible realm, just as the other man then arrived at the end of the visible.”

“Entirely so,” he said.

“Well, do you not call this journey dialectic?”

“Of course.”

“And the release from bonds,” I said, “the turning from shadows to images and to light, the ascent from the cave to the sun, and there the inability still [532c] to look at living things, plants, and the sunlight, though one can look at their divine reflections in water and the shadows of real things—not shadows of images cast by another light which, measured against the sun, is of the same kind—all this work of the disciplines we have surveyed has the power to lead the best part of the soul upward to the vision of the best among beings, just as, in the image, it led the clearest faculty of the body to the brightest thing in the bodily and visible realm. [532d]”

“I accept it as you put it,” he said. “Though it seems to me exceedingly hard to accept and, in another way, hard not to accept. Still, since these are matters we must hear not just on this occasion but return to many times, let us assume they stand as you now say. Let us proceed to the melody itself and examine it as we examined the prelude. Tell me, then, what is the character of dialectic's power? [532e] Into what forms is it divided, and what are its paths? For these, it seems, would lead us to the place where, on arriving, one might find rest from the road and an end to the journey.”

[533a] “You will no longer be able to follow me, dear Glaucon,” I said, “though no willingness on my part would be lacking. You would no longer see an image of what we speak of, but the truth itself, as it appears to me. Whether it really is so or not is no longer worth insisting on; but that there is something of the kind to be seen, that we must insist upon. Is that not so?”

“Of course.”

“And that only the power of dialectic could disclose it to someone practiced in the subjects we have just gone through, and that no other way can?”

“That too,” he said, “is worth insisting on. [533b]”

“At least,” I said, “no one will dispute our claim that there is no other method which systematically attempts to grasp what each thing itself is in every case. All the other arts are directed either to human opinions and desires, or to things coming into being and being compounded, or wholly to tending the things that grow or are made. As for the remaining studies, geometry and its companions, which we said lay hold of something of being, we see that they dream [533c] about being but cannot see it awake so long as they take hypotheses for their starting points and leave them untouched, unable to give an account of them. For when one's starting point is something one does not know, and the conclusion and the steps between are woven from what one does not know, how could a chain of agreements of that kind ever become knowledge?”

“It could not,” he said.

“Then dialectic alone,” I said, “travels by this route: it does away with hypotheses and rises to the first principle itself [533d] in order to establish it firmly. And when the eye of the soul is truly buried in some barbarian mire, it gently draws it out and leads it upward, taking as its helpers and guides the disciplines we have discussed. We have often called these ‘sciences’ from habit, but they need a different name, something clearer than opinion yet dimmer than knowledge. We defined it somewhere earlier as ‘thought.’ But I think [533e] a quarrel over a name is no concern for those of us whose inquiry reaches matters as great as those before us.”

“No indeed,” he said.

“So long as the name conveys with some clarity the condition of the soul, will that suffice?”

“Yes.”

“Then it will suffice,” I said, “as before, to call the first division knowledge, the second thought, the third [534a] belief, and the fourth conjecture; to call the latter two together opinion and the former two together understanding; to say that opinion deals with becoming and understanding with being; and that as being stands to becoming, so understanding stands to opinion, and as understanding stands to opinion, so knowledge stands to belief and thought to conjecture. But let us leave aside, Glaucon, the proportion between the objects of these faculties and the twofold division of each—the objects of opinion and those of understanding—lest it plunge us into many times as much discussion as we have already had. [534b]”

“As far as I can follow,” he said, “I agree with the rest.”

“And do you call a person dialectical who can grasp an account of the being of each thing? And insofar as someone cannot give such an account to himself and another, will you say that to that extent he has no understanding of the thing?”

“How could I say otherwise?” he said.

“And is it not the same concerning the Good? Whoever cannot distinguish by reasoning the Form of the Good, separating it from everything else, and cannot make his way through every challenge as through a battle, eager to test it by being, not by opinion, [534c] and go through all this without his argument falling—will you not say that such a man knows neither the Good itself nor anything else good? If he somehow touches an image of it, he touches it with opinion, not with knowledge, and passes his present life dreaming and asleep, only to arrive in Hades [534d] before he wakes here, and there sink into his final sleep?”

“By Zeus,” he said, “I will say all that most emphatically.”

“But as for your own children, whom you are now rearing and educating in speech, if ever you rear them in fact, I believe you would never let them govern the city and hold authority over its greatest affairs if they were as devoid of reason as lines drawn on a page.”

“No indeed,” he said.

“Then you will lay down a law for them to devote themselves above all to the education that will make them most skilled in asking and answering questions? [534e]”

“I will,” he said, “with your help.”

“Does it seem to you, then,” I said, “that dialectic stands above the other studies like the finishing stone on a wall, that no further subject could properly be placed above it, and that our studies have now [535a] reached their end?”

“It does,” he said.

“The remaining task of selection is yours,” I said: “to whom shall we give these studies, and in what way?”

“Clearly,” he said.

“Do you recall our earlier selection of rulers, and the sort of people we chose?”

“How could I not?” he said.

“In other respects,” I said, “you should suppose we must choose the same natures: the most steadfast and courageous, and as far as possible the finest in appearance. [535b] Besides these qualities, we must look not only for nobility and strength of character but for natural gifts suited to this education.”

“What gifts do you mean?”

“They must have a keen aptitude for study, my friend,” I said, “and learn without great difficulty. For souls lose heart much more readily under rigorous study than in physical training: the strain belongs more intimately to the soul, since it is its own and not shared with the body.”

“True,” he said. [535c]

“And we must look for a good memory, endurance, and a love of hard work in every form. Otherwise how do you think anyone will be willing to bear the physical exertions and complete so much study and practice?”

“No one,” he said, “unless he were altogether exceptionally gifted.”

“At any rate,” I said, “the present error, and the dishonor that has fallen upon philosophy, have come about for the reason we gave earlier: those who take it up are unworthy of it. It should be approached not by illegitimate children but by true-born ones.”

“How so?” he said. [535d]

“To begin with,” I said, “the one who takes it up must not be lame in his love of effort, loving toil in one half of life but shunning it in the other. That is what happens when a man loves exercise and hunting, and delights in every sort of physical effort, but has no love of learning, listening, or inquiry, and hates exertion in all these things. The man who directs his love of effort the other way round is lame too.”

“What you say is entirely true,” he said.

“And as regards truth,” I said, “shall we not likewise call that soul maimed [535e] which hates deliberate falsehood, finding it hard to bear in itself and deeply resenting it in others, but readily accepts unwitting falsehood and feels no distress at being caught in ignorance, wallowing in it as contentedly as a pig?”

[536a] “Certainly,” he said.

“And where temperance, courage, nobility of spirit, and every part of virtue are concerned,” I said, “we must be no less careful to distinguish the true-born from the illegitimate. For when individuals or cities do not know how to examine these qualities in every way, they unwittingly employ the lame and the spurious in whatever capacity they happen to need them—some as friends, others as rulers.”

“Exactly so,” he said.

“We must therefore take every precaution of that kind,” I said. [536b] “If we bring people sound in body and mind to so much learning and exercise, and educate them, justice herself will find no fault with us, and we shall preserve the city and its constitution. But if we bring people of another kind, we shall achieve the opposite in everything and pour yet more ridicule upon philosophy.”

“That would be shameful,” he said.

“It certainly would,” I said. “But I seem to have done something ridiculous myself just now.”

“What was that?” he said. [536c]

“I forgot,” I said, “that we were speaking in play, and spoke too passionately. As I talked, I looked toward philosophy; seeing how undeservedly she has been dragged through the mud, I was indignant, I think, and spoke more gravely than I meant to, as though angry with those responsible.”

“Not by Zeus,” he said, “not to my ears as a listener.”

“But to mine as the speaker,” I said. “Let us not forget this: in our first selection we chose older men, [536d] but that will not do in this one. We must not believe Solon when he says a man can learn many things as he grows old: he can do so even less than he can run. All great and abundant labors belong to the young.”

“Necessarily,” he said.

“Then arithmetic, geometry, and all the preparatory education that must precede dialectic should be offered to them as children, without making instruction take the form of compulsory study.”

“Why?” [536e]

“Because,” I said, “a free person should learn no subject under compulsion. Forced bodily exertions do the body no harm, but nothing forced upon the soul remains in it as learning.”

“True,” he said.

“Do not use force, then, my good friend,” I said, “in bringing up children in their [537a] studies. Let them learn through play, so that you may also better discern what each is naturally suited for.”

“There is reason in what you say,” he said.

“And do you remember,” I said, “that we also said children must be taken to war on horseback as spectators, brought close wherever it is safe and given a taste of blood, like puppies?”

“I remember,” he said.

“In all these things, then—in exertions, studies, and dangers—those who always show the greatest readiness should be admitted to a select group. [537b]”

“At what age?” he asked.

“When they are released,” I said, “from their compulsory physical training. During that time, whether it lasts two or three years, they cannot do anything else: weariness and sleep are enemies of study. At the same time, how each of them proves himself in training is no small part of the test.”

“Of course,” he said.

“After that period,” I said, “those chosen from among the twenty-year-olds will receive greater honors than the rest. [537c] The studies they were given indiscriminately as children must now be gathered for them into a comprehensive view of their kinship with one another and with the nature of being.”

“That is the only kind of learning,” he said, “that takes firm root in those who receive it.”

“And it is the greatest test,” I said, “of a nature fit for dialectic. The person who can see things together is dialectical; the one who cannot is not.”

“I agree,” he said.

“You will have to watch them accordingly,” I said, “and select those among them who are most capable of this, and steadfast both in study and in war and in all other duties. [537d] When they have passed the age of thirty, choose again from those already selected and raise them to greater honors; test them by the power of dialectic to see who can relinquish sight and every other sense and proceed with truth toward being itself. Here, my friend, great caution is needed. [537e]”

“Why especially?” he asked.

“Do you not see,” I said, “how great an evil now grows up around the practice of dialectic?”

“What evil?” he asked.

“They become filled, I believe, with lawlessness,” I said.

“Very much so,” he said.

“Do you think it surprising that this happens to them?” I said. “Do you not feel some sympathy?”

“On what grounds?” he asked.

“Imagine,” I said, “a child secretly substituted for another and brought up amid great wealth, [538a] in a large and distinguished family, surrounded by many flatterers. When grown, he learns that those who claim to be his parents are not, but cannot find his real parents. Can you guess how he would feel toward the flatterers and toward those who brought him up, both when he did not know about the substitution and when he did? Or would you like to hear my guess?”

“I would,” he said.

“My guess,” I said, “is that he would honor [538b] those he believed to be his father, mother, and other relatives more than the flatterers. He would be less willing to see them in need, less likely to act or speak unlawfully against them, and less likely to disobey them in important matters than to disobey the flatterers, so long as he did not know the truth.”

“Likely enough,” he said.

“But once he recognized the truth, I suspect his respect and concern for those people would relax, while his regard for the flatterers would increase. He would obey them far more than before [538c] and begin living as they did, associating with them openly, and would care nothing for his supposed father or his other supposed relatives, unless his nature were exceptionally decent.”

“Everything you say is just what would happen,” he said. “But how does this image apply to those who take up argument?”

“Like this. From childhood we have beliefs about justice and beauty under which we have been raised as if by parents, obeying and honoring them.”

“We have indeed.” [538d]

“And there are other practices, opposed to these, which offer pleasures that flatter our souls and draw us toward them. But they do not persuade those who are moderate in any degree: such people honor and obey their ancestral beliefs.”

“That is so.”

“What, then,” I said, “when a question comes to someone so raised and asks, ‘What is beauty?’ He answers what he heard from the lawgiver, but argument refutes him; and, refuting him many times in many ways, reduces him to believing that this is no more [538e] beautiful than ugly; and the same occurs with justice, goodness, and the things he honored most. Afterward, how do you think he will behave toward those beliefs in honor and obedience?”

“He must cease to honor and obey them as before,” he said.

“So when,” I said, “he no longer thinks these things honorable and his own, as he once did, and cannot discover the true ones, to what sort of

### Book VII, 539–541

[539a] life could he reasonably turn except the one that flatters him?”

“There is none,” he said.

“So, I think, he will appear to have become lawless after once being law-abiding.”

“Necessarily.”

“Is it not, then, natural for people who take up arguments in this way to be affected so? And, as I was just saying, do they not deserve a great deal of sympathy?”

“And pity too,” he said.

“Then if you wish to spare your thirty-year-olds this pity, you must take every precaution when you introduce them to arguments.”

“Certainly,” he said. [539b]

“Is it not one substantial precaution to keep them from tasting these arguments when they are young? I think you must have noticed how, as soon as young men get a taste of argument, they treat it as a game, forever using it to contradict. Imitating those who refute them, they refute others in turn, delighting like puppies in dragging and tearing at everyone nearby with their arguments.”

“Exceedingly so,” he said.

“And after they have refuted many people and been refuted by many, [539c] they fall violently and quickly into believing nothing of what they believed before. This brings both them and philosophy as a whole into disrepute with others.”

“Very true,” he said.

“But an older man,” I said, “would be unwilling to take part in that madness. He will imitate someone who wants to pursue dialogue and examine the truth rather than someone who contradicts for the pleasure of playing a game. He himself will be more measured, [539d] and he will bring greater esteem instead of disgrace to the pursuit.”

“Right,” he said.

“Was it not with precisely this caution in mind that we said earlier that those admitted to argument must have orderly, stable natures, rather than admitting, as happens now, any chance person with no fitness for it?”

“Certainly,” he said.

“Is it enough, then, for them to spend twice as many years as they did in physical training, devoting themselves steadily and intently to argument and doing nothing else, while pursuing a corresponding kind of exercise? [539e]”

“Do you mean six years,” he said, “or four?”

“Never mind,” I said, “make it five. After that you must send them down into the cave again and require them to hold military commands and all the offices proper to young men, so that they do not lag behind the others in experience. And in these duties too [540a] they must be tested, to see whether they remain firm when pulled in every direction, or are shaken at all.”

“How long,” he asked, “do you allot to this?”

“Fifteen years,” I said. “Then, when they reach fifty, those who have survived and excelled in every way, both in action and in learning, must at last be brought to their goal. They must be compelled to turn the radiance of the soul upward and look upon the thing that gives light to all; and when they have seen the Good itself, they must take it as their model and order the city, its citizens, [540b] and themselves throughout the rest of their lives, each in turn. They will spend most of their time in philosophy; but when their turn comes, each must shoulder the burdens of public affairs and govern for the city's sake, treating it not as a distinction but as a necessity. So, after always educating others like themselves to take their places as guardians of the city, they will depart to dwell in the Isles of the Blessed. The city will establish memorials and offer sacrifices [540c] to them at public expense—if the Pythia concurs, as to divine spirits; if not, as to blessed and godlike human beings.”

“How splendidly you have fashioned your rulers, Socrates,” he said, “like a sculptor making statues!”

“And the women rulers too, Glaucon,” I said. “Do not imagine that anything I have said applies more to men than to women whose natures prove capable.”

“Right,” he said, “if indeed they share everything equally with the men, as we agreed. [540d]”

“Well, then,” I said, “do you grant that what we have said of the city and its constitution is not merely a wish? It is difficult, but possible in some way, and in no other way than we have described: when genuine philosophers come to power in a city, whether several or just one, and despise the honors now prized, judging them servile and worthless, while holding what is right [540e] and the honors arising from it in highest esteem, and justice as the greatest and most indispensable thing of all. Serving justice and fostering its growth, they will set their own city in order.”

“How?” he asked.

“All those in the city,” I said, “who are older than ten [541a] they will send into the countryside; they will take their children away from the ways of life that now prevail, which their parents too follow, and bring them up in their own ways and laws, of the kind we described earlier. In this way the city and constitution we spoke of will be established most quickly and easily; the city itself will flourish, and it will bring the greatest benefit to the people among whom it arises.”

“Very much so,” he said. “And I think, Socrates, you have described well how it would come about, if it ever did. [541b]”

“Have our arguments now said enough,” I asked, “about this city and the man who resembles it? For it is plain enough what sort of man we shall say he must be.”

“Plain enough,” he said. “And the question you ask seems to me settled.”

### Book VIII, 543–551

[543a] “Very well, Glaucon. We have agreed that in the city destined for the highest excellence of government, women and children must be held in common, and all education too; pursuits in war and peace must likewise be shared, and those who have proved best in philosophy and in war must be their rulers.”

“We have agreed,” he said. [543b]

“And we agreed to this as well: once the rulers have been appointed, they will take the soldiers and settle them in the dwellings we described, which contain nothing private for anyone but are common to all. Besides these dwellings, if you remember, we came to an agreement about what possessions they would have.”

“I do remember,” he said, “that we thought none of them should possess anything of the sort others now possess. Like athletes trained for war [543c] and guardians, they should receive from the rest of the people, as payment for their guardianship, enough provisions for the year, and should care for themselves and the rest of the city.”

“You are right,” I said. “But come, now that we have finished this, let us recall where we turned aside, so that we may follow the same road again.”

“That is not difficult,” he said. “You had nearly completed your account of the city, much as you have now, saying that you considered a city such as you had described then good, and likewise a man resembling it—even though, it seems, you could have described [543d] a still finer city and man. [544a] You said, at all events, that the other constitutions were defective, if this one was right. Of the remaining constitutions, as I recall, you said there were four kinds worth discussing, to see their defects and the men who resemble them. Then, when we had seen them all and agreed who is the best man and who the worst, we could examine whether the best is happiest and the worst most miserable, or whether things stand otherwise. I asked which [544b] four constitutions you meant; Polemarchus and Adeimantus interrupted just then, and you took up the discussion again and brought us to this point.”

“You remember it exactly,” I said.

“Then offer me the same grip again, like a wrestler, and try to answer the question I asked with what you meant to say then.”

“If I can,” I said.

“I too,” he said, “am eager to hear which four constitutions you meant. [544c]”

“You will hear readily enough,” I said. “The ones I mean are precisely those that have names: first, the much-praised Cretan and Spartan constitution; second, the one called oligarchy, praised second and burdened with a host of evils; then democracy, different from oligarchy and arising next; and finally noble tyranny, different from all the others, the fourth and last disease of a city. Or do you know another form of constitution set apart in [544d] some distinct class? Hereditary lordships, purchased kingships, and constitutions of that sort lie somewhere between these types; you would find no fewer among non-Greeks than among Greeks.”

“Many strange examples are reported,” he said.

“Do you realize, then,” I said, “that there must be as many kinds of human character as of constitutions? Or do you think constitutions spring from an oak tree or a rock, and not from the characters of the people in their cities, whose inclinations tip the scale and draw everything else after them? [544e]”

“From nowhere else, I am sure,” he said.

“Then if there are five forms of city, there would also be five arrangements of the individual soul.”

“Of course.”

“We have already discussed the man resembling aristocracy, whom we rightly call good and just.”

[545a] “We have.”

“Must we now go through the inferior men: the lover of victory and honor, corresponding to the Spartan constitution, then the oligarchic and democratic men, and finally the tyrannical man? In this way, when we have seen the most unjust man and set him against the most just, our inquiry into how pure justice compares with pure injustice in the happiness or misery of the one who possesses it will be complete. Then we may either follow Thrasymachus [545b] in pursuing injustice or follow the argument now appearing before us in pursuing justice.”

“That is exactly what we must do,” he said.

“Shall we proceed,” I said, “as we began, by examining characters in constitutions before those in individuals, since they show more clearly there? Shall we first examine the constitution devoted to honor—I know no other common name for it; we must call it timocracy or timarchy—and then the corresponding [545c] man? After that we shall examine oligarchy and the oligarchic man; next we shall look at democracy and study the democratic man; and fourth, having entered and seen a city under tyranny, we shall look in turn into a tyrannical soul, and try to become competent judges of the matters we have proposed.”

“That would be a reasonable way,” he said, “to conduct our observation and judgment.”

“Come, then,” I said, “let us try to say how timocracy could arise from aristocracy. Or is this much simple: every constitution changes through the very part that holds power, when faction arises within it; whereas, so long as that part is united, however small it may be, change is impossible?”

“That is so.”

“How, then, Glaucon,” I said, “will our city undergo change, and in what way will the auxiliaries and the rulers fall into faction, both with one another and among themselves? Or shall we, like Homer, pray to the Muses to tell us how [545e] strife first broke out, and let them speak to us in the lofty language of tragedy, playing and teasing as if we were children, while pretending to speak in earnest?”

“How would they speak?”

[546a] “Something like this. ‘It is hard for a city so constituted to be shaken; but since everything that comes into being must perish, even such an order will not endure forever. It too will be dissolved. Its dissolution will come about as follows. Not only plants rooted in the earth but living creatures on its surface have fertile and barren seasons of soul and body, whenever cycles of revolution bring their circuits to a close—short circuits for short-lived kinds, and opposite ones for the opposite kinds. Though the men whom you have educated as leaders of the city are wise, [546b] with calculation aided by perception they will no more be able to hit upon the seasons of good and bad breeding for your race: these seasons will escape them, and at some point they will beget children when they should not. For a divine creature there is a cycle embraced by a perfect number; for a human creature, a cycle in which augmentations with powers and roots, having taken three distances and four limits, among terms that make alike and unlike, increase and diminish, have brought all their relations [546c] into harmony and expressible ratio. Of these, a base of four to three joined to the five yields two harmonies when raised three times: one is equal-sided and equal in each dimension, a hundred times as great; the other is equal in one respect but oblong—consisting of a hundred numbers from the rational diagonals of five, diminished by one each, or from the irrational diagonals diminished by two, and a hundred cubes of three. This entire geometrical number governs better and worse births. [546d] When your guardians fail to recognize these births and join brides to bridegrooms out of season, their children will be neither well-born nor fortunate. Their predecessors will appoint the best of these children to office; yet they will still be unworthy, and when they in turn come into their fathers’ positions of power as guardians, they will first begin to neglect us, giving less than due weight to the arts of the Muses, and then to physical training. Thus your young people will become less cultivated. From among them rulers will be appointed who are not well suited to [546e] guarding and testing the races of Hesiod and those among [547a] you—the gold, silver, bronze, and iron. When iron is mixed with silver and bronze with gold, there will arise difference and discordant inequality; wherever these arise, they always breed war and enmity. You must say that faction is born from this stock, wherever it arises.’”

“And we shall say the Muses answer correctly,” he said.

“They must,” I said, “since they are Muses. [547b]”

“What,” he asked, “do the Muses say next?”

“‘When faction arose,’” I said, “‘each of the two races pulled in a different direction. The iron and bronze were drawn to making money and acquiring land, houses, gold, and silver. The gold and silver, being rich by nature rather than in need, led their souls toward virtue and the old order. As they struggled and strained against each other, they agreed on a compromise: they divided the land and houses [547c] into private holdings; and the people whom they had formerly guarded as free friends and providers they then enslaved and made into subjects and servants, while they themselves took charge of war and the policing of those people.’”

“That seems to me how this transition comes about,” he said.

“Would this constitution, then,” I said, “stand somewhere between aristocracy and oligarchy?”

“Certainly.”

“Thus the change will take place. But once it has changed, how will the city be governed? Clearly, since it stands between the two, it will imitate the earlier constitution in some respects and oligarchy in others, [547d] while also having something distinctive of its own.”

“Yes,” he said.

“By honoring its rulers, keeping its warrior class from farming, handicrafts, and every other money-making occupation, establishing common meals, and attending to physical training and the trials of war, will it not in all these respects imitate the earlier constitution?”

“Yes. [547e]”

“But in being afraid to put wise men in authority, since it no longer possesses men of that kind who are pure and unwavering but only those of mixed character; in inclining toward spirited and simpler men, more fitted for war than for peace; in esteeming the stratagems and devices of war, and spending all its time at war—in most of these respects will it not have traits peculiar to itself? [548a]”

“Yes.”

“And people of this kind,” I said, “will desire wealth, as those in oligarchies do. In the darkness they will pay fierce homage to gold and silver: they have storehouses and private treasure vaults where they can hide their wealth, as well as walled houses—private nests, in truth—where they will spend lavishly on women and anyone else they please. [548b]”

“Most true,” he said.

“They will be sparing with their own money, because they prize it and cannot acquire it openly, but eager to spend other people's money to satisfy their desires. They will enjoy their pleasures in secret, like children running away from their father the law. They have been educated by force, not by persuasion, because they have neglected the true Muse, who comes with reasoning [548c] and philosophy, and valued physical training above music and the arts.”

“You describe a constitution thoroughly mixed of good and evil,” he said.

“Mixed indeed,” I said. “Yet one thing stands out most plainly in it, because its spirited element rules: the love of victory and the love of honor.”

“Very much so,” he said.

“Such would be its origin and its nature,” I said. “We have sketched the outline of a constitution in words without painting in every detail: the outline is enough to show us the most just and most unjust men, whereas to pass through all constitutions and characters without leaving anything out would be an impossibly long task. [548d]”

“Right,” he said.

“What sort of man corresponds to this constitution? How does he come to be, and what is he like?”

“I think,” Adeimantus said, “that in his love of victory he approaches this Glaucon here. [548e]”

“Perhaps in that respect,” I said, “but I do not think he has the following qualities of Glaucon's.”

“Which qualities?”

“He must be more self-willed,” I said, “and somewhat less cultivated, though fond of the arts; he likes to listen, but is [549a] in no way a skilled speaker. Such a man would be harsh to slaves, though he does not despise them as a sufficiently educated man does, but gentle to free people and thoroughly obedient to rulers. He loves authority and honor and thinks himself entitled to rule not because he is eloquent or for anything of that sort, but because of his military deeds and all that pertains to war; he loves exercise and hunting.”

“That is indeed the character of that constitution,” he said.

“And as a young man,” I said, “he might despise money, but the older he grows the more he will welcome it, since he has a share of the money-loving nature and is not pure in virtue, having been deprived of the best guardian. [549b]”

“What guardian?” Adeimantus asked.

“Reason blended with cultivation,” I said. “When it is planted in a person, it alone remains there to preserve his virtue throughout life.”

“Well said,” he replied.

“And such,” I said, “is the timocratic young man, resembling the corresponding city. [549c]”

“Certainly.”

“His origin is something like this,” I said. “Sometimes he is the young son of a good father living in a badly governed city, a father who shuns honors, offices, lawsuits, and all such meddlesomeness, and is willing to accept a lesser place in order to avoid trouble—”

“How,” he asked, “does the son come to be like that?”

“First,” I said, “he hears his mother complaining that her husband is not among the rulers and that this lowers her standing [549d] among the other women. Then she sees that he takes no great interest in money and will not fight or quarrel for himself, either privately in the courts or in public, but bears it all without concern. She sees him always attending to his own mind, while neither paying her much honor nor treating her with disrespect. Vexed by all this, she says that his father is unmanly and far too easygoing, and repeats all the other things women are apt to sing out on such matters. [549e]”

“And they are many,” Adeimantus said, “and quite characteristic of them.”

“You know,” I said, “that sometimes the household servants of such men, especially those thought loyal, secretly say such things to the sons. If they see a man who owes money whom the father does not pursue, or anyone else doing him an injury, they urge the son, when he grows up, to take revenge on all such people [550a] and be more of a man than his father. Outside the house he hears and sees more of the same. Men in the city who mind their own affairs are called fools and held of little account; those who do not are honored and praised. The young man hears and sees all this, yet he also hears his father's words and observes his habits close at hand alongside those of others. He is pulled both ways: [550b] his father waters and fosters the reasoning part of his soul, while the others foster its appetitive and spirited parts. Since he is not by nature a bad man, though he has kept bad company, he comes under these opposing influences and is drawn to a middle ground. He hands the rule within himself over to the middle part, the part that loves victory and is spirited, and becomes a proud man and a lover of honor.”

“I think,” he said, “you have described his development perfectly. [550c]”

“We have, then,” I said, “the second constitution and the second man.”

“We have,” he said.

“Shall we next speak, in Aeschylus' phrase, of ‘another man stationed before another city’—or, rather, according to our plan, of the city first?”

“Certainly,” he said.

“The constitution following this one,” I said, “would be oligarchy, I believe.”

“What sort of arrangement,” he asked, “do you mean by oligarchy?”

“A constitution based on property assessments,” I said, “in which the rich rule and a poor man has no share in government. [550d]”

“I understand,” he said.

“Must we not first say how timarchy changes into oligarchy?”

“Yes.”

“Why, even a blind man,” I said, “could see how it changes.”

“How?”

“That treasury of gold,” I said, “which each person fills for himself, ruins such a constitution. First the people devise ways of spending their money and bend the laws to serve that end; both they and their wives disobey them.”

“Likely enough,” he said. [550e]

“Then, I imagine, as each sees and envies another, they make the whole population like themselves.”

“Likely enough.”

“And as they go further in the pursuit of wealth,” I said, “the more they honor it, the less they honor virtue. Or is the gulf between wealth and virtue not such that, when each is put on a scale, they always tilt in opposite directions?”

“It certainly is,” he said.

[551a] “So when wealth and the wealthy are honored in a city, virtue and good people are held in less esteem.”

“Clearly.”

“What is honored is cultivated, and what is dishonored neglected.”

“So it is.”

“In the end, instead of men who love victory and honor, they become lovers of money and wealth. They praise and admire the rich man and bring him to office, while they dishonor the poor man.”

“Indeed.”

“Then they enact a law fixing a property qualification [551b] as the boundary of oligarchic rule: higher where the oligarchy is more extreme, lower where it is less so. They declare that anyone whose property falls short of the set assessment may hold no office. They enforce this either by armed force or by establishing the constitution beforehand through intimidation. Is that not how it happens?”

“It is.”

“Such, broadly speaking, is its establishment.”

“Yes,” he said, “but what is the character of the constitution, and what defects did we say it has? [551c]”

“First,” I said, “consider its very principle of qualification. Imagine appointing ships' pilots this way, on the basis of property assessments, refusing to entrust a ship to a poor man even if he were the better navigator—”

“They would have a wretched voyage,” he said.

“Would it not be so for the command of anything else?”

“I think so.”

“Except a city?” I asked. “Or for a city too?”

“For a city most of all,” he said, “inasmuch as its government is the most difficult and the most important. [551d]”

“That, then, would be one grave defect of oligarchy.”

“So it appears.”

“What next? Is this one any less grave?”

“What is it?”

“Such a city must be not one city but two—the city of the poor and the city of the rich, living in the same place and forever plotting against one another.”

“By Zeus, no less grave at all,” he said.

“And this is no fine thing either: they may be unable to wage a war, since they must either arm the multitude and fear them more than the enemy, [551e] or fight without them and show themselves oligarchs in battle itself; besides, being lovers of money, they are unwilling to contribute funds.”

“No fine thing.”

“And what of the fault we censured long ago: meddling in many affairs, with the same people farming

### Book VIII, 552–559

[552a] “And is it right, do you think, that the same people in such a constitution should both make money and wage war?”

“Not in the least.”

“Consider, then, whether this constitution is the first to admit what may be the greatest of all these evils.”

“What evil?”

“That a person may sell everything he owns, and another may acquire it all, while the seller goes on living in the city without belonging to any part of it: neither businessman nor craftsman, neither cavalryman nor infantryman, but a man called poor and destitute. [552b]”

“It is the first,” he said.

“Such a thing is certainly not prevented in oligarchies. Otherwise some people would not be immensely rich and others utterly poor.”

“True.”

“Consider this too. While such a man was rich and spending his wealth, was he of any greater use to the city in the respects we have just discussed? Or did he merely seem to be one of its rulers, while in truth he was neither a ruler nor a servant of the city, but a consumer of its stores?”

“[552c] Exactly,” he said. “He seemed to be a ruler, but was nothing more than a consumer.”

“Shall we say, then, that just as a drone arises in a honeycomb, a disease of the swarm, so such a man arises in a household, a drone and a disease of the city?”

“By all means, Socrates,” he said.

“Now, Adeimantus, has the god made all winged drones stingless, while of these walking drones he has made some stingless and others furnished with terrible stings? The stingless ones end their lives as beggars in old age, while from the stinging ones come all those we call criminals. [552d]”

“That is absolutely true,” he said.

“It is clear, then,” I said, “that wherever you see beggars in a city, somewhere in that same place thieves and pickpockets, temple robbers and practitioners of every such crime lie hidden.”

“Clearly,” he said.

“Well, then, do you not see beggars in oligarchic cities?”

“Nearly everyone outside the ruling class,” he said.

“[552e] Should we not suppose, then, that these cities also contain many criminals with stings, whom the authorities forcibly keep in check by vigilance?”

“We certainly should,” he said.

“And shall we not say that their appearance there is due to lack of education, poor upbringing, and the constitution of the city?”

“We shall.”

“Such, at any rate, would an oligarchic city be, harboring so many evils, and perhaps more besides.”

“Very likely,” he said.

[553a] “Let us regard this constitution too as fully described,” I said, “the one they call oligarchy, whose rulers are appointed on the basis of property assessments. Next let us examine the man who resembles it: how he comes into being and what he is like once formed.”

“Certainly,” he said.

“Does he turn from that timocratic man into an oligarchic one chiefly in this way?”

“How?”

“When the timocratic man has a son, the boy at first admires his father and follows in his footsteps. Then he sees him suddenly [553b] strike the city like a ship striking a reef, and spill both his fortune and himself: perhaps he has been a general or held some other high office, only to be brought before a court, [injured] by informers, and either put to death, exiled, or stripped of his civic rights and all his property.”

“That is likely,” he said.

“When the son has seen and suffered this, my friend, and has lost his possessions, fear, I think, makes him thrust ambition and that spirited part of himself headlong from the throne [553c] in his soul. Humbled by poverty, he turns to moneymaking, and by hard, patient saving and labor gradually gathers wealth. Do you not think he then seats the appetitive, money-loving part on that throne, makes it a great king within himself, and equips it with tiaras and necklaces and a Persian sword?”

“I do,” he said. [553d]

“And I think he makes reason and spirit sit on the ground on either side of it, subject to its rule. Reason is allowed to calculate and consider nothing except how a smaller sum may become a larger one. Spirit is allowed to admire and honor nothing but wealth and the wealthy, and to set its ambition on nothing but acquiring money, or anything else that leads to money.”

“There is no change so swift or so powerful,” he said, “as the change from an honor-loving young man into a lover of money.”

“[553e] Is this, then,” I said, “the oligarchic man?”

“At least his transformation begins with a man resembling the constitution from which oligarchy itself arose.”

“Let us see, then, whether he resembles it.”

[554a] “Let us.”

“Would he not resemble it, first, in setting the highest value on money?”

“Of course.”

“And also in being thrifty and industrious, satisfying only his necessary desires and refusing any other expenditure, while subduing all his other desires as vain.”

“Certainly.”

“A shabby fellow,” I said, “who finds a surplus in everything, a man who hoards treasure—the sort the crowd praises [554b]—would he not be the man who resembles this constitution?”

“I think so,” he said. “Money, at any rate, receives the highest honor both in the city and with such a man.”

“For I do not think,” I said, “that such a man has given his attention to education.”

“I think not,” he said. “Otherwise he would not have appointed a blind leader for the chorus and honored him above all.”

“Well said,” I replied. “But consider this: should we say that, because he lacks education, drone-like desires arise in him, some beggarly [554c] and others criminal, held down by force through his concern for everything else?”

“Certainly,” he said.

“Do you know,” I asked, “where to look to discover their criminal character?”

“Where?” he asked.

“At the way they act as guardians of orphans, and at any other opportunity that gives them ample license to act unjustly.”

“True.”

“Does this not make it clear that in his other dealings, where he enjoys a good reputation and appears just, such a man restrains the other wicked desires within him by applying a certain decent [554d] sort of force? He does not convince them that wrongdoing is no better, nor tame them with reason, but uses compulsion and fear, trembling for the rest of his property.”

“Indeed he does,” he said.

“And by Zeus, my friend,” I said, “in most of them you will find desires akin to the drone’s when they have the chance to spend someone else’s money.”

“Most certainly,” he said.

“Such a man, then, would not be free of civil strife within himself, nor one man but somehow two; generally his better desires would master the worse. [554e]”

“That is so.”

“For that reason, I imagine, he would be more respectable than many others. But the true virtue of a soul in harmony and at peace with itself would remain far beyond his reach.”

“I agree.”

“And indeed, in a city the thrifty man makes a poor private competitor [555a] for victory or any other honorable distinction. He is unwilling to spend money for reputation or such contests, for fear of rousing his wasteful desires and calling them to his aid in the rivalry. He fights with only a few of his own forces, as an oligarch would, and generally loses, while growing rich.”

“Exactly,” he said.

“Do we still doubt,” I asked, “that the thrifty moneymaker has his counterpart [555b] in an oligarchic city?”

“Not at all,” he said.

“Next, it seems, we must examine democracy: how it arises and what it is like once established. Then we can learn the character of its corresponding man and bring him before us for judgment.”

“That would keep us on the same course,” he said.

“Does the change from oligarchy to democracy occur something like this,” I said, “through an insatiable pursuit of its chosen good, the demand that one become as rich as possible?”

“How so? [555c]”

“Since the rulers in an oligarchy rule because they possess much wealth, they are unwilling, I think, to forbid by law the young men who grow undisciplined to spend and ruin their own estates. They want to buy up their property and lend them money, and so become richer and more honored still.”

“More than anything,” he said.

“Is it not already clear that a city cannot honor wealth while its citizens adequately cultivate moderation [555d] at the same time? They must neglect one or the other.”

“That is clear enough,” he said.

“By neglecting moderation and allowing extravagance, oligarchies have sometimes forced men of no ignoble birth into poverty.”

“Indeed.”

“There they sit in the city, I suppose, armed and bearing stings, some in debt, some stripped of civic rights, and some burdened with both. They hate and plot against those who acquired their property and against others as well, longing for revolution. [555e]”

“That is so.”

“Meanwhile the moneymakers keep their heads down and pretend not to see them. They inject their money into each of the rest who yields to them, wounding them, and [556a] collect interest many times greater than the parent sum, breeding a great multitude of drones and beggars in the city.”

“How could they fail to breed many?” he said.

“And though this evil is catching fire, they refuse to put it out in either of two ways: by forbidding people to dispose of their own property however they like, or by another law that would resolve such matters differently.”

“What law?”

“The second law after that one, which compels citizens to care about virtue. For if most voluntary contracts were ordered to be made [556b] at the lender’s own risk, people would pursue profit in the city with less shamelessness, and fewer of the evils we have just described would spring up in it.”

“Far fewer,” he said.

“As things stand,” I said, “for all these reasons the rulers put their subjects in this condition. And as for themselves and their own households—do they not raise their young in luxury, idle and untrained in body and [556c] soul, too soft to withstand either pleasure or pain, and averse to work?”

“Certainly.”

“And have they themselves neglected everything but moneymaking, devoting no more care to virtue than the poor?”

“None at all.”

“Thus prepared, rulers and subjects meet one another on journeys or in other associations, at festivals or on military campaigns, as shipmates or fellow soldiers. Or they watch one another [556d] in the midst of actual danger. And in none of these situations do the rich have cause to despise the poor. Rather, when a lean, sunburned poor man stands beside a rich man in battle, one raised in the shade and burdened with superfluous flesh, and sees him gasping and at a loss, do you not think he concludes that men like these owe their wealth to the poor men’s own cowardice? And when the poor meet in private, does one not say to another, ‘These men are ours [556e] for the taking; they are nothing’?”

“I know very well,” he said, “that this is what they do.”

“Now, just as a sickly body needs only a slight push from outside to fall ill, and sometimes without any outside influence is at war with itself, so a city in the same condition needs only a slight pretext to grow sick and fight itself. Either party may bring in allies from outside, one from an oligarchic city, the other from a democracy; and sometimes it breaks into civil strife even without outside help.”

[557a] “Very much so.”

“Democracy, I think, comes into being when the poor are victorious, kill some of the opposing party and exile others, then grant the rest an equal share in citizenship and public office. And offices in such a city are generally assigned by lot.”

“Yes,” he said, “that is how democracy is established, whether it comes about by force of arms or by the other party’s withdrawal in fear.”

“How, then,” I asked, “do these people live? And what sort of constitution [557b] is this in turn? Plainly the man who corresponds to it will prove to be democratic.”

“Plainly,” he said.

“First of all, are they not free? Does the city not fill with freedom and freedom of speech, with license for everyone to do as he wishes?”

“So they say,” he replied.

“And where there is such license, clearly each person can arrange his own way of life in whatever fashion pleases him.”

“Clearly. [557c]”

“Then people of every kind would arise in this constitution more than in any other, I think.”

“How could they not?”

“It seems,” I said, “that this may be the most beautiful of constitutions. Like a richly patterned cloak embroidered with every flower, it would appear most beautiful in its embroidery of every kind of character. Perhaps,” I went on, “many people would judge it the most beautiful, just as children and women judge the patterned things they look at.”

“Indeed,” he said. [557d]

“And, my fortunate friend,” I said, “it is a convenient place in which to look for a constitution.”

“Why?”

“Because, thanks to its license, it contains every kind of constitution. Anyone who wants to found a city, as we have just done, must, it seems, go to a democratic city and choose the arrangement he likes, as if arriving at a marketplace of constitutions, and after choosing, establish his city accordingly. [557e]”

“He would not be short of models, at least,” he said.

“And the fact that there is no compulsion in this city to rule, even if you are capable of it, or to be ruled if you do not want to be; no need to go to war when others go to war, or to keep the peace when others do, unless you yourself desire peace; and even if a law prohibits you from ruling or serving as a judge, you may nevertheless [558a] rule or judge whenever the fancy takes you—is not such a life heavenly and delightful, for the moment?”

“Perhaps, for the moment,” he said.

“And is not the gentleness shown to some convicted criminals charming? Have you never seen men sentenced to death or exile in such a constitution remaining among the people and moving about openly? As though no one cared or noticed, the man roams around like a hero.”

“I have seen many,” he said.

“[558b] And what of the indulgence of democracy, its complete freedom from pettiness, its contempt for what we solemnly insisted upon when founding our city? We said that unless a man had a nature of surpassing excellence, he could never become good unless, from childhood, he played among beautiful things and practiced everything of that kind. With what magnificence democracy tramples all this underfoot! It pays no attention to the pursuits a man has followed before entering politics, but honors him [558c] if he merely claims to be well disposed toward the people.”

“A very noble attitude indeed,” he said.

“These, then,” I said, “would be its qualities, along with others of the same family. It seems a delightful constitution, without rulers and full of variety, distributing a sort of equality equally to equals and unequals alike.”

“You describe it well,” he said.

“Now consider,” I said, “what its corresponding man is like as an individual. Or should we first examine, as we did with the constitution, how he comes into being?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Would it not happen this way? The thrifty oligarchic man [558d] would have a son, I imagine, raised by his father in his father’s habits.”

“Why not?”

“So the son too would forcibly master the pleasures within him that cost money but bring none in—the pleasures called unnecessary.”

“Clearly,” he said.

“Then shall we first define necessary and unnecessary desires, so that our discussion will not remain obscure?”

“Let us,” he said.

“Would it not be right to call necessary both those desires we cannot turn aside [558e] and those whose fulfillment benefits us? Our nature must pursue both sorts. Is that not so?”

“Certainly.”

[559a] “Then we shall rightly call them necessary.”

“Rightly.”

“And what of desires a person could rid himself of if he practiced doing so from youth, whose presence accomplishes nothing good, and some of which do the opposite? If we called all these unnecessary, would we not be right?”

“Quite right.”

“Shall we select an example of each, to grasp them in outline?”

“Yes, we should.”

“Would the desire for food, bread and other fare, up to what health and good condition require [559b], not be necessary?”

“I think so.”

“The desire for bread is necessary on both counts: it does us good, and no living person can put an end to it.”

“Yes.”

“And the desire for other fare is necessary insofar as it affords some benefit for good bodily condition.”

“Certainly.”

“But what of the desire that goes beyond these things to other foods and delicacies? If training and discipline from youth could remove it from most people, and if it harms the body and harms the soul in its wisdom and moderation, [559c] would it not rightly be called unnecessary?”

“Most rightly.”

“Shall we also call these desires wasteful, and the others profitable, because they help us in our work?”

“Of course.”

“And shall we say the same about sexual pleasures and the rest?”

“Yes.”

“Now, was the man we called a drone a moment ago the one filled with such pleasures and desires and ruled [559d] by the unnecessary ones, while the man ruled by necessary desires was thrifty and oligarchic?”

“Precisely.”

“Let us return, then,” I said, “to how a democratic man grows from an oligarchic one. It seems to me that in most cases it happens as follows.”

“How?”

“When a young man brought up, as we just described, without education and in thrift, tastes the honey of drones and falls in with fierce and formidable creatures who know how to provide pleasures of every kind, varied in every possible way, there, you may be sure, [559e] begins his change from the oligarchy within him to democracy.”

“It must be so,” he said.

“And just as the city changed when outside allies came to the aid of one party, like assisting like, does the young man change when desires of an outside sort come to the aid of one faction of his desires, kindred to it and like it?”

“Exactly.”

“And if, I think, some allied force comes in turn to aid the oligarchic element within him, perhaps from his father or from his other

### Book VIII, 560–567

[560a] relatives, who warn and reproach him, then faction rises against faction and he battles with himself.”

“Of course.”

“Sometimes, I suppose, the democratic element gives way to the oligarchic one, and some of the desires are destroyed while others are banished, as a sense of shame arises in the young man’s soul and order is restored.”

“That sometimes happens,” he said.

“But then, I think, other desires akin to the ones that were banished grow up in their place. Because the father does not know how to raise him, [560b] they become numerous and strong.”

“That is often how it happens,” he said.

“They draw him back to the same company and secretly consort with him, producing a whole brood.”

“Of course.”

“At last, I imagine, they seize the citadel of the young man’s soul, finding it empty of learning, fine pursuits, and true arguments—the best sentries and guardians in the minds of men dear to the gods. [560c]”

“By far the best,” he said.

“Then false and boastful arguments and beliefs rush up to occupy their place in such a man.”

“They certainly do,” he said.

“Does he not return to those Lotus-Eaters and openly settle among them? And if help for the thrifty part of his soul arrives from his relatives, those boastful arguments shut the gates of the royal wall within him. They neither admit the allied force itself nor receive the envoys, the words of older [560d] private citizens. Fighting, they themselves prevail. They call reverence foolishness and thrust it out in dishonor as an exile. They call moderation cowardice, heap abuse on it, and cast it out. They persuade him that measured and orderly spending is boorish and servile, and with a multitude of useless desires they drive it across the border.”

“Indeed they do.”

“Having emptied and purified the soul of the man they possess and initiate into their grand rites of these virtues, [560e] they next usher in arrogance, anarchy, extravagance, and shamelessness with a brilliant procession and a great chorus, crowning them and singing their praises. They address them by endearing names: arrogance they call good breeding, anarchy freedom, extravagance [561a] magnificence, and shamelessness courage. Is it not in some such way,” I said, “that a young man changes from a life nourished on necessary desires to the liberation and indulgence of useless, unnecessary pleasures?”

“You have made it very clear indeed,” he said.

“After this, I imagine, such a man spends his money, effort, and time no less on unnecessary than on necessary pleasures. If he is fortunate and his frenzy does not go too far, when he is a little older and the worst of the uproar has passed, he may readmit some [561b] of the banished desires without giving himself wholly to the intruders. He then lives with his pleasures on a sort of equal footing, yielding the rule over himself to whichever one comes along, as though it had won its turn by lot, until it is satisfied, and then to another. He despises none of them but nourishes all equally.”

“Exactly.”

“And if someone tells him that some pleasures belong to fine and good desires [561c] and others to base ones, that he ought to cultivate and honor the former but curb and enslave the latter, he will neither accept this true argument nor allow it into his fortress. He shakes his head at all such distinctions and says that all pleasures are alike and must be honored equally.”

“That is exactly how he acts,” he said.

“Thus,” I said, “he lives from day to day indulging whatever desire happens upon him. At one moment he drinks himself drunk to the music of flutes, at another he drinks only water and grows thin. [561d] Sometimes he exercises, sometimes he does nothing at all and neglects everything, and sometimes he seems immersed in philosophy. Often he enters politics and springs to his feet to say and do whatever occurs to him. If he happens to admire soldiers, he rushes in that direction; if businessmen, then in the other. Neither order nor necessity governs his life. He calls this life sweet, free, and blessed, and lives it from beginning to end.”

“You have given a complete account of the life of a man devoted to equal rights,” he said. [561e]

“And I imagine,” I said, “that he has every variety of character and contains the greatest number of dispositions. He is the beautiful, many-colored man, like that city. Many men and women would envy his life, since it holds within itself the most examples of constitutions and ways of living.”

“That is the man,” he said.

[562a] “Well, then, shall we set him alongside democracy and rightly call him the democratic man?”

“Let us,” he said.

“The most beautiful constitution,” I said, “and the most beautiful man still remain for us to describe: tyranny and the tyrant.”

“Indeed,” he said.

“Come, then, dear friend: in what way does tyranny arise? That it changes from democracy seems fairly clear.”

“Clear enough.”

“Does democracy arise from oligarchy in much the same way [562b] that tyranny arises from democracy?”

“How?”

“The good they set before themselves,” I said, “the reason oligarchy was established, was [excessive] wealth, was it not?”

“Yes.”

“Then insatiable desire for wealth, and neglect of everything else for the sake of moneymaking, destroyed it.”

“True,” he said.

“And does democracy too fall through an insatiable pursuit of the good it defines for itself?”

“What good do you mean?”

“Freedom,” I said. “For in a democratic [562c] city you would hear that freedom is its finest possession, and that this is the only city in which anyone free by nature should live.”

“That claim is made everywhere,” he said.

“Then, as I was about to say, does an insatiable desire for freedom and neglect of everything else transform this constitution too, preparing it to need a tyrant?”

“How?” he asked.

“When a democratic city thirsts for freedom, I suppose, and gets bad cupbearers to govern it, it drinks more than it should of freedom unmixed. [562d] Then, unless its rulers are very gentle and provide an abundance of freedom, the city punishes them, accusing them of being polluted oligarchs.”

“That is what they do,” he said.

“And those who obey the rulers,” I continued, “it abuses as willing slaves of no account. Rulers who behave like subjects and subjects who behave like rulers it praises and honors both privately and in public. Must not freedom in such a city reach every extreme? [562e]”

“How could it not?”

“And anarchy,” I said, “sinks into private homes as well, my friend, and finally grows even among the animals.”

“What do you mean by that?” he asked.

“A father, for instance, grows accustomed to becoming like his child and fearing his sons, while a son becomes like his father and has neither respect nor fear for his parents—all so that he may be free. A resident alien [563a] puts himself on a level with a citizen and a citizen with a resident alien, and a foreigner does likewise.”

“That does happen,” he said.

“And these things occur,” I said, “as well as little matters like these: in such a city the teacher fears and flatters his students, while the students disdain their teachers and their tutors. Young people in general resemble their elders and compete with them in word and deed, while old men lower themselves to the company of the young, full of playful wit and good humor, [563b] imitating the young for fear of seeming unpleasant or overbearing.”

“Exactly,” he said.

“And the utmost freedom of the multitude in such a city, my friend, comes when the men and women who have been bought are no less free than those who bought them. As for the equality before the law and freedom that arise between women and men and men and women, we nearly forgot to mention it. [563c]”

“Shall we not say, in Aeschylus’ words,” he said, “whatever has just come to our lips?”

“Certainly,” I said. “And that is just what I am saying. Anyone who has not seen it would scarcely believe how much freer the animals under human rule are there than elsewhere. The dogs, to use the proverb, become just like their mistresses. Horses and donkeys grow accustomed to walking along with perfect freedom and dignity, barging into anyone they meet in the road unless that person gets out of the way. Everything else too [563d] is as full of freedom as that.”

“You are describing my own dream to me,” he said. “It happens to me often enough on the way to the countryside.”

“But the chief result,” I said, “when all these things come together—do you see how tender they make the souls of the citizens? If anyone presents them with even the least trace of servitude, they resent it and cannot endure it. Eventually, as you know, they pay no heed even to laws, written or unwritten, so that no one at all may be their master. [563e]”

“I know it very well,” he said.

“This, my friend,” I said, “is the fine and spirited beginning from which tyranny springs, as it seems to me.”

“Spirited indeed,” he said. “But what comes next?”

“The same disease that arose in oligarchy and destroyed it also arises in democracy; there, through its freedom, it grows stronger and more abundant, and enslaves democracy. Indeed, excess in any direction tends to bring a great reversal into its opposite—in the seasons, in plants, in [564a] bodies, and not least in constitutions.”

“That is likely,” he said.

“For excessive freedom seems to change into nothing but excessive slavery, both for the individual and for the city.”

“So it seems.”

“It is natural, then,” I said, “that tyranny arises from no constitution other than democracy: from the height of freedom, I suppose, comes the deepest and most savage slavery.”

“That makes sense,” he said.

“But I think,” I said, “that was not what you were asking. You wanted to know what [564b] disease, the same in oligarchy and democracy, grows there and enslaves the latter.”

“You are right,” he said.

“I meant,” I replied, “the class of idle and extravagant men, the boldest of whom lead and the more cowardly follow. We likened them to drones, the leaders with stings, the others without.”

“And rightly so,” he said.

“When both kinds arise in a constitution,” I said, “they throw it into turmoil, just as phlegm and bile disturb the body. [564c] A good physician and lawgiver for a city must, no less than a wise beekeeper, take precautions well in advance: above all, to keep the two kinds from arising; and if they do arise, to cut them out as quickly as possible, combs and all.”

“Yes, by Zeus,” he said, “absolutely.”

“Let us approach it this way,” I said, “so that we may see our subject more clearly.”

“How?”

“[564d] Let us divide a democratic city into three parts in our account, as in fact it is divided. One class, that drone-like class, grows up in it through license no less than in an oligarchy.”

“That is so.”

“But here it is much fiercer than there.”

“How?”

“There, deprived of honor and shut out of office, it has no exercise and grows weak. In a democracy it leads nearly everything, apart from a few exceptions. The fiercest members speak and act, while the others sit around the speaker’s platform buzzing and refusing to tolerate anyone who [564e] speaks differently. So in such a constitution almost everything is managed by this class, with a few exceptions.”

“Quite so,” he said.

“Another class, then, is always separated out from the multitude.”

“Which?”

“When everyone is engaged in making money, the naturally most orderly people tend to become the wealthiest.”

“That is likely.”

“From them, I imagine, the drones can extract the most honey, and extract it most easily.”

“How could one extract any,” he said, “from people who have little?”

“Such wealthy people, I think, are called the drones’ pasture.”

“Something like that,” he said.

[565a] “The people would be the third class: those who work for themselves, do not meddle in politics, and possess very little. When assembled, they are the largest and most powerful class in a democracy.”

“That is so,” he said, “but they are not often willing to assemble unless they get a share of the honey.”

“And they do get a share,” I said, “as far as their leaders are able to give them one. The leaders take property from those who have it, distribute some to the people, and keep the greater part for themselves.”

“[565b] That is how they get their share,” he said.

“The people whose property is taken, I suppose, must defend themselves, speaking before the assembly and doing whatever they can.”

“How could they not?”

“Then the others accuse them of plotting against the people and of being oligarchs, even if they have no desire to make a revolution.”

“Of course.”

“And in the end, when they see the people, not of their own will but through ignorance and deception at the hands of [565c] slanderers, trying to do them wrong, they really do become oligarchs, whether they want to or not. They do not choose to become so; that same drone breeds this evil too by stinging them.”

“Precisely.”

“Then come denunciations and trials and lawsuits against one another.”

“Indeed.”

“Is it not the people’s habit always to set one particular man above the rest as their champion, nourishing him and making him great?”

“It is,” he said.

“[565d] So this much is clear,” I said: “whenever a tyrant grows up, he sprouts from the root of a popular champion and nowhere else.”

“Perfectly clear.”

“How, then, does a champion begin to change into a tyrant? Is it not clearly when he begins to do the same thing as the man in the story told about the sanctuary of Lycaean Zeus in Arcadia?”

“What story?” he asked.

“That anyone who tastes a piece of human entrails mixed among those of the other sacrificial victims must [565e] turn into a wolf. Have you not heard the tale?”

“I have.”

“Then is it not the same with the champion of the people? He gains a thoroughly obedient crowd, and will not keep his hands off the blood of his fellow citizens. Instead, he falsely accuses them, as men of his kind are apt to do, drags them into court and commits murder, destroying a man’s life. With impious tongue and lips he tastes the blood of his own kin, drives men into exile, [566a] kills others, and hints at the cancellation of debts and redistribution of land. Must such a man thereafter either perish at the hands of his enemies or become a tyrant, changed from a man into a wolf? Is that his inevitable fate?”

“Inevitably,” he said.

“He is the one,” I said, “who stirs up civil strife against the property owners.”

“He is.”

“And if he is driven into exile and returns by force in defiance of his enemies, does he return a fully formed tyrant?”

“Clearly.”

“[566b] But if his enemies cannot expel him or have him killed by denouncing him to the city, they plot to murder him secretly by violence.”

“That is often what happens,” he said.

“Then everyone who has risen to this position discovers that much-repeated demand of tyrants: he asks the people for a personal guard, so that their defender may be kept safe for them.”

“Certainly,” he said.

“And I suppose they grant it, fearing for his safety but feeling secure about their own.”

“[566c] Exactly.”

“When a man with wealth, and with wealth the charge of being an enemy of the people, sees this, my friend, then, in accordance with the oracle given to Croesus, he

‘flees beside the pebbly Hermus’

and does not stay, nor is he ashamed of appearing a coward.”

“He would not live to be ashamed a second time,” he said.

“And the man who is caught, I suppose,” I said, “is put to death.”

“He must be.”

“[566d] As for that champion himself, clearly he does not lie there in all his greatness. He has struck down many others and stands in the chariot of the city, transformed from champion into tyrant.”

“How could it be otherwise?” he said.

“Let us now describe the happiness,” I said, “both of the man and of the city in which such a mortal arises.”

“By all means,” he said. “Let us describe it.”

“[566e] Is it not true,” I said, “that at first he smiles and greets everyone he meets, denies that he is a tyrant, and promises much, both privately and publicly? He has freed men from debt and distributed land to the people and his own followers, and pretends to be gracious and gentle toward all.”

“He must,” he said.

“But once he has reached an understanding with some foreign enemies and destroyed others, and all is quiet on that front, I think he begins by continually stirring up wars, so that the people will need a leader.”

“That is likely.”

[567a] “And also so that paying contributions will make them poor and keep them occupied with their daily needs, leaving them less time to plot against him?”

“Clearly.”

“And if he suspects that any men have independent minds and will not let him rule, can he not use the wars as a pretext to destroy them by surrendering them to the enemy? For all these reasons a tyrant must always keep war in turmoil.”

“He must.”

“By doing so, he will surely become more hated [567b] by his citizens.”

“How could he not?”

“And will not some of those who helped him come to power, men of influence, speak frankly to him and among themselves, condemning what is happening—those of them who have the most courage?”

“Likely enough.”

“So the tyrant must remove them all, if he is to continue ruling, until he leaves no friend or enemy of any use whatsoever.”

“Clearly.”

“He must therefore have a sharp eye for anyone courageous, high-minded, [567c] sensible, or rich. And he is blessed with such good fortune that he must make enemies of all such people, whether he wants to or not, and plot against them until he has purged the city.”

“A fine purging!” he said.

“Yes,” I replied, “the opposite of what physicians do to bodies. They remove the worst parts and leave the best, but he does the reverse.”

“It seems,” he said, “that he must, if he is to rule.”

“[567d] So he is bound by a blessed necessity,” I said, “which commands him either to live among the many worthless people, hated by them, or not to live at all.”

“Exactly so,” he said.

“And the more he makes himself hated by his citizens through such acts, the more numerous and trustworthy a bodyguard he will need, will he not?”

“How could he not?”

“Who will be trustworthy, then, and where will he send for them?”

“Plenty will come flying on their own,” he said, “if he pays them.”

“By the dog,” I said, “you seem to be speaking of drones again, [567e] of foreign drones from all sorts of places.”

“That is just what I mean,” he said.

“And what about men from the city itself? Would he not want to—”

“To do what?”

“Take the citizens’ slaves from them, set them free, and make them his own bodyguard.”

“Indeed,” he said. “They would be the most trustworthy men he has.”

“What a blessed creature you make the tyrant,” I said, “if he uses such

### Book VIII, 568–569

[568a] friends and trustworthy men, after destroying his former companions.”

“And yet those are the men he uses,” he said.

“So these companions admire him,” I said, “and the new citizens keep his company, while decent people hate him and flee?”

“How could they do otherwise?”

“It is no wonder,” I said, “that tragedy in general has a reputation for wisdom, and Euripides above all its poets.”

“Why?”

“Because he uttered this saying, drawn from a keen insight: [568b] ‘Tyrants grow wise by keeping company with the wise.’ Plainly he meant that these companions of the tyrant are the wise men.”

“He also praises tyranny as equal to godhood,” he said, “and says many other things of that sort, as do the other poets.”

“And so,” I said, “being wise, the tragic poets will forgive us, and all who live under a constitution close to ours, for refusing them admission to our city, since they sing the praises of tyranny.”

“I think those among them with any refinement [568c] will forgive us,” he said.

“But I suppose they go around to other cities, gathering crowds, hiring actors with fine, powerful, persuasive voices, and drawing constitutions toward tyranny and democracy.”

“Certainly.”

“And beyond that, they receive pay and honors, chiefly, as you would expect, from tyrants, and second from democracies. But the higher they climb toward the steep ascent of constitutions, [568d] the more their honor fails them, as though it were too short of breath to go on.”

“Quite so.”

“But we have digressed,” I said. “Let us return to the tyrant’s army, that beautiful, vast, many-colored, ever-changing force, and ask how he will feed it.”

“Clearly,” he said, “if the city has sacred funds, he will spend them, and as long as the confiscated property holds out, he will use that too, requiring the people to pay less in contributions.”

“[568e] And when these resources run out?”

“Clearly,” he said, “he and his fellow drinkers, his male companions and his female companions, will be supported from his father’s estate.”

“I see,” I said. “The people, who fathered the tyrant, must support him and his companions.”

“They have no choice,” he said.

“But what do you mean?” I asked. “Suppose the people grow angry and say it is not right for a grown son to be supported by his father; rather, a father should be supported by his son. They say they did not [569a] bring him into being and establish him so that, once he had grown great, they themselves should become slaves to their own slaves and support him and his slaves along with a rabble of others. Instead, they wanted him as their champion to free them from the rich and the so-called fine and good men of the city. Now they order him and his companions to leave the city, just as a father might drive his son and his troublesome drinking friends out of the house.”

“By Zeus,” he said, “the people will [569b] then learn what sort of creature they fathered, welcomed, and raised—and that it is the weaker who are trying to drive out the stronger.”

“What do you mean?” I said. “Will the tyrant dare to use force against his father, even to beat him if he will not obey?”

“Yes,” he said, “once he has taken away his weapons.”

“You describe a tyrant who beats his father,” I said, “and a harsh caretaker in his father’s old age. By now, it seems, this would be tyranny in its acknowledged form. And, as the saying goes, in fleeing the smoke of [569c] enslavement to free men, the people would have fallen into the fire of domination by slaves. In place of their former excessive and ill-timed freedom, they would put on the harshest and bitterest slavery, slavery to slaves.”

“That is exactly what happens,” he said.

“Well, then,” I asked, “would we not be justified in saying that we have adequately described how tyranny changes from democracy, and what it is like once formed?”

“Entirely adequately,” he said.

### Book IX, 571–578

[571a] “The tyrannical man himself is left for us to examine,” I said: “how he changes from a democratic man, what he is like once he has become one, and how he lives—wretchedly or happily.”

“He is indeed the one still left,” he said.

“Do you know,” I said, “what I still long for?”

“What is that?”

“I do not think we have sufficiently distinguished the kinds and numbers of desires. As long as that remains wanting, [571b] the inquiry we are pursuing will be less clear.”

“Is it not still a good time to do so?” he said.

“Certainly. And consider what I want to discern among them. It is this: among pleasures and desires that are not necessary, some, I think, are lawless. They seem to arise in everyone, but when restrained by laws and by the better desires joined with reason, they either depart altogether from some people or remain few and weak; [571c] in others they are stronger and more numerous.”

“Which ones do you mean?” he said.

“The ones that awaken during sleep,” I said, “when the rest of the soul is asleep—the reasoning, gentle part that rules the other—while the beastly, savage part, swollen with food or drink, leaps up, shakes off sleep, and seeks to go out and satisfy its own appetites. You know that in this condition it dares do anything, freed, as it thinks, from every restraint of shame and good sense. It does not hesitate to attempt [571d] intercourse with its mother, as it imagines, or with anyone else, human being, god, or beast. It will commit any murder and abstain from no food. In a word, no madness or shamelessness is beyond it.”

“What you say is entirely true,” he said.

“But when, I think, a person is sound and temperate within himself, and goes to sleep having awakened his reasoning part and feasted it on fine arguments and inquiries, entering into reflection with himself, [571e] while giving his desiring part neither too little nor too much, so that it may fall asleep without disturbing [572a] the best part by pleasure or pain, but let it alone, by itself and pure, examine and reach toward the perception of something it does not know, whether of things past, present, or to come; when likewise he has calmed his spirited part, and does not fall asleep with it stirred by anger at anyone, but brings these two parts to rest and sets in motion the third, in which understanding arises—when he takes his rest in this way, you know that in such a condition he comes nearest to grasping the truth, and that lawless visions [572b] are least likely then to appear in his dreams.”

“I think that is exactly so,” he said.

“We have been drawn into speaking of these matters at some length. But this is what we want to know: that there is in each of us a certain terrible, savage, lawless kind of desire, even in some who appear quite moderate; dreams make this evident. So consider whether you think I am saying anything sound and whether you agree.”

“I agree.”

“Now recall the democratic man as we said he was. [572c] He had been brought up from youth under a thrifty father, who honored only desires for acquiring wealth and despised the unnecessary ones, which arise for play and display. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Then, having joined the company of more sophisticated men, full of the desires we have just described, he rushed into every sort of excess and adopted their way of life out of hatred for his father’s thrift. But because his nature was better than that of his corrupters, and he was pulled in both directions, [572d] he settled midway between the two ways of life. Enjoying each set of pleasures in moderation, as he thought, he lived a life neither illiberal nor lawless, and became democratic instead of oligarchic.”

“That was, and still is, our view of such a man,” he said.

“Suppose now,” I said, “that this man, grown older, has a young son raised in turn amid these habits of his.”

“I suppose so.”

“Suppose, too, that the same things happen to the son as happened to his father: he is drawn toward every kind of lawlessness, [572e] called complete freedom by those who lead him on; his father and the rest of his family come to the aid of the desires that lie in the middle, while the others aid the opposite side. And when these cunning sorcerers and makers of tyrants despair of holding the young man by any other means, they contrive to plant in him a master passion to lead the idle desires that divide up whatever lies [573a] ready at hand—a great winged drone. Or what else do you think love of that kind could be?”

“Nothing else at all,” he said.

“Then when the other desires buzz about it, laden with incense, perfumes, garlands, wine, and the unrestrained pleasures of such gatherings, feeding and swelling it to the utmost until they implant the sting of longing in the drone, then this leader of the soul is attended by madness as its bodyguard and [573b] driven into a frenzy. If it finds within the man any beliefs or desires thought to be good and still capable of shame, it kills them and drives them out, until it purges him of temperance and fills him with an alien madness.”

“You describe perfectly the birth of a tyrannical man,” he said.

“Is this, then,” I said, “the reason Love has long been called a tyrant?”

“It seems likely,” he said.

“And does not a drunken man, my friend,” I said, “acquire something of a tyrant’s [573c] state of mind?”

“He does.”

“Moreover, the man who is mad and deranged attempts, and expects himself to be able, to rule not only human beings but even gods.”

“Certainly,” he said.

“A man becomes a tyrant in the fullest sense, my good friend,” I said, “when by nature or habit or both he becomes drunken, lustful, and mad.”

“Absolutely.”

“So this, it seems, is how such a man comes into being. But how does he live? [573d]”

“As they say in games,” he said, “‘You tell me.’”

“I will,” I said. “I imagine that afterward they hold festivals, revels, feasts, keep courtesans, and indulge in everything of the kind, all directed by Love, the tyrant dwelling within and governing every affair of the soul.”

“Necessarily,” he said.

“And do not numerous dreadful desires spring up each day and night, demanding many things?”

“Numerous indeed.”

“So any income is quickly spent.”

“How could it not be? [573e]”

“After that come borrowing and the stripping away of property.”

“Of course.”

“And when everything runs out, must not the desires, densely nested and fierce, cry aloud, while these men, goaded by the stings of their other desires and above all by Love himself, who leads the rest like a bodyguard, rush about searching to see who has something they can take by deceit or [574a] by force?”

“Most certainly,” he said.

“They must seize things from every quarter, then, or be gripped by great pangs and torments.”

“They must.”

“And just as the later pleasures in him gained the upper hand over the older ones and robbed them of what was theirs, so will he, though younger, claim a greater share than his father and mother, and take it from them when he has spent his own share, allotting himself some of their property?”

“Of course he will,” he said. [574b]

“And if they refuse, will he not first try to steal from his parents and deceive them?”

“Certainly.”

“And if he cannot, will he then turn to plunder and violence?”

“I think so,” he said.

“And if the old man and old woman resist and fight, my friend, would he be careful to refrain from any tyrannical act?”

“I have little confidence,” he said, “in the fate of such a man’s parents.”

“But Adeimantus, by Zeus, for the sake of a newly beloved courtesan whom he does not need, would such a man, do you think, strike and enslave to her his long-beloved and indispensable [574c] mother? Or for the sake of a handsome new lover whom he does not need, would he do the same to his aged but indispensable father, his oldest friend, if he brought these newcomers into the same house?”

“Yes, by Zeus,” he said.

“What a blessing it seems,” I said, “to have fathered a tyrannical son!”

“Indeed,” he said. [574d]

“And when his father’s and mother’s resources fail him and the swarm of pleasures within him has grown vast, will he not first lay hands on the wall of a house or the cloak of a man walking late at night, and afterward plunder some temple? Through all this, the beliefs about what is noble and shameful that he held from childhood, the beliefs that upheld justice, will be overcome by those desires newly released from bondage, now serving as Love’s bodyguard. Before, these were let loose only in his dreams [574e] while he was still subject to laws and his father, ruled within himself by a democracy. But once Love has made him its subject, he becomes continually while awake the man he used to be only rarely in dreams. He will shrink from no dreadful murder, no food, no deed. [575a] Love, living as a tyrant within him in utter anarchy and lawlessness, himself the sole ruler, will lead the man who contains him, as though he were a city, to dare anything that will feed himself and the uproar surrounding him: part has come from outside, from evil company, while part has been set loose and freed from within by his own habits. Is this not the life of such a man?”

“It is indeed,” he said.

“And if there are few such men in a city,” I said, “[575b] and the rest of the people remain temperate, they go abroad to serve as the bodyguards of some other tyrant, or fight as mercenaries if a war is going on somewhere. But if they find themselves in a time of peace and quiet, they stay in the city and commit many small evils.”

“What do you mean by these?”

“They steal, break into houses, cut purses, strip people of their clothes, rob temples, and sell people into slavery. Sometimes, if they are able speakers, they bring malicious charges, give false testimony, and take bribes. [575c]”

“Small evils indeed,” he said, “if such men are few.”

“For small evils are small compared with great ones,” I said, “and all these things, beside the wickedness and misery a tyrant brings upon a city, do not, as the saying goes, come anywhere near the mark. When there are many such men in a city, along with others who follow them, and they become aware of their numbers, they are the ones who, with the people’s folly, bring a tyrant into being: whichever of them has within his own soul the greatest and most powerful [575d] tyrant.”

“Naturally,” he said, “for he would be the most tyrannical.”

“Yes, if they submit willingly. But if the city will not let him have his way, then, as he once punished his father and mother, he will, if he can, punish his fatherland in turn, bringing in new companions; and he will hold in slavery under them, and maintain in that state, the land once dear to him—his motherland, as the Cretans call it, and his fatherland. This would be the consummation of such a man’s desire. [575e]”

“Yes, entirely,” he said.

“Even in private life, before they come to power,” I said, “these men behave in this way. First, they associate either with people who flatter them and are ready to serve their every need, or, if they themselves need something from someone, they fawn upon him, daring every show of intimacy; once they have got what they wanted, they become strangers. [576a]”

“Very much so.”

“So throughout their lives they are never anyone’s friends. They are always masters over someone or slaves to someone else. A tyrannical nature never tastes freedom or genuine friendship.”

“Certainly not.”

“Would we not be right to call such people untrustworthy?”

“How could we not?”

“And as unjust as can be, if we were right [576b] in what we agreed earlier about the nature of justice.”

“We certainly were right,” he said.

“Then let us sum up the worst man,” I said. “He is, I take it, the man who is awake just as we have described him in dreams.”

“Exactly.”

“He comes into being when the man most tyrannical by nature achieves absolute rule; and the longer he lives as a tyrant, the more he becomes such a man.”

“That must be so,” said Glaucon, taking up the conversation.

“And will the man who proves the worst,” I said, “[576c] also prove the most wretched? Will the one who exercises tyranny for the longest time and to the greatest degree in truth be wretched to the greatest degree and for the longest time? People at large, though, have many different opinions.”

“At least this much must be so,” he said.

“Now the tyrannical man would resemble the tyrannized city, the democratic man the democratic city, and likewise with the others, would he not?”

“Of course.”

“And as one city stands to another in virtue and happiness, so does one man stand to another? [576d]”

“How could it be otherwise?”

“Then how does a tyrannized city compare in virtue with a city governed by a king, such as we described at the outset?”

“They are complete opposites,” he said. “One is best, the other worst.”

“I will not ask which you mean,” I said, “for it is plain. But do you judge them in the same way in happiness and misery, or differently? And let us not be overawed by the sight of the tyrant alone, or of the few who attend him. Let us go inside and behold the whole [576e] city, as we must, penetrate into every part of it, and only then declare our verdict.”

“That is a fair challenge,” he said, “and everyone can see that no city is more wretched than one under tyranny, and none happier than one under a king.”

“Then would I be right,” I said, “to issue the same challenge [577a] concerning the men, asking that judgment be made by someone able to enter into a man’s character in thought and discern it clearly? He must not look only at the outside, like a child dazzled by the pomp tyrants put on for strangers, but must see through it. Suppose I claimed we should all listen to such a judge, one both able to judge and familiar with tyrants, who has lived in the same house and observed how they behave at home toward each member of the family, where they are most likely [577b] to be seen stripped of their tragic costume, and who has also seen them in public dangers. Suppose we asked him, after seeing all this, to report how the tyrant fares in happiness and misery beside other men?”

“You would be quite right to issue that challenge too,” he said.

“Shall we pretend, then,” I said, “that we ourselves are among those able to judge, and that we have already met such people, so that we have someone to answer our questions?”

“Certainly.” [577c]

“Come, then,” I said, “consider it this way. Remember the likeness between city and man, examine each in turn, and tell me what each undergoes.”

“What kinds of things?” he said.

“First,” I said, “speaking of the city, would you call a city under tyranny free or enslaved?”

“As enslaved as could be,” he said.

“And yet you see masters and free people in it.”

“I see a tiny number of them,” he said. “But the whole city, one might say, including its most decent part, is enslaved, dishonored, and wretched. [577d]”

“If the man resembles the city,” I said, “must not the same order prevail within him? Must his soul not be full of bondage and servility, with its most decent parts enslaved, while a small part, the most depraved and frenzied, rules as master?”

“It must,” he said.

“Then would you call a soul like that enslaved or free?”

“Enslaved, surely.”

“And a city enslaved under tyranny is least able to do what it wishes, is it not?”

“By far.” [577e]

“Then the soul under tyranny, speaking of the whole soul, will be least able to do what it wishes. Always dragged by a goad against its will, it will be full of turmoil and remorse.”

“How could it not?”

“And must a city under tyranny be rich or poor?”

“Poor.”

“[578a] Then a tyrannical soul, too, must always be poor and insatiable.”

“So it is,” he said.

“And must not such a city, and such a man, be full of fear?”

“Very much so.”

“Do you think you could find more wailing, groaning, lamentation, and pain in any other city?”

“Not at all.”

“And do you think such things abound in any other man more than in this tyrannical man, maddened by desires and passions?”

“How could they?” he said. [578b]

“Looking to all these things and others like them, I imagine, you judged this city the most wretched of cities—”

“And rightly, did I not?” he said.

“Certainly,” I said. “But looking at these same things, what do you say of the tyrannical man?”

“That he is by far the most wretched of all men,” he said.

“Now you are not quite right,” I said.

“How so?” he said.

“He is not yet, I think, the most wretched man of this kind.”

“Who is, then?”

“Perhaps you will find this man still more wretched.”

“Which man? [578c]”

“The man,” I said, “who has a tyrannical nature but does not live out his life as a private citizen, and is so unfortunate that some accident provides him the chance to become a tyrant.”

“From what has already been said,” he replied, “I suspect you are speaking the truth.”

“Yes,” I said, “but in matters like this we must not rely on suspicion. We must examine them carefully by an argument of this kind, for our inquiry concerns the greatest question: the good life and the bad.”

“Quite right,” he said.

“Consider whether I have something to say. I think that in examining the tyrant we must reflect [578d] on these people.”

“Which people?”

“Each of those wealthy private citizens in our cities who own many slaves. In this respect they resemble tyrants: they rule over many, though the tyrant’s numbers are different.”

“They are different.”

“You know that such men live without fear and are not afraid of their servants?”

“Why should they be afraid?”

“No reason,” I said. “But do you see why?”

“Yes: the entire city comes to the aid of each individual citizen. [578e]”

“Well said,” I replied. “But suppose a god were to lift one man, with fifty or more slaves, out of the city, together with his wife, children, other property, and servants, and set him down in a wilderness where no free person would be there to help him. How great a fear, do you think, would seize him for himself, his children, and his wife, lest the servants kill them?”

“Utter fear,” he said.

### Book IX, 579–586

[579a] “Would he not then be compelled to flatter some of his slaves, make them many promises, and set them free though he had no wish to, revealing himself as a flatterer of his own servants?”

“He would have no choice,” he said, “unless he wished to perish.”

“And suppose,” I said, “the god settled many neighbors all around him, people who would not tolerate anyone’s claim to master another, but who would inflict the severest penalties on anyone they caught doing so. [579b]”

“I think,” he said, “his plight would be worse in every way, surrounded on all sides by enemies keeping watch over him.”

“Is the tyrant not bound in a prison of just this kind, being by nature the man we have described, full of fears and passions of every sort? Although his soul is greedy, he alone of all the people in the city may neither travel abroad nor see any of the sights that other free men long to visit. For the most part he stays shut up in his house like a woman, [579c] envying the other citizens if any one of them goes abroad and sees something fine.”

“Exactly,” he said.

“Then such are the evils reaped in greater measure by the man who governs himself badly—the tyrannical man whom you just now judged most wretched—if instead of living as a private citizen he is compelled by some chance to become a tyrant, and, unable to master himself, attempts to rule others. It is as if a man with a sick body, unable to control it, were compelled to spend his life, not in private retirement, but in [579d] athletic contests and combat against other bodies.”

“Your comparison is exceedingly apt and true, Socrates,” he said.

“Then, dear Glaucon,” I said, “is not his condition utterly miserable? And does the man who rules as a tyrant live an even harder life than the man whose life you judged hardest?”

“Certainly,” he said.

“So in truth, whatever anyone may think, a real tyrant is a real slave, given to the most abject flattery and servitude, [579e] a flatterer of the most depraved men. Far from satisfying his desires in the slightest, he proves the neediest of all, poor in truth, if one knows how to behold an entire soul: throughout his life he is full of fear, writhing and racked with pain—if indeed he resembles the condition of the city he rules. And he does resemble it, does he not?”

“Very much,” he said.

“[580a] Shall we not also attribute to this man what we said earlier: because of his power, he must be, and become still more than before, envious, untrustworthy, unjust, friendless, and impious, a host and nurturer of every vice? All this will make him supremely unhappy himself, and afterward make those near him unhappy too.”

“No one with any sense,” he said, “will dispute that.”

“Come, then,” I said, “now pronounce your judgment like the judge who gives the final verdict [580b] over the whole contest. Say who in your opinion comes first in happiness, who second, and judge all five in order: the kingly, the honor-loving, the oligarchic, the democratic, and the tyrannical man.”

“The judgment is easy,” he said. “I rank them, just as they came before us, like choruses in a contest, in order of virtue and vice, happiness and its opposite.”

“Shall we hire a herald,” I said, “or shall I proclaim that the son of Ariston has judged the best and most just man the happiest [580c]—the man who is most kingly and rules himself—and the worst and most unjust man the most wretched—the man who, being most tyrannical, exerts the greatest tyranny over himself and the city?”

“Let it be proclaimed by you,” he said.

“Shall I add,” I said, “that this is true whether or not they escape the notice of all human beings and gods?”

“Proclaim that too,” he said.

“Well then,” I said, “that is one demonstration for us. Consider this second one as well, if you think it has any force. [580d]”

“What is it?”

“Since the soul of each person, like the city,” I said, “is divided into three parts—[the reasoning part]—it will admit, I think, of another demonstration.”

“What demonstration?”

“This one: as there are three parts, there appear to be three kinds of pleasure, one peculiar to each; and likewise three kinds of desire and rule.”

“What do you mean?” he said.

“One part, we say, is that by which a person learns, a second that by which he feels anger; as for the third, because of its many forms, we could find no single name [580e] peculiar to it, and so we named it for what was greatest and strongest in it. We called it the desiring part because of the intensity of its desires for food, drink, sex, and all that goes along with these; and we called it the money-loving part, because it is chiefly through money [581a] that desires of this sort are fulfilled.”

“And rightly so,” he said.

“If, then, we said that its pleasure and affection are directed toward gain, would we best bring our account under a single head, so that we make clear to ourselves which part of the soul we are speaking of? And would we be right to call it money-loving and gain-loving?”

“I think so,” he said.

“And what of the spirited part? Do we not say that its whole impulse is always directed toward mastery, victory, and high repute? [581b]”

“Certainly.”

“So if we called it victory-loving and honor-loving, would that be fitting?”

“Entirely fitting.”

“But it is clear to everyone that the part by which we learn is always wholly bent on knowing the truth of how things stand, and cares least of these parts for money or reputation.”

“Far less than the others.”

“Would we then aptly call it learning-loving and philosophical?”

“How could we not?”

“And in some people,” I said, “this is the part that rules the soul, [581c] while in others one or the other of the remaining parts rules, as the case may be?”

“So it is,” he said.

“That is why we also say there are three chief kinds of human beings: the philosophical, the victory-loving, and the gain-loving.”

“Precisely.”

“And three kinds of pleasure, one assigned to each of these?”

“Yes.”

“You know,” I said, “that if you were to question three such men in turn about which of their lives is most pleasant, each would praise his own above the others. The man devoted to money-making [581d] would say that compared with profit, the pleasure of honor or learning is worth nothing, unless it brings in money.”

“True,” he said.

“And what of the lover of honor?” I said. “Does he not regard the pleasure that comes from money as vulgar, and that from learning, unless the learning brings honor, as smoke and empty talk?”

“That is so,” he said.

“And how do we imagine,” I said, “the philosopher judges the other [581e] pleasures beside the pleasure of knowing the truth as it is, and of being always engaged in learning? Does he not think them remote from [that pleasure], and call them necessary in the strict sense, since he would have no need of any of them if necessity did not compel him?”

“We may be sure of that,” he said.

“Now, since the pleasures of each part, and the lives themselves, are in dispute—not over which life is nobler or baser, or better or worse, but over which is actually [582a] more pleasant and freer from pain—how could we know which man speaks most truly?”

“I cannot readily say,” he replied.

“Consider it this way. By what ought matters to be judged if they are to be judged well? Is it not by experience, intelligence, and reason? Could anyone possess a better criterion than these?”

“How could he?” he said.

“Consider, then: of the three men, which is most experienced in all the pleasures we have mentioned? Do you think the lover of gain, as he learns what truth itself is like, becomes more experienced in the pleasure [582b] of knowledge than the philosopher is in the pleasure of gain?”

“There is a great difference,” he said. “The philosopher has had to taste the other pleasures from childhood; but the lover of gain is under no necessity, in learning the nature of what is, to taste how sweet that pleasure is or become experienced in it. Indeed, even if he were eager to do so, it would not be easy.”

“Then the philosopher,” I said, “far surpasses the lover of gain in experience of both pleasures. [582c]”

“Far surpasses him.”

“And what of the lover of honor? Is the philosopher less experienced in the pleasure of receiving honor than the honor-lover is in the pleasure of understanding?”

“Honor,” he said, “comes to all of them if each accomplishes the aim toward which he has set out. Many people honor the rich, and the brave, and the wise as well. Thus everyone has experience of what the pleasure of being honored is like; but no one except the philosopher can taste the pleasure that comes from contemplating what is. [582d]”

“Then,” I said, “as far as experience is concerned, he judges best of the three men.”

“By far.”

“And he alone will have gained that experience together with intelligence.”

“Of course.”

“Further, the instrument by which the judgment must be made belongs neither to the lover of gain nor to the lover of honor, but to the philosopher.”

“What instrument?”

“We said the judgment must be made by means of reasoned arguments, did we not?”

“Yes.”

“And arguments are chiefly his instrument.”

“How could they not be?”

“If wealth and profit were the best means of judging [582e] what is in question, then the things praised and condemned by the lover of gain would necessarily be most truly judged.”

“Certainly.”

“And if honor, victory, and courage were the measure, it would be what the lover of honor and victory praised, would it not?”

“Clearly.”

“But since experience, intelligence, and reason are the measures?”

“Then what the philosopher, the lover of reasoned discourse, praises must necessarily be most true,” he said.

“[583a] Of the three kinds of pleasure, then, the pleasure of the part of the soul by which we learn would be the sweetest; and the life in which this part rules would be sweetest for us?”

“How could it be otherwise?” he said. “The intelligent man praises his own life, and his praise carries authority.”

“And which life and which pleasure,” I said, “does our judge rank second?”

“Plainly those of the warrior and lover of honor, for he is nearer to the philosopher than the man devoted to money-making.”

“So the lover of gain comes last, it seems.”

“Of course,” he said. [583b]

“These, then, would be two victories in succession, and the just man has twice defeated the unjust. Now for the third—an Olympic victory, in honor of Zeus the Savior and Olympian Zeus. Observe that the pleasure of the other parts, apart from that of the intelligent part, is not even wholly real or pure; it is a kind of shadow painting, as I seem to have heard from one of the wise. And this would be the greatest and most decisive of the falls.”

“Indeed. But what do you mean? [583c]”

“I shall find out,” I said, “by inquiring as you answer.”

“Ask away,” he said.

“Tell me,” I said, “do we not say that pain is opposite to pleasure?”

“Certainly.”

“And there is also a state of feeling neither pleasure nor pain?”

“There is.”

“Being in the middle between them, is it a kind of stillness of the soul with regard to these feelings? Or would you not call it that?”

“I would,” he said.

“Do you remember,” I said, “what sick people say when they are ill?”

“What?”

“That nothing, it seems, is more pleasant than being healthy, though [583d] they had not realized before falling ill how delightful it was.”

“I remember,” he said.

“And you hear those suffering some intense pain say that nothing is more pleasant than the cessation of pain?”

“I do.”

“And I imagine you notice many other circumstances of this kind, in which people in pain praise the absence of pain and the stillness that comes with it as the greatest pleasure, rather than any positive enjoyment.”

“For at such a moment,” he said, “stillness perhaps becomes pleasant and welcome. [583e]”

“And when someone ceases to enjoy a pleasure,” I said, “the stillness of pleasure will be painful.”

“Perhaps,” he said.

“So the stillness that we have just called the middle state between them will sometimes be both pain and pleasure.”

“So it seems.”

“Can what is neither really become both?”

“I think not.”

“Moreover, when pleasure and pain arise in the soul, each is a kind of movement, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“[584a] But did not the state that is neither painful nor pleasant prove just now to be stillness, lying midway between the two?”

“It did.”

“How, then, can it be right to regard freedom from pain as pleasant, or freedom from enjoyment as distressing?”

“It cannot.”

“It is not so, then,” I said, “but stillness appears pleasant beside pain and painful beside pleasure at those moments. None of these appearances holds any truth about real pleasure; they are a kind of enchantment.”

“So the argument indicates,” he said. [584b]

“Then consider pleasures that do not arise from pains,” I said, “so that you may not come to think that pleasure is by nature merely the cessation of pain, and pain the cessation of pleasure.”

“Where shall I look, and what pleasures do you mean?” he said.

“There are many others,” I said, “but if you wish, consider especially the pleasures of smell. These suddenly become astonishingly intense without any preceding pain, and when they cease, leave no pain behind.”

“Entirely true,” he said. [584c]

“Let us not be persuaded, then, that pure pleasure is escape from pain, or pure pain escape from pleasure.”

“No, let us not.”

“And yet,” I said, “the so-called pleasures that pass through the body to the soul—the most numerous and greatest, perhaps—are of this kind: forms of release from pain.”

“They are.”

“And do not the anticipations of pleasure and pain, born of expectation before these events, follow the same pattern?”

“They do. [584d]”

“Do you know,” I said, “what they are like and what most closely resembles them?”

“What?” he said.

“Do you believe,” I said, “that in nature there is an above, a below, and a middle?”

“I do.”

“Then do you think someone carried from below toward the middle would suppose he was being carried anywhere but upward? And when he stood in the middle and looked back toward the place from which he had come, would he think himself anywhere but above, if he had never seen what is truly above?”

“By Zeus,” he said, “I do not see how such a man could think otherwise. [584e]”

“But if he were carried back down,” I said, “he would think he was moving downward, and he would think truly?”

“How could he not?”

“And he would undergo all this because he had no experience of the truly above, the middle, and the below?”

“Clearly.”

“Would you be surprised, then, if people without experience of truth hold unsound opinions about many other things, and stand in just this relation to pleasure, pain, and what lies between them? When carried toward [585a] pain, they judge truly and really do suffer; but when they move from pain toward the middle state, they firmly think they are coming to fulfillment and pleasure. Just as people who have never seen white mistake gray for white when they compare it with black, so these people, having no experience of pleasure, are deceived when they compare pain with freedom from pain.”

“By Zeus,” he said, “I would be far more surprised if it were not so.”

“Consider it this way too,” I said. “Are not hunger, thirst, and the like [585b] forms of emptiness in the condition of the body?”

“Of course.”

“And are not ignorance and folly in turn a kind of emptiness in the condition of the soul?”

“Very much so.”

“Then a person is filled in one case by taking nourishment, and in the other by gaining understanding?”

“How could it be otherwise?”

“Which is the truer filling: one with what is less real, or with what is more real?”

“Clearly with what is more real.”

“Which kinds of things do you think partake more of pure being: things like bread, drink, delicacies, and food of every sort; or the kind comprising true belief, knowledge, understanding, [585c] and, in a word, every virtue? Judge it this way: what is connected with the always unchanging, the immortal, and truth, is itself of that nature, and comes into being in what is of that nature—does it seem to you to be more real than what is connected with the never unchanging and the mortal, is itself such, and comes into being in what is such?”

“What is connected with the always unchanging is far more real,” he said.

“Does the being of the always unchanging partake any more of being than of knowledge?”

“Not at all.”

“And of truth?”

“Not of that either.”

“And if it partakes less of truth, does it not also partake less of being?”

“It must. [585d]”

“Then, in general, do not the things that tend the body partake less of truth and being than those that tend the soul?”

“Far less.”

“And do you not think the body itself does so in comparison with the soul?”

“I do.”

“Then what is filled with things more real, and is itself more real, is filled more truly than what is filled with things less real, and is itself less real?”

“How could it not be?”

“If being filled with what naturally belongs to us is pleasant, then what is filled with what really is, and is itself more real, would cause a truer and more genuine enjoyment [585e] of true pleasure; while what partakes of things less real would be filled less truly and securely and would partake of a less trustworthy and less genuine pleasure.”

“Most necessarily,” he said.

“[586a] Those, then, who have no experience of intelligence and virtue, but are forever occupied with feasts and the like, are carried, it seems, down below and back up only as far as the middle. Throughout their lives they wander between those points, never passing beyond them, never lifting their eyes or being carried up toward what is truly above. They have never been truly filled with what is, or tasted any stable, pure pleasure. Like grazing beasts, they look down constantly, bent over the ground and their tables, feeding, gorging, and mating; [586b] and in their greed for these things they kick and butt one another, killing each other with iron horns and hooves, because they are insatiable: they fill neither the real part of themselves nor the part capable of holding what is real with what truly is.”

“You speak like an oracle, Socrates,” said Glaucon, “of the life of most people.”

“Must they not live with pleasures mixed with pains, phantoms of true pleasure, painted with shadows, [586c] heightened by contrast with one another so that each appears intense, and breeding in fools a frenzied longing for them that makes them objects of strife? So, Stesichorus says, the phantom of Helen was fought over by those at Troy because they did not know the true one.”

“It must be something very much like that,” he said.

“And what of the spirited part? Must not things of this sort happen there too when a man acts on it, whether through envy born of love of honor, through violence born of love of victory, or through anger born of ill temper, [586d] pursuing his fill of honor, victory, and anger without reflection or understanding?”

“They must happen in this part too,” he said.

“Then,” I said, “can we say with confidence that among the desires of both the gain-loving and victory-loving parts, those that follow knowledge and reason, and pursue with their help the pleasures prescribed by the intelligent part, will attain the truest pleasures possible for them, since they follow truth—and also the pleasures proper to themselves, if what is best for each thing is also what is most its own? [586e]”

“Indeed, it is what is most its own,” he said.

“Then, when the whole soul follows the philosophical part and is free from civil strife, each part is able, in other respects, to do its own work and to be just, and each also enjoys its own pleasures, the best pleasures and, so far as possible, the”

### Book IX, 587–592

[587a] reap the truest pleasures.

“Indeed.”

“But whenever one of the other parts gains the mastery, the result is that it cannot discover even its own proper pleasure, and compels the others to pursue a pleasure alien to them and not true.”

“So it is,” he said.

“Then the parts farthest removed from philosophy and reason would produce such results most of all?”

“By far.”

“And what is farthest from reason is surely what is farthest from law and order?”

“Clearly.”

“And were not the desires of love [587b] and tyranny shown to be farthest away?”

“By far.”

“While kingly and orderly desires were least far away?”

“Yes.”

“Then I think the tyrant will stand farthest from true pleasure, the pleasure proper to him, and the king nearest.”

“Necessarily.”

“So the tyrant,” I said, “will live the least pleasant life, and the king the most pleasant.”

“Of absolute necessity.”

“Do you know,” I said, “how much less pleasantly the tyrant lives than the king?”

“If you tell me,” he said.

“There are, it seems, three kinds of pleasure, one legitimate and two [587c] illegitimate. The tyrant has gone beyond the bounds even of the illegitimate pleasures, fleeing law and reason to dwell with a bodyguard of servile pleasures. How much he falls short is not altogether easy to say—except perhaps in this way.”

“How?” he said.

“The tyrant stood third in distance from the oligarchic man, with the democratic man between them.”

“Yes.”

“Then, if our earlier account was true, the pleasure he lives with would be an image three degrees removed from the pleasure of the oligarchic man, measured against the truth?”

“So it would.”

“And the oligarchic man in turn stands third from the kingly man, if [587d] we count aristocratic and kingly as the same.”

“Third, indeed.”

“So the tyrant,” I said, “is three times three removed in number from true pleasure.”

“It appears so.”

“Then the image of tyrannical pleasure, measured by the number expressing its length, would seem to be a plane figure.”

“Exactly.”

“But when raised to the third power, its distance plainly becomes enormous.”

“Plain to anyone who can calculate,” he said.

“Then if someone reverses the calculation and states the distance of the king [587e] from the tyrant in respect of true pleasure, he will find, once the multiplication is complete, that the king lives 729 times more pleasantly, and the tyrant suffers more painfully by that same distance.”

“What an extraordinary calculation you have brought down upon us,” he said, “of the difference [588a] between the two men, the just and the unjust, in pleasure and pain!”

“Yet the number is both true,” I said, “and appropriate to lives, if days and nights and months and years are appropriate to them.”

“Of course they are,” he said.

“Then if the good and just man so far surpasses the bad and unjust man in pleasure, how immeasurably greater will his victory be in the dignity, beauty, and virtue of his life?”

“Immeasurably greater, by Zeus,” he said.

[588b] “Well then,” I said, “now that we have reached this point in the argument, let us take up what was said at the beginning, which brought us here. It was said, I believe, that injustice pays for the man who is perfectly unjust but reputed just. Was that not what was said?”

“It was.”

“Let us speak with its advocate now,” I said, “since we have agreed on the powers possessed by doing injustice and by acting justly.”

“How?” he said.

“By fashioning an image of the soul in words, so that the man who made that claim may see what he was saying.” [588c]

“What kind of image?” he asked.

“One like those ancient creatures told of in myth,” I said, “the Chimaera, Scylla, and Cerberus, and the many others said to have been formed by the growth of several shapes into one.”

“So they are said,” he replied.

“Then fashion a single shape: a beast of many colors and many heads, with heads of tame beasts and wild beasts all around it, able to change and grow all these from within itself.”

[588d] “That is a task for a formidable sculptor,” he said. “But speech is easier to mold than wax or anything else of the kind; let it be fashioned.”

“Now fashion one other shape, a lion's, and one more, a man's. Let the first be by far the largest, and the second next in size.”

“Those are easier,” he said, “and they are fashioned.”

“Now join the three into one, so that they grow together somehow.”

“They are joined,” he said.

“Then mold around them, on the outside, the likeness of a single creature, a man, so that anyone unable to see within, seeing only the outer [588e] covering, will see one living creature, a human being.”

“It is molded,” he said.

“Now let us tell the man who says injustice pays for this human being, while acting justly brings no profit, that what he says means nothing other than this: it pays him to feed the many-shaped beast into strength, and the lion and all that belongs to the lion, while starving [589a] the man and making him weak, so that he is dragged wherever either of the others leads him; and to leave them without training them to live together or making them friends, allowing them instead to bite one another and fight and devour one another.”

“That is exactly what the man praising injustice would be saying,” he said.

“And conversely, would not the man who says justice pays maintain that we must act and speak in ways that give the human being within [589b] the human being the fullest command? He will tend the many-headed creature like a farmer, nourishing and taming its gentle heads while preventing the wild ones from growing; he will make an ally of the lion's nature, care for all alike, and raise them in friendship with one another and with himself.”

“That is precisely what the man praising justice says in his turn.”

“In every way, then, the man who praises justice speaks truly, [589c] and the man who praises injustice speaks falsely. Whether the question is pleasure, good repute, or advantage, the champion of justice tells the truth; his critic has nothing sound to say and does not even know what he is criticizing.”

“No, I think he does not,” he said, “not in any way.”

“Then let us persuade him gently—he does not err willingly—and ask: My fortunate friend, should we not say that our customs of honor and disgrace arose for these very reasons? Honorable customs bring the beastly elements of our nature under the [589d] human part, or perhaps rather under the divine; disgraceful customs enslave the gentle to the wild. Will he agree, or what do you think?”

“If he listens to me,” he said.

“Can it profit anyone, then,” I said, “on this argument, to take gold unjustly, if by taking it he enslaves the best in himself [589e] to the worst? If taking gold meant enslaving a son or daughter to savage and evil men, it would not profit him, however much gold he received; but if he enslaves the most divine thing in himself to the most godless and polluted, and feels no pity, is he not miserable, and is he not accepting gold as a bribe for a [590a] far more dreadful ruin than Eriphyle did when she received the necklace at the cost of her husband's life?”

“Far more dreadful,” said Glaucon. “I will answer for him.”

“And do you think licentiousness has long been censured for this very reason: because in such a person the terrible creature, that huge and many-shaped beast, is given more freedom than it ought to have?”

“Clearly,” he said.

“And are arrogance and ill temper not censured when the lionlike [590b] and serpentine element grows and strains beyond measure?”

“Certainly.”

“And are luxury and softness not censured because they relax and slacken this same element, breeding cowardice in it?”

“Of course.”

“And flattery and servility—are they not censured when someone places this same spirited element beneath the moblike beast, and, for the sake of money and that beast's insatiable appetite, trains it from youth through humiliations to become a monkey instead of a lion?”

[590c] “Very much so,” he said.

“And why do you think mechanical and manual labor bring reproach? Is it for any reason other than that a person may have the better part naturally weak, unable to rule the creatures within him but only to serve them and learn how to flatter them?”

“So it seems,” he said.

“Then, so that such a person too may be ruled by a principle like that which rules the best man, we say he should be the servant of that better man [590d] who has the divine ruling principle within him. We do not think the servant should be ruled to his harm, as Thrasymachus thought of those under rule, but because it is better for everyone to be governed by what is divine and wise—best of all when it is his own within him, otherwise when it is set over him from without—so that, as far as possible, we may all be alike and friends, guided by the same principle.”

“Quite right,” he said.

[590e] “And the law,” I said, “also shows that this is what it desires, since it is an ally to everyone in the city;

so too does our governance of children: we do not let them go free until we have established a constitution in them as in a city, and, by nurturing their best part with the corresponding part in ourselves, have installed a guardian and ruler like it within them; only then [591a] do we set them free.”

“That does show it,” he said.

“On what grounds, then, Glaucon, and by what reasoning, can we say that it pays to commit injustice, to live without restraint, or to do anything shameful, if it makes one worse though one gains more money or some other power?”

“On none,” he said.

“And how can it pay to commit injustice without being found out and brought to justice? [591b] Does not the man who escapes detection become still worse, while in the man discovered and punished the beastly element is lulled and tamed, and the gentle element set free? His whole soul, restored to its best nature, acquires a state more precious through the possession of moderation, justice, and wisdom than the body acquires through strength and beauty together with health, by as much as the soul is more precious than the body.”

“Certainly,” he said.

[591c] “Then a person of understanding will direct his whole life toward this. First, he will honor the studies that make his soul such as this, and disregard the others.”

“Clearly,” he said.

“Next,” I said, “in the care and nourishment of his body, he will not turn his life over to beastly and irrational pleasure and make that his chief concern. Nor will he aim solely at health, or put first the prospect of becoming strong, healthy, or handsome, unless these things [591d] will also make him moderate. Rather, he will always tune the harmony of his body for the sake of the concord of his soul.”

“Certainly,” he said, “if he is to be truly musical.”

“And will he not also seek order and concord in acquiring money? He will not be dazzled by the multitude's congratulations and increase his wealth without limit, thereby bringing upon himself troubles without limit?”

“I do not think he will,” he said.

[591e] “Instead,” I said, “he will look to the constitution within himself, guarding against any disturbance there from having too much property or too little. Steering by that principle, he will add to or spend his substance as far as he can.”

“Exactly,” he said.

[592a] “And with that same end in view he will willingly share in and taste the honors he believes will make him a better man, but avoid, in private and in public, those that would undo the condition he already has.”

“Then he will not be willing to engage in politics,” he said, “if he cares about this.”

“By the dog,” I said, “he certainly will in his own city, though perhaps not in his native land, unless some divine fortune intervenes.”

“I understand,” he said. “You mean the city we have just described in founding, the one laid down in words. I think it exists nowhere [592b] on earth.”

“But perhaps,” I said, “a pattern of it is set up in heaven for anyone who wishes to look upon it and, seeing it, to found himself upon it. Whether it exists somewhere, or ever will, makes no difference: the affairs of this city alone are the ones he would undertake, and those of no other.”

“That seems likely,” he said.

### Book X, 595–602

[595a] “And indeed,” I said, “there are many other things about our city that make me think we founded it more rightly than anything else, but I say this especially when I reflect on poetry.”

“What about it?” he asked.

“That we should admit none of its imitative part. Now, especially, it is more evident to me than ever that it must not be admitted, since the several parts of the soul [595b] have been distinguished.”

“What do you mean?”

“Between ourselves—for you will not denounce me to the tragic poets and all the other imitators—everything of this kind seems to be a corruption of the minds of those who hear it, unless they possess the antidote of knowing what these things really are.”

“What are you thinking of when you say that?” he asked.

“I must say it,” I replied, “though a certain affection and reverence I have felt for Homer since childhood holds me back. He seems [595c] to have been the first teacher and leader of all those fine tragic poets. But no man should be honored before the truth; so, as I say, I must speak.”

“Certainly,” he said.

“Then listen—or rather, answer.”

“Ask.”

“Can you tell me what imitation itself is? I do not altogether understand what it means myself.”

“Then I am hardly likely to understand it,” he said.

“There is nothing strange in that,” I said, “since often those with dimmer sight see something before those with [596a] sharper vision.”

“That happens,” he said. “But with you here I could not even venture to say what I may glimpse. Look for yourself.”

“Shall we begin our inquiry, then, with our accustomed method? We usually posit one Form for each class of many things to which we give the same name. Do you understand?”

“I do.”

“Let us take any class you like. For example, if [596b] you wish, there are many beds and tables.”

“Of course.”

“But there are two Forms for these furnishings, one of bed and one of table.”

“Yes.”

“And do we not usually say that the craftsman making either piece looks toward the Form as he makes the beds or tables we use, and likewise with everything else? Surely none of the craftsmen makes the Form itself; how could he?”

“He could not.”

“But see what you would call this other craftsman.”

[596c] “What other?”

“The one who makes everything that each individual artisan makes.”

“You speak of an astonishing and remarkable man.”

“Not yet; you will say so even more in a moment. For this same artisan can make not only every manufactured article, but also everything that grows from the earth and every living creature, including himself; and beyond these he makes earth and heaven and gods and everything in heaven and everything under the earth in Hades.” [596d]

“What a marvelous master you describe,” he said.

“Do you doubt it?” I asked. “Tell me: do you think no such maker could exist at all, or could there be a way of making all these things, and another way in which he could not? Or do you not realize that you yourself could make all these things in a certain way?”

“And what way is that?” he asked.

“It is not hard,” I said. “It can be done in many places and quickly; quickest of all if you care to take a mirror [596e] and carry it everywhere. In no time you will make the sun and the heavenly bodies, in no time the earth, yourself and the other living things, and furnishings and plants, and everything we just mentioned.”

“Yes,” he said, “things that appear, but not things that truly exist.”

“Well said,” I replied, “and you have come to the point our argument needs. The painter, I think, is among makers of this kind. Is he not?”

“Of course.”

“But I think you will say the things he makes are not true. Yet in a certain way the painter, too, makes a bed, does he not?”

“Yes,” he said, “an apparent one.”

[597a] “And the bedmaker? Did you not just say he makes not the Form, which we call what a bed really is, but a particular bed?”

“I did.”

“Then if he does not make what really is, he cannot be making reality, but something like reality, not reality itself. Anyone who claimed that the bedmaker's work, or that of any other artisan, has complete reality would probably not be speaking the truth.”

“Not in the judgment of those accustomed to such arguments,” he said.

“Then we should not be surprised if even this is something faint beside the truth.”

[597b] “No, we should not.”

“Shall we, then, examine what this imitator is by using these very examples?”

“If you wish,” he said.

“There turn out to be three kinds of bed. One is the bed that exists in nature, which, I believe, we would say a god made. Who else?”

“No one else, I think.”

“Another is made by the carpenter.”

“Yes,” he said.

“And another by the painter. Is that so?”

“So be it.”

“Painter, bedmaker, god: these three preside over three kinds of bed.”

“Yes, three.”

[597c] “Now the god, whether he did not wish to or some necessity prevented him from producing more than one bed in nature, made only that single bed which is what a bed really is. Two or more of this kind were never planted by the god and never will be.”

“Why is that?” he asked.

“Because,” I said, “if he made only two, one would appear again whose Form both the others shared; that one, not the two, would be what a bed really is.”

“Right,” he said.

[597d] “Knowing this, I believe, the god wished to be the maker of a bed that truly is, not of some particular bed, nor to be a mere bedmaker, and so caused this one to grow in nature.”

“So it seems.”

“Shall we call him the natural producer of this, then, or something like that?”

“That is fair,” he said, “since by nature he has made this and everything else.”

“And the carpenter? Is he not a maker of a bed?”

“Yes.”

“And is the painter also a maker and producer of such a thing?”

“By no means.”

“What, then, will you say he is in relation to the bed?” [597e]

“The most fitting name for him, I think,” he replied, “is an imitator of what the others make.”

“Very well,” I said. “You call him an imitator of the product third in descent from nature?”

“Certainly,” he said.

“Then this will also be true of the tragic poet, if he is an imitator: he and all other imitators are third in descent from the king and from truth.”

“So it appears.”

“About the imitator we agree. But tell me this about [598a] the painter: do you think he tries to imitate the thing itself as it exists in nature, or the works of craftsmen?”

“The works of craftsmen,” he said.

“As they are, or as they appear? You must settle that further question.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“This: does a bed differ from itself when you look at it from the side or straight on, or in any other way? Or does it remain unchanged while appearing different? And is the same true of everything else?”

“Yes,” he said, “it appears different, but does not change at all.”

[598b] “Consider this very point, then: toward which of these does painting direct itself in each case? Is it the imitation of reality as it is, or of appearance as it appears? Is it an imitation of an apparition, or of truth?”

“Of an apparition,” he said.

“Imitation, then, is surely far from the truth; and this, it seems, is why it can produce everything: it touches only a small part of each thing, and that part is an image. A painter, for example, will paint us a shoemaker, a carpenter, and the other craftsmen [598c] without understanding any of their crafts. Nevertheless, if he is a good painter, he can paint a carpenter, show the picture from a distance, and deceive children and foolish people into thinking it is a real carpenter.”

“Of course.”

“But, my friend, this is what I think we must bear in mind about all such cases. When someone tells us he has met a man who knows every craft and everything else that every individual knows, who knows it all no less exactly than any specialist, [598d] we must reply that this person is simpleminded. He has evidently encountered some magician and imitator who has deceived him into thinking the man all-wise, because he himself cannot distinguish knowledge, ignorance, and imitation.”

“Absolutely true,” he said.

“Then next,” I said, “we must examine tragedy and its leader Homer, since [598e] we hear some people say that the poets know all crafts, all human affairs concerning virtue and vice, and even divine matters. For if a good poet is to make fine poetry about anything, he must, they say, make it with knowledge; otherwise he cannot make it at all.

We must therefore examine whether those who have met these imitators have been deceived, and whether, looking at their works, they fail to see that they stand three removes from reality and are easy to make without knowing the truth—for the poets make appearances, not realities [599a]—or whether there is something to their claim and good poets really know the subjects on which the multitude think they speak well.”

“We certainly must examine it,” he said.

“Do you think that if a man could make both the thing imitated and its image, he would devote himself earnestly to the production of images and make that the supreme purpose [599b] of his life?”

“No, I do not.”

“But if he truly understood the things he imitates, I think he would be far more earnest about deeds than imitations. He would try to leave many fine deeds behind as memorials of himself, and would rather be the man praised than the man who praises.”

“I think so,” he said, “for the honor and the benefit are not equal.”

[599c] “Let us not, then, demand an account from Homer or any other poet of their knowledge of all other things. We need not ask whether any was a physician rather than merely an imitator of medical discourse, what people a poet of old or of our own time is said to have cured, as Asclepius did, or what students of medicine he left behind, as Asclepius left his descendants. Nor need we question them about the other crafts; let them pass. But concerning the greatest and finest subjects Homer undertakes—war, generalship, the governance of cities, and [599d] human education—it is only fair to question him: ‘Dear Homer, if in regard to virtue you are not three removes from the truth, a maker of images, which is what we have defined an imitator to be, but are even at the second remove, and if you were capable of knowing what practices make men better or worse, in private and in public, tell us what city has been better governed because of you, as Sparta was because of Lycurgus, and many other cities, great and small, because of other men? [599e] What city credits you with being a good lawgiver and benefiting it? Italy and Sicily credit Charondas, and we Athenians credit Solon. Who credits you?’ Will he have one to name?”

“I do not think so,” said Glaucon. “Not even the Homeridae themselves make such a claim.”

[600a] “And is any war in Homer's time remembered as well fought under his command or on his advice?”

“None.”

“Or are there many ingenious inventions of his, in crafts or other pursuits, such as are attributed to the wise men Thales of Miletus and Anacharsis the Scythian?”

“Nothing of the kind.”

“Then, if not in public, is Homer said in his own lifetime to have guided anyone's education in private—people who loved his [600b] company and passed on to later generations a Homeric way of life, as Pythagoras himself was especially loved for doing, and as his followers, who even now call their way of life Pythagorean, seem in some respect to stand out among others?”

“Again, nothing of the kind is reported,” he said. “For Creophylus, Homer's companion, Socrates, might prove even more ridiculous in his education than in his name, if what they say about Homer is true. It is said that Homer himself was met with considerable neglect [600c] by this man while he lived.”

“So it is said,” I replied. “But do you think, Glaucon, that if Homer had really been capable of educating men and making them better, because he understood these matters rather than merely imitating them, he would not have made many companions who honored and loved him? Protagoras of Abdera, Prodicus of Ceos, and a great many others can persuade their contemporaries in private conversation [600d] that they will be unable to manage their own household or city unless these men oversee their education. For this wisdom their companions love them so intensely that they all but carry them on their shoulders. Yet if Homer, or Hesiod, had been able to help people toward virtue, would their contemporaries have allowed them to wander about reciting poems? Would they not have held on to them more tightly than to gold and compelled them to stay at home with them? Or, if they could not persuade them, would they not have followed them wherever they went [600e] until they had received enough instruction?”

“I think, Socrates,” he said, “that what you say is entirely true.”

“Shall we conclude, then, that all the poets, beginning with Homer, are imitators of images of virtue and of the other things they compose about, and never touch the truth? Just as we said a moment ago, the painter will produce a likeness of a shoemaker [601a] that seems real, though he knows nothing of shoemaking, for an audience equally ignorant who view it through its colors and shapes.”

“Certainly.”

“Likewise, I believe, we will say the poet colors every craft with a few words and phrases, though he understands no craft but imitation. And so to others like him, who judge from his words, whether someone speaks in meter, rhythm, and harmony about shoemaking or generalship or [601b] anything else, it sounds exceedingly fine. Such is the great enchantment these adornments naturally wield. For I think you know what poets' works look like when stripped of the colors of music and spoken simply on their own. You must have seen them.”

“I have,” he said.

“Are they not like the faces of people who have the bloom of youth but no beauty, when the bloom leaves them?”

“Exactly,” he said.

“Now look at this. We say that the maker of an image, the imitator, understands nothing of reality, but only of appearance. Is that not so?”

[601c] “Yes.”

“Let us not leave the account half told, then, but examine it thoroughly.”

“Go on,” he said.

“A painter, we say, will paint reins and a bridle.”

“Yes.”

“But the leatherworker and the smith will make them.”

“Certainly.”

“Does the painter know what kind of reins and bridle are needed? Or does even their maker, the smith or leatherworker, know? Is it not only the man who knows how to use them, the horseman?”

“Absolutely true.”

“Shall we not say the same is true of everything?”

“In what way?”

[601d] “That for each thing there are these three arts: the art of using it, of making it, and of imitating it.”

“Yes.”

“And do not the excellence, beauty, and correctness of every implement, living creature, and action refer to nothing but the use for which each is made or exists by nature?”

“That is so.”

“Then it must follow that the user of each thing has the most experience of it, and reports to the maker what in his use of it works well or badly. A flute player, for example, tells a flute maker [601e] about the flutes that serve him in playing, and directs him as to what sort he should make; the maker obeys.”

“Of course.”

“Thus the one who knows reports on good and bad flutes, while the other makes them on the strength of his trust in him?”

“Yes.”

“So in regard to the same instrument the maker will have correct belief about its excellence and defects through his association with the one who knows and through being compelled [602a] to listen to him, while the user will have knowledge.”

“Certainly.”

“And will the imitator have knowledge of what he depicts, whether it is beautiful and right or not, from using it? Or will he have correct belief from necessarily keeping company with the one who knows and receiving his instructions on what to depict?”

“Neither.”

“Then the imitator will neither know nor hold correct beliefs about the beauty or badness of what he imitates.”

“Apparently not.”

“How accomplished in wisdom the poetic imitator will be concerning the things he makes poems about!”

“Not very.”

[602b] “And yet he will imitate, knowing nothing of what makes each thing good or bad. What he will imitate, it seems, is what appears beautiful to the multitude, who know nothing either.”

“What else?”

“Then these points, at least, seem fairly well agreed between us: the imitator knows nothing worth mentioning about what he imitates; imitation is a kind of play, not serious work; and those who undertake tragic poetry, whether in iambic verse or epic, are imitators through and through.”

“Certainly.”

[602c] “By Zeus,” I said, “is this act of imitation not concerned with something three removes from the truth?”

“Yes.”

“And on what part of the human being does it exert the power it possesses?”

“What part do you mean?”

“This kind of thing: the same size does not appear equal to our sight when viewed close by and far away.”

“No, it does not.”

“And the same objects appear bent or straight when seen in water and out of it; hollow things appear convex because our vision is again deceived about colors. Clearly there is all this confusion [602d] in our soul. It is this condition in our nature that perspective painting exploits, with enchantments rivaling any magic show, and so do conjuring and many other devices of the kind.”

“True.”

“Yet have not measuring, counting, and weighing proved to be most welcome aids against them, so that what rules within us is not what appears larger or smaller or more numerous or heavier, but the part that calculates and measures or even weighs?”

“Of course.”

[602e] “And that would surely be the work of the reasoning part of the soul.”

“It would indeed.”

“But though it has often measured and announced that certain things are larger or smaller than others, or equal to them, the opposite appears to it at the same time concerning those very things.”

“Yes.”

“And did we not say that it is impossible for the same part to hold opposite beliefs about the same things at the same time?”

“And rightly so.”

### Book X, 603–610

[603a]
“Then the part of the soul that judges contrary to measurement cannot be the same as the part that judges according to it.”
“Certainly not.”
“And the part that trusts measure and calculation must be the best part of the soul.”
“Of course.”
“So the part opposed to it must be something base within us.”
“Necessarily.”
“This was the agreement I sought when I said that painting, and imitation generally, produce their work far from the truth, and associate with the part of us far from understanding [603b]; they are its companions and friends, to no sound or truthful end.”
“Entirely so,” he said.
“Then imitation, being base and consorting with what is base, gives birth to base things.”
“So it seems.”
“Is that true,” I said, “only of imitation that appeals to sight, or also of imitation that appeals to hearing, which we call poetry?”
“Presumably of that too,” he said.
“Let us not, then,” I said, “trust only an inference from painting. Let us approach directly that part of the mind [603c] with which poetic imitation associates, and see whether it is base or worthy.”
“We must.”
“Let us put it this way: imitation portrays people in action, whether their actions are forced or voluntary; they think their actions have turned out well or badly, and in every such circumstance they grieve or rejoice. Is there anything beyond these?”
“Nothing.”
“Now, in all these circumstances, is a person of one mind? [603d] Or, just as in matters of sight he was divided against himself, holding contrary opinions at once about the same things, is he divided and at war with himself in action too? But I recall that there is no need for us to settle this now: in our earlier discussion we reached sufficient agreement on all these points—that our souls are filled with countless simultaneous conflicts of this kind.”
“Right,” he said.
“Yes, right,” I said. “But what we passed over then [603e] now seems to me necessary to pursue.”
“What is that?” he asked.
“A decent man,” I said, “who meets such a fate as losing a son, or anything else he holds most dear, will, we said then, bear it more easily than others.”
“Certainly.”
“Let us now ask whether he will feel no pain at all, or whether that is impossible and instead he will somehow be moderate in his grief.”
“The latter,” he said, “is nearer the truth.”

[604a]
“Now tell me this about him: do you think he will fight his grief and hold out against it more when he is seen by his peers, or when he finds himself alone in solitude?”
“He will behave very differently,” he said, “when he is seen.”
“But when alone, I think he will dare to say many things he would be ashamed for anyone to hear, and do many things he would not bear for anyone to see him doing.”
“That is so,” he said.
“Then what bids him hold out is reason and law [604b], while what pulls him toward grief is the suffering itself?”
“True.”
“And when contrary impulses arise in a person at the same time about the same thing, we say there must be two distinct parts.”
“Certainly.”
“Is not one ready to obey the law wherever the law leads?”
“How so?”
“The law says, I believe, that it is noblest to remain as calm as possible in adversity and not to rebel against it: we do not know what is good or bad in such events; resentment brings no benefit for the future; nothing human [604c] deserves great agitation; and grief obstructs the very thing that ought to come to our aid as soon as possible in such circumstances.”
“What thing?” he asked.
“Deliberation,” I said, “about what has happened; like a player after a throw of dice, we must arrange our affairs in response to the fall as reason chooses best. We must not, like children who have stumbled, clutch the hurt spot and spend our time crying out, but always train the soul to turn as quickly [604d] as possible to healing and setting right what has fallen and fallen ill, using medicine to put an end to lamentation.”
“That would certainly be the soundest way,” he said, “to face our fortunes.”
“So we say that the best part of us wishes to follow this reasoning.”
“Plainly.”
“And the part that draws us toward memories of suffering and toward wailing, and cannot have its fill of them—shall we not call it unreasoning, idle, and friendly to cowardice?”
“We shall indeed. [604e]”
“Now the resentful part admits of many varied imitations, whereas a wise and tranquil character, always much the same as itself, is neither easy to imitate nor, when imitated, easy to understand—least of all for a festival crowd of all sorts of people gathered in a theater. What is imitated is, I suppose, a state of feeling foreign to them.”

[605a]
“Entirely so.”
“Clearly, then, the imitative poet is not naturally directed toward this part of the soul, nor is his art framed to please it if he wants favor with the many. He turns instead to the resentful, changeable character, because it is easy to imitate.”
“Clearly.”
“We would be right, then, to take him to task and set him beside the painter as his counterpart: he resembles him in making things of little worth in relation to truth, and in associating with another such part [605b] of the soul rather than the best. On these grounds they are alike. And so we would be justified in refusing him admission to a city destined to be well governed. He awakens that part of the soul and nourishes it, and, by making it strong, destroys the reasoning part—just as, in a city, someone who makes scoundrels powerful surrenders the city to them and ruins its finer citizens. So too, we shall say, the imitative poet establishes a bad constitution in each private soul, gratifying its senseless part [605c], which cannot distinguish greater from lesser, but thinks the same things great at one time and small at another. He makes images of images, and stands far removed from truth.”
“Exactly.”
“But we have not yet brought the gravest charge against poetry. Its ability to harm even decent people, apart from a very few, is terrible indeed.”
“How could it not be, if it really does that?”
“Listen and consider. When the best of us hear Homer or another tragic poet imitating [605d] a hero in mourning, drawing out a long speech of lament, or even singing and beating his breast, you know that we take pleasure in it, yield ourselves to sympathy, and earnestly praise as a good poet the man who most powerfully moves us this way.”
“I know it. How could I not?”
“But when grief comes to one of us personally, you notice, in turn, that we pride ourselves on the opposite: on being able to stay quiet [605e] and endure, thinking that conduct manly, and the conduct we praised before womanly.”
“I do notice,” he said.
“Then is such praise fitting,” I said, “when we look upon a man whom we ourselves would be ashamed to resemble, and instead of recoiling from him, delight in him and praise him?”
“No, by Zeus,” he said, “it hardly seems reasonable.”

[606a]
“Yes,” I said, “if you look at it from this direction.”
“How?”
“Consider that the part of us forcibly held in check in our own misfortunes—hungry to weep and wail to its heart’s content and to have its fill, because it is by nature eager for such things—is the very part that the poets satisfy and delight. Meanwhile the part of us that is best by nature, insufficiently schooled by reason or habit, lets down its guard over this [606b] lamenting part. It is watching another’s suffering and sees no shame for itself in praising and pitying a man who claims to be good yet grieves without restraint. It thinks that it gains a reward, pleasure, and would not consent to lose it by despising the whole poem. Few people, I believe, can reason that what we take from others’ experiences must carry over into our own: once we have fed the appetite for pity on those experiences and made it strong, it is not easy to restrain it in our own sufferings. [606c]”
“Entirely true,” he said.
“Does not the same account hold for the ridiculous? You may be ashamed to play the clown yourself, but when you hear clowning in a comedy or in private, you enjoy it greatly instead of hating it as something shameful. Are you not doing the same thing as with scenes of pity? The impulse to make jokes that you held in check by reason, fearing a reputation for buffoonery, you now release; after giving it free rein there, you often fail to notice how, in your own affairs, you are carried away into becoming a comic performer.”
“Quite so,” he said. [606d]
“The same holds for sexual desires and anger, and for all the appetites, pains, and pleasures of the soul that, we say, attend our every action. Poetic imitation works this change in us: it nourishes and waters these things when they ought to wither, and establishes them as rulers over us when they ought to be ruled, so that we might become better and happier instead of worse and more miserable.”
“I cannot say otherwise,” he replied. [606e]
“So, Glaucon,” I said, “when you meet admirers of Homer who say that this poet has educated Greece, and that for the conduct and education of human affairs he deserves to be taken up and studied, and that one should order one’s whole life according to him,

[607a]
“you must be fond of these admirers and welcome them as the best people they can be; you must grant that Homer is the most poetic of poets and the first among makers of tragedy. But you must know that only hymns to the gods and praises of good people may be admitted as poetry into the city. If you admit the sweetened Muse in lyric song or epic verse, pleasure and pain will reign in your city instead of law and the reasoning that the community has always judged best.”
“Entirely true,” he said. [607b]
“Let this be our defense, then,” I said, “now that we have recalled poetry: we had good reason to send her out of the city, being what she is; the argument compelled us. And let us tell her, lest she condemn us for harshness and lack of refinement, that there is an ancient quarrel between philosophy and poetry. ‘The yelping dog barking at its master,’ and ‘the great man among the empty talk of fools’ [607c], and ‘the crowd of wise men who prevail,’ and ‘those whose subtle thoughts leave them poor’—these and countless other signs attest to their ancient opposition. All the same, let it be said that if poetry devoted to pleasure and imitation can offer any argument why it ought to dwell in a well-governed city, we would gladly welcome it back. We know well enough that it casts a spell on us; yet it would be impious to betray what we believe to be true. My friend, are you not also under its spell [607d], especially when you see it in Homer?”
“Very much so.”
“Then it is only just that poetry return this way, if it can defend itself in song or some other meter.”
“Certainly.”
“And we might also allow its defenders, those who love poetry without being poets, to speak for it in prose and show that it is not merely delightful but beneficial to civic constitutions and human life. We shall listen with goodwill. [607e] We shall gain something, after all, if poetry proves not only delightful but beneficial.”
“How could we fail to gain?” he said.
“But if it does not, dear friend, we must act like people once in love who, when they judge their love harmful, force themselves to abstain. Our upbringing under fine constitutions has planted a love for such poetry in us, and so we shall wish it to prove itself supremely good and true. But until it can defend itself,

[608a]
“when we listen to it we shall recite to ourselves the argument we have made, like a counterspell, guarding against a return to the love of childhood and the multitude. We shall chant that this kind of poetry must not be taken seriously as though it touched truth and dealt with serious matters. Its listener must be on guard [608b], fearful for the constitution within himself, and hold fast to what we have said about poetry.”
“I agree completely,” he said.
“For the contest is great, dear Glaucon,” I said, “greater than it appears: whether we become good or bad. Neither honor nor money nor any office nor even poetry should tempt us to neglect justice and the rest of virtue.”
“I agree,” he said, “after everything we have discussed. And I think anyone else would too. [608c]”
“And yet,” I said, “we have not discussed the greatest rewards of virtue, or the prizes set before it.”
“You speak of an astonishing magnitude,” he said, “if there is anything greater than what we have discussed.”
“What great thing,” I said, “could happen in a short time? All the time from childhood to old age is surely short compared with eternity.”
“Nothing great,” he said.
“What then? Do you think an immortal thing should concern itself with this span [608d] rather than with all time?”
“I do,” he said. “But what do you mean by this?”
“Have you not realized,” I said, “that our soul is immortal and never perishes?”
He looked at me in astonishment and said, “By Zeus, I have not. Can you establish that?”
“Yes, unless I am mistaken,” I said. “And I think you can too; it is not difficult.”
“For me it is,” he said. “But I would gladly hear this proof you call easy.”
“Then you shall hear it,” I said.
“Only speak,” he said.
“Do you recognize,” I asked, “a thing called good and a thing called evil?”
“I do. [608e]”
“And do you understand them as I do?”
“In what sense?”
“Whatever destroys and corrupts is evil; whatever preserves and benefits is good.”
“I do,” he said.
“What then? Do you speak of a particular evil and good for each thing? For example, [609a] inflammation of the eyes, disease of the whole body, blight of grain, rot of wood, rust of bronze and iron—in short, an evil and a disease native to nearly everything?”

“I do,” he said.
“And whenever one of these afflicts something, it makes that thing bad and finally dissolves and destroys it altogether?”
“Of course.”
“Then each thing is destroyed by its native evil and corruption; if that does not destroy it, nothing else [609b] can corrupt it. For good certainly cannot destroy anything, nor can what is neither good nor evil.”
“How could it?” he said.
“Suppose, then, we find something that has an evil that makes it bad, but that evil cannot dissolve or destroy it. Shall we not know at once that there is no destruction for what is constituted this way?”
“That seems likely,” he said.
“Well then,” I said, “does the soul not have something that makes it bad?”
“Very much so,” he said: “all the things we just went through— injustice [609c], lack of restraint, cowardice, ignorance.”
“Does any of these dissolve and destroy it? Take care that we are not deceived into thinking that when an unjust and foolish man is caught doing wrong and put to death, injustice, the soul’s evil, has destroyed him. Look at it this way: bodily disease, an evil of the body, wastes and destroys the body until it is no body at all; and all the other things we mentioned [609d] are brought to nothing when their own peculiar evil inhabits and assails them and corrupts them. Is that not so?”
“Yes.”
“Come then, examine the soul in the same way. Does injustice dwelling within it, and the rest of vice, corrupt and wither it by their presence and assault, until they bring it to death and part it from the body?”
“Not in the least,” he said.
“But surely,” I said, “it would be unreasonable for the evil of another thing to destroy something when its own evil does not.”
“Unreasonable. [609e]”
“Consider, Glaucon,” I said, “that we do not even suppose that a body must be destroyed by the evil peculiar to food, whether staleness, decay, or any other such defect. If the evil of food produces in the body the body’s own evil, we shall say that because of the food the body was destroyed by its own evil, disease. But we shall never think it right to say that the body, which is one thing, is destroyed by the evil of food, which is another,

[610a]
“an alien evil that has not brought about the body’s native evil.”
“Again, you are quite right,” he said.
“By the same reasoning,” I said, “if the body’s corruption does not produce corruption of the soul within the soul, we must never think that an alien evil destroys a soul without its own corruption—that the evil of one thing destroys another.”
“That makes sense,” he said.
“Then either let us refute this argument as unsound, or, [610b] as long as it stands unrefuted, let us never say that fever or another disease or slaughter—or even cutting the whole body into the smallest pieces—has any greater power to destroy the soul, unless someone demonstrates that these afflictions of the body make the soul itself more unjust and impious. When an alien evil arises in one thing but the particular evil of another has not arisen in that other, [610c] we must allow no one to say that a soul, or anything else, is destroyed.”
“But surely,” he said, “no one will ever show that death makes the souls of those who die more unjust.”
“But if someone,” I said, “dares to challenge the argument and claim that a dying person becomes more wicked and unjust, to avoid admitting that souls are immortal, then, if his claim is true, we shall require him to say that injustice is fatal to its possessor like a disease, and that those who contract it die by its own death-dealing nature [610d]: the most unjust quickest, the less unjust more slowly—not as things stand now, when the unjust die at the hands of others who inflict a penalty on them for it.”
“By Zeus,” he said, “injustice will not seem so terrible if it proves fatal to its possessor, since that would be a release from troubles. Rather, I think it will appear to do precisely the opposite: killing other people if it can, but making its possessor remarkably vigorous and, beyond vigorous, wakeful as well. So far, it seems, does it dwell from anything fatal. [610e]”
“Well said,” I replied. “If the soul’s own corruption and peculiar evil cannot kill and destroy it, an evil appointed to destroy something else will scarcely destroy the soul—or anything else except what it is appointed to destroy.”
“Scarcely, as it seems likely,” he said.
“So, since it perishes by no evil at all, neither

### Book X, 611–618

[611a]
“its own nor another’s, plainly it must necessarily exist forever; and if it exists forever, it is immortal.”
“Necessarily,” he said.
“Let that stand, then,” I said. “And if it stands, you see that souls must always be the same in number. Their number could not grow smaller, since none perishes, nor could it grow larger. For if anything immortal increased in number, you know it would arise from the mortal, and in the end everything would be immortal.”
“You speak the truth.”
“But we must not believe that,” I said, “for reason will not allow it; nor should we believe that in its truest nature the soul is so full of variety, dissimilarity, and conflict within itself [611b].”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“It is not easy,” I said, “for something to be everlasting if it is composed of many parts and lacks the finest arrangement, as the soul has now appeared to us to be.”
“No, that is unlikely.”
“That the soul is immortal, then, our recent argument and others besides would compel us to acknowledge. But to see what it truly is, we must not look at it when maimed [611c] by its fellowship with the body and other evils, as we see it now. We must examine it adequately by reason as it is when pure; then we shall find it far more beautiful and discern justice and injustice more clearly, along with everything we have discussed. What we have said about it as it now appears is true, but we have looked upon it in a condition like that of the sea-god Glaucus [611d]. Those who see him can no longer easily discern his original form: some of the old parts of his body have broken off, some have been ground down and wholly disfigured by the waves, while other things have grown onto him—shellfish, seaweed, and stones—so that he looks more like any beast at all than what he was by nature. Thus we look at the soul, deformed by countless evils. But we must turn our eyes elsewhere, Glaucon.”
“Where?” he asked. [611e]
“To its love of wisdom. We must consider the things it reaches toward and the company it longs to keep, since it is akin to the divine, the immortal, and what always is. Consider what it might become if it followed that pursuit wholly, and its impulse carried it out of the sea where it now lies, and knocked off the stones

[612a]
“and shells that have grown thick around it—earthy, stony, wild accretions from feasting on earth at the so-called happy banquets. Then one might see its true nature: whether it has many forms or only one, and how and in what way it is constituted. But as for the conditions and forms it assumes in human life, I think we have given a fair account of those.”
“Indeed we have,” he said.
“Now,” I said, “have we not discharged our other obligations in the argument? [612b] We did not praise justice for its wages or its reputation, as you said Hesiod and Homer did. We found justice itself to be best for the soul itself, and that the soul should do what is just whether it has the ring of Gyges or not, and even if it has the cap of Hades along with such a ring.”
“What you say is entirely true,” he said.
“Then, Glaucon,” I said, “is it now beyond reproach if, in addition, we restore to justice and the rest of virtue the wages they bring the soul [612c] from human beings and gods, both during life and after death?”
“Entirely,” he said.
“Will you then give back what you borrowed from me in the argument?”
“What, in particular?”
“I granted you that the just person might appear unjust and the unjust person just. You asked for this concession for the sake of the argument, even if such appearances could not escape the notice of gods and human beings, so that justice itself could be judged against injustice itself [612d]. Or do you not remember?”
“I would do wrong if I did not,” he said.
“Now that their case has been decided,” I said, “I demand, on justice’s behalf, that we acknowledge how it is actually regarded by gods and human beings, so that it too may collect the prizes of victory, gaining the benefits bestowed by a just reputation upon those who possess it. For we have seen that it also gives the goods that come from being just, and does not deceive those who truly embrace it. [612e]”
“Your demand is just,” he said.
“First, then,” I said, “you will give back this concession: neither one’s true nature escapes the gods.”
“We will,” he said.
“And if neither escapes them, one will be loved by the gods and the other hated by them, as we agreed at the beginning.”
“That is so.”
“And shall we not agree that for the person loved by the gods everything that comes from them

[613a]
“comes out as well as possible, unless some necessary evil remains for him from a former offense?”
“Certainly.”
“Thus we must think of the just person: if he falls into poverty, sickness, or any of the other things that seem evil, these will end in some good for him, whether in life or after death. For the gods will never neglect anyone who willingly strives to become just and, by practicing [613b] virtue, to become as like a god as a human being can.”
“It is fitting,” he said, “that one so like them should not be neglected by his kindred.”
“And we must think the opposite of the unjust?”
“Most certainly.”
“Such, then, would be the prizes of victory that come to the just person from the gods.”
“So I judge,” he said.
“And what of those from human beings?” I asked. “If we are to tell the truth, is it not this way? Do clever but unjust people not act like runners who run well on the outward course but not on the return? They leap away swiftly at first, [613c] but end as a laughingstock, slinking off with their ears against their shoulders and no crown. True runners reach the finish, receive the prizes, and are crowned. Does not much the same thing usually happen to the just? At the end of each action and association and of life itself, they win esteem and bear off prizes from human beings.”
“Very much so.”
“Will you endure my saying about them what you yourself said [613d] about the unjust? I shall say that when just people grow older, they hold offices in their city if they wish, marry into whatever families they wish, and give their children in marriage to whomever they choose. Everything you said about the others I now say about these. And of the unjust I shall say that most, even if they escape notice in youth, are caught at the end of their course and become a laughingstock. In old age they are wretched, insulted by strangers [613e] and fellow citizens alike, whipped and subjected to the brutal punishments you rightly spoke of: then they will be racked and burned. Imagine that you have heard me say that they suffer all these things. But tell me whether you can bear what I say.”
“Certainly,” he said. “What you say is just.”
“Those, then,” I said, “are the prizes, wages, and gifts the just person receives while alive from gods

[614a]
“and human beings, in addition to the goods that justice itself supplied.”
“And they are fine and secure,” he said.
“Yet in number and magnitude these are nothing beside what awaits each of them after death. We must hear of these things, so that each may receive in full what our argument owes him.”
[614b]
“Speak, then,” he said. “Few things are sweeter to hear.”
“But the tale I shall tell you,” I said, “is not a tale of Alcinous, but of a valiant man, Er the Armenian, by birth a Pamphylian. He died once in battle, and when the bodies were gathered on the tenth day, already decaying, his was found intact. He was taken home to be buried, but on the twelfth day, as he lay on the funeral pyre, he came back to life. Revived, he told what he had seen in the other world. He said that when his soul left his body [614c], it traveled with many others, and they came to a marvelous place. There were two openings in the earth beside each other, and opposite them, above, two more in the heavens. Between them sat judges. After judgment, they told the just to take the path on the right and upward through the heavens, with signs of their judgments fastened in front, and the unjust to take the path on the left and downward, bearing behind them signs of all they had done. [614d] When Er himself came forward, they said that he must become a messenger to humanity of what took place there, and ordered him to hear and observe everything in that place. He saw souls departing through one opening in each of heaven and earth after judgment, and through the other two openings souls rising from the earth covered in grime and dust, while others descended clean from heaven [614e]. The new arrivals always seemed to return from a long journey; glad to go into the meadow, they camped as though at a festival. Those who knew one another exchanged greetings. The souls from earth asked the others about things above, and the souls from heaven asked about things below.
“They told each other their stories.

[615a]
“Those from below wept and lamented as they recalled all they had suffered and seen on their journey beneath the earth—a journey of a thousand years—while those from heaven spoke of their good fortune and visions of unspeakable beauty. Most of their stories, Glaucon, would take a long time to tell, but this, he said, was the substance. For every wrong they had done to each person, they had paid the penalty in turn, ten times over for each wrong, once in every century [615b]—a century being the measure of a human life—so that their payment was ten times the wrong. For example, if they had caused many deaths by betraying cities or armies and consigning people to slavery, or had been complicit in some other ill-treatment, they received tenfold pain for each offense. And if they had done anyone good, and had been just and pious, they received a corresponding reward [615c]. Concerning those who had been born only to live a little while, he said other things not worth recounting. But he described yet greater rewards for impiety or piety toward gods and parents, and for murder by one’s own hand.
“He said he stood near when one soul asked another where Ardiaeus the Great was. This Ardiaeus had been tyrant in a city of Pamphylia a thousand years before that time. He had killed his aged father [615d] and his elder brother, and committed many other impious acts, so people said. The soul questioned replied: ‘He has not come,’ it said, ‘and he will never come here. For this too was among the terrible sights we saw. When we were near the mouth of the opening, about to ascend after all we had endured, we suddenly saw him and others, almost all of them tyrants, though there were also some private people [615e] who had committed great crimes. They thought they could ascend, but the opening would not admit them. It roared whenever one of these incurably wicked souls, or one that had not paid enough penalty, tried to go up.
“‘Then savage men, fiery to look upon, who stood by and heard the roar, seized some and led them away. Ardiaeus and others they bound hand and foot and head,

[616a]
“‘threw them down and flayed them. They dragged them beside the road and scraped them on thornbushes, telling each passing soul what they had done and that they were being led away to be cast into Tartarus.’ Of all the many fears they felt there, he said, the greatest was that each might hear the roar as he ascended; each was overjoyed when the opening stayed silent and let him pass. Such, more or less, were the penalties and punishments [616b], and the rewards were their counterparts. When each group had spent seven days in the meadow, they had to rise and set out on the eighth; four days later they arrived where they could look down from above on a straight beam of light stretching through all heaven and earth. It most resembled a rainbow, but was brighter and purer. After traveling another day they came to it and saw there, in the middle of the light [616c], the ends of its bonds stretching down from heaven. For this light was the girdle of heaven, holding its entire revolution together like the cables bound around a warship. From the ends hung the spindle of Necessity, through which all the circles turned. Its shaft and hook were made of adamant, while the whorl was a mixture of adamant and other substances. [616d] The whorl was shaped like this: its form was like whorls here on earth, but from Er’s description we must imagine it as a single large hollow whorl, carved through, with another smaller whorl of the same kind fitted inside it, like vessels fitting into one another, then a third, a fourth, and four more. There were eight whorls altogether, nested one inside another [616e]. Seen from above, their rims appeared as circles, and together their backs formed one continuous surface about the shaft, which ran straight through the center of the eighth. The first, outermost whorl had the broadest rim; the sixth had the second broadest, the fourth the third, the eighth the fourth, the seventh the fifth, the fifth the sixth, the third the seventh, and the second the eighth.
“The rim of the greatest was variegated; the seventh was brightest; the eighth got its color from the light shed on it by the seventh. The rims of the second and fifth were much alike,

[617a]
“and yellower than the others. The third was the whitest; the fourth was reddish; the sixth was second in whiteness. As the spindle turned, the whole revolved in one direction, while within the revolving whole the seven inner circles slowly revolved in the opposite direction. Of these, the eighth moved fastest; next, and moving together [617b], were the seventh, sixth, and fifth. Third in speed, it seemed to them, was the fourth as it turned back upon itself; fourth was the third, and fifth the second. The spindle turned in the lap of Necessity. Upon each of its circles stood a Siren, turning with it and uttering a single sound, one note; all eight notes together formed a single harmony. Around it, at equal intervals, sat three others [617c], each on a throne: the Fates, daughters of Necessity, dressed in white with wreaths upon their heads, Lachesis, Clotho, and Atropos. They sang in harmony with the Sirens: Lachesis of things past, Clotho of things present, and Atropos of things to come. Clotho, from time to time, touched the outer revolution of the spindle with her right hand and helped turn it; Atropos likewise touched the inner revolutions with her left; Lachesis [617d] touched each in turn with either hand. So when they arrived, they had to go straight to Lachesis. First, an interpreter marshaled them in order. Then he took lots and patterns of lives from Lachesis’ lap, mounted a high platform, and declared:
“‘The word of Lachesis, maiden daughter of Necessity. Souls of a day, here begins another cycle of the mortal race, which ends in death. [617e] No guardian spirit shall draw you by lot; you shall choose your guardian spirit. Whoever draws the first lot, let him choose first a life to which he will then be bound. Virtue has no master: each shall have more or less of her as he honors or dishonors her. The chooser bears the blame; god is blameless.’
“Having said this, the interpreter cast the lots out among them all. Each picked up the lot that fell near him, except Er, whom he did not permit to do so. The lot showed each soul its place in the order of choice.

[618a]
“After that the interpreter laid out before them on the ground the patterns of lives, far more numerous than the souls present. They were of every kind: lives of every animal, and every kind of human life. Among them were tyrannies lasting a whole lifetime, and others that broke down midway and ended in poverty, exile, and beggary. There were lives of men renowned for their appearance, beauty, physical strength [618b], and skill in contests, and others renowned for birth and their ancestors’ virtues. There were lives of men obscure in these respects, and likewise lives of women. But no arrangement of the soul was included, since a soul that chose a different life would necessarily become different itself. Other features were intermingled with one another and with riches and poverty, sickness and health, while some lives lay between these extremes. Here, it seems, dear Glaucon, lies the whole danger for a human being. This is why [618c] each of us must give special care, setting aside every other study, to be both student and seeker of this study, if somehow he can learn and discover who will give him the power and knowledge to distinguish a good life from a bad one and choose, in every place and at every time, the best life possible. He must calculate the bearing on a life’s virtue of all the things just mentioned, both in their combinations and in their separations. He must know what beauty, mingled with poverty or wealth [618d] and a certain disposition of soul, brings about for good or evil; what noble birth and low birth, private life and offices, strength and weakness, ease of learning and difficulty of learning, and every such natural or acquired quality of the soul produce when blended with one another. From all this he can reason and choose, with his eye on the soul’s nature, which life is worse and which better: worse, the life that leads it toward becoming more unjust [618e]; better, the life that leads it toward becoming more just. All else he will let go. For we have seen that this is the best choice both in life and after death.”
“Unyieldingly, then

### Book X, 619–621

[619a] One must go down to Hades holding fast to this conviction, so that even there one may remain undazzled by wealth and other such evils, and not fall into tyrannies and other deeds of that kind, doing many irreparable wrongs and suffering still greater ones oneself. One must learn always to choose the life that lies between such extremes, and to flee what exceeds the measure in either direction, so far as one can in this life and in every life to come. For in this way [619b] a human being becomes happiest.

And so, the messenger from that world reported, the prophet spoke even then in these words: “Even for the one who comes forward last, if he chooses with understanding and lives earnestly, there lies a life to be loved, not a wretched one. Let the first to choose not be careless, nor the last lose heart.”

When he had said this, the soul that had drawn the first lot, Er said, came straight forward and chose the greatest tyranny. In folly and greed he made his choice without examining everything closely enough; [619c] he failed to notice that it held the fated eating of his own children and other evils. But when he had time to look at it, he beat his breast and lamented his choice, refusing to abide by the prophet’s warning. He blamed his evils not on himself but on chance, on divine powers, and on everything rather than himself. He was one of those who had come down from heaven: in his former life he had lived in a well-ordered city and had shared in virtue through habit, [619d] without philosophy. Broadly speaking, no fewer of those who came from heaven were caught in such choices, for they had no training in suffering; most of those who had come up from the earth, having suffered themselves and seen others suffer, did not make their choices in a rush. That, together with the chance of the lot, was why most souls exchanged evil for good or good for evil. For if a person, whenever he arrived in this life, always practiced philosophy soundly, [619e] and if his lot for choosing did not fall among the very last, then, judging from the reports from that world, he would likely not only be happy here, but would make his journey from here to there and back again not by a rough road under the earth, but by a smooth and heavenly one.

This, he said, was a sight worth seeing: how each [620a] soul chose its life. It was a sight at once pitiable, laughable, and astonishing. For most chose according to the habits of their former lives. He saw, he said, the soul that had once been Orpheus choosing the life of a swan. Because he hated womankind for having died at their hands, he would not be conceived and born of a woman. He saw the soul of Thamyris choose the life of a nightingale; he also saw a swan pass over to the choice of a human life, and other musical creatures do the same. [620b] The soul that drew the twentieth lot chose a lion’s life: it was the soul of Ajax, son of Telamon, who fled becoming a human being again, remembering the judgment over the arms. Next came Agamemnon’s soul; his own hatred of humankind, born of what he had suffered, led him to take an eagle’s life instead. The soul of Atalanta drew a lot somewhere in the middle. When she saw the great honors of a male athlete, she could not pass them by, but took that life. After [620c] her he saw the soul of Epeius, son of Panopeus, entering the nature of a craftswoman. Far away, among the last, he saw the soul of Thersites the buffoon putting on the life of a monkey. By chance the soul of Odysseus drew the very last lot of all, and came forward to choose. Remembering his former hardships, his ambition now spent, he went about for a long time seeking the life of a private man who kept clear of public affairs. At last he found it lying somewhere, overlooked [620d] by the others. When he saw it he said he would have done the same if he had drawn the first lot, and chose it with delight. In the same way, souls passed from the other beasts into human beings and into one another, the unjust changing into savage creatures, the just into gentle ones, and every kind of mixture was made.

When all the souls had chosen their lives, they approached Lachesis in the order of their lots. She sent with each the divine spirit it had chosen, to guard its life [620e] and bring its choice to fulfillment. This spirit first led the soul to Clotho, beneath her hand and the turning of her spindle, confirming the fate that the soul had drawn and chosen. After touching her, it led the soul again to the spinning of Atropos, making what had been spun irreversible.

From there, without turning back, each passed beneath the throne of [621a] Necessity. Once all had passed through, they traveled together to the Plain of Forgetfulness, through terrible heat and stifling air; the plain was bare of trees and of everything else the earth brings forth. As evening fell, they camped by the River of Negligence, whose water no vessel can hold. All were obliged to drink a certain measure of its water, but those who were not kept safe by wisdom drank more than the measure. Whoever drank forgot everything. When they had fallen asleep [621b] and it was midnight, thunder and an earthquake came, and suddenly each was carried away in a different direction, upward into birth, darting like stars. Er himself was prevented from drinking the water. How or by what path he returned to his body he did not know; but suddenly he opened his eyes and saw himself lying on the funeral pyre at dawn.

And so, Glaucon, the tale was saved and not lost; [621c] it may save us too, if we heed it. We shall cross the River of Forgetfulness safely and keep our souls unstained. If we heed my counsel, believing the soul immortal and able to endure every evil and every good, we shall always hold to the upward road and practice justice with wisdom in every way. Then we shall be friends to ourselves and to the gods, both while we remain here and when we carry off the prizes [621d] of justice, as victors gather their rewards. And both here and on that thousand-year journey we have described, we shall fare well.

## Translation — Mouseia

> Mouseia’s complete Plain English edition, made independently and directly from all ten books of the Greek (Burnet’s Oxford text, Perseus Digital Library).

### Book I, 327–334

[327a] Yesterday I went down to the Piraeus with Glaucon, son of Ariston. I wanted to pray to the goddess and see how they would hold the festival, since this was their first time celebrating it. I thought the local procession was fine. The procession put on by the Thracians looked just as impressive. [327b] After praying and watching the festival, we started back toward the city. Polemarchus, son of Cephalus, saw us from a distance heading home. He sent his servant running to ask us to wait for him. The servant caught hold of my cloak from behind. “Polemarchus asks you to wait,” he said. I turned around and asked where Polemarchus was. “He's coming up behind us,” the servant said. “Please wait.” “We will,” said Glaucon. [327c]

A little later Polemarchus arrived, along with Glaucon's brother Adeimantus, Niceratus son of Nicias, and some others coming from the procession.

Polemarchus said, “Socrates, it looks to me as though you're on your way back to the city.”

“You're right,” I said.

“Do you see how many of us there are?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“Then you'll either have to beat all of us or stay here.”

“There's another possibility,” I said. “What if we persuade you to let us go?”

“Could you persuade people who won't listen?” he asked.

“Not at all,” Glaucon said.

“Then assume we won't listen.”

[328a] Adeimantus spoke up. “Don't you know there will be a torch race on horseback this evening in honor of the goddess?”

“On horseback?” I said. “That's new. Will they pass torches to one another while racing on horses? Is that what you mean?”

“Yes,” said Polemarchus. “And they'll hold an all-night celebration that's worth seeing. We'll get up after dinner and watch it. We can spend time with lots of young men there and talk with them. So stay [328b] and don't think of doing otherwise.”

“It looks like we have to stay,” Glaucon said.

“If you think so,” I said, “that's what we'll do.”

So we went to Polemarchus's house. We found his brothers Lysias and Euthydemus there, as well as Thrasymachus of Chalcedon, Charmantides of Paeania, and Clitophon son of Aristonymus. Polemarchus's father Cephalus was also at home. He looked very old to me; it had been a long time since [328c] I had seen him. He was sitting on a cushioned chair, wearing a wreath, because he had just made a sacrifice in the courtyard. We sat beside him on some chairs placed in a circle.

Cephalus greeted me as soon as he saw me. “Socrates, you don't come down to see us in the Piraeus very often. You really should. If I were still able to walk easily up to the city, you wouldn't have to come [328d] here; we'd go to you. But as things are, you should visit us more often. You can be sure that as my other bodily pleasures fade, my desire for conversation and my enjoyment of it grow stronger. So please spend time with these young men, and keep coming here to see us as close friends and family.”

“Cephalus,” I said, “I do enjoy talking [328e] with people who are very old. They've traveled a road we may have to travel ourselves, so I think we should ask them what it's like. Is it rough and difficult, or easy to follow? I'd especially like to hear your view, now that you've reached the age poets call the threshold of old age. Is it a hard part of life? What can you tell me about it?”

[329a] “By Zeus, Socrates,” he said, “I'll tell you what I think. Some of us who are around the same age often get together, keeping the old proverb alive. Most of the men in our group complain when we meet. They miss the pleasures of youth and recall sex, drinking, feasts, and other pleasures like those. They're upset, as if they'd lost something precious. They say life was good then, while now they're hardly living at all. [329b] Some also complain that their families treat them badly because they're old. They blame old age for all the troubles it has brought them. But I don't think they're blaming the real cause, Socrates. If old age were the cause, I would suffer the same troubles, and so would everyone else who has reached this age. I've met other men who don't feel that way. Once I was there when someone asked the poet Sophocles, [329c] ‘Sophocles, how are you getting on with sex? Are you still able to sleep with a woman?’ Sophocles replied, ‘Don't even mention it! I'm delighted to have escaped it, as though I'd run away from a wild, raging master.’ I thought he spoke well then, and I still do. In old age there's real peace and freedom from desires like that. When the desires stop pulling hard and finally let go, it's just as Sophocles said: [329d] you're free of a whole crowd of mad masters. For these troubles, and for troubles with family too, there's one cause. It isn't old age, Socrates, but a person's character. If people are decent and easygoing, old age isn't too hard to bear. If they aren't, Socrates, both old age and youth are hard for them.”

I admired what he said, and wanted [329e] him to keep talking, so I prompted him. “Cephalus, I think most people won't accept that answer. They'll think you bear old age easily because you have a great deal of money, not because of your character. They say rich people have plenty to comfort them.”

“That's true,” he said. “They don't accept it. And they have a point, though not as much of one as they think. Themistocles had the right reply when a man from Seriphus insulted him and said

[330a] he was famous only because of his city, not because of himself. Themistocles answered that he himself would not have become famous if he had come from Seriphus, and the other man wouldn't have become famous if he had come from Athens. The same reply applies to poor people who have a hard time with old age. A decent man wouldn't find it very easy to grow old in poverty. But a man who wasn't decent would never be at ease with himself even if he became rich.”

“Cephalus,” I said, “did you inherit most of what you have, or did you earn it yourself?” [330b]

“What have I earned, Socrates?” he said. “As a moneymaker, I fall somewhere between my grandfather and my father. My grandfather, who had the same name as I do, inherited about as much as I have now and increased it many times over. My father Lysanias reduced it to less than I have now. I'll be satisfied if I leave these sons of mine not less than I inherited, but a little more.”

“The reason I asked,” I said, “is that you didn't seem especially [330c] fond of money. People who haven't earned it themselves usually feel that way. Those who have earned it love it twice as much as anyone else. Just as poets love their poems and fathers love their children, moneymakers care about their money as something they've made themselves, as well as for what it can buy, like everyone else. That's why they're hard to be around. They won't praise anything but wealth.”

“That's true,” he said. [330d]

“Exactly,” I said. “But tell me one more thing. What do you think is the greatest benefit you've had from owning a lot of money?”

“I may not convince many people with my answer,” he said. “You see, Socrates, when a person begins to think death is near, fears and worries come over him that never bothered him before. Until then he may have laughed at the stories about the world of Hades, which say that someone who does wrong here must pay [330e] for it there. Now he begins to worry that the stories might be true. Maybe the weakness of age causes this. Or maybe he can see that other world more clearly as he gets closer to it. In any case, he grows full of fear and suspicion. He starts looking back over his life to see if he's wronged anyone.

“A man who finds many wrongs in his past often wakes from sleep in fear, like a child,

[331a] and lives with dreadful expectations. But a man who knows he has done no wrong always has a pleasant hope to comfort him in old age. That's what Pindar says. He puts it beautifully, Socrates. Of a man who has lived justly and reverently he says:
Sweet hope stays beside him,
comforting his heart and caring for him in old age;
hope, which above all guides the shifting
thoughts of human beings.
He says this wonderfully well. That's why I count money as extremely valuable, [331b] not for everyone, but for a decent, orderly person. Money does a great deal to help a man avoid cheating or lying to someone, even by accident. It also helps him avoid going to that other world afraid that he owes sacrifices to a god or money to a person. Money has many other uses too. But if I had to choose one advantage over another, Socrates, I'd say this is one of the most important uses of wealth for a sensible man.” [331c]

“That's very well put, Cephalus,” I said. “But what about justice itself? Should we simply say it's telling the truth and giving back whatever we've received from someone? Or might these very actions sometimes be just and sometimes unjust? Take this case. Everyone would agree, I suppose, that if someone borrowed weapons from a friend while the friend was in his right mind, he shouldn't give them back if the friend lost his mind and demanded them. It wouldn't be just to return them, or to insist on telling the whole truth to someone in that state.” [331d]

“That's right,” he said.

“So telling the truth and returning what one has received isn't a definition of justice.”

“But it certainly is, Socrates,” Polemarchus broke in, “if Simonides is someone we should trust.”

“Well,” said Cephalus, “I'm handing the discussion over to you. I need to attend to the sacrifices now.”

“So Polemarchus is your heir?” I asked.

“He certainly is,” Cephalus said with a laugh, and went off to the sacrifices. [331e]

“Then tell me,” I said to Polemarchus, “as heir to the discussion, what do you think Simonides says correctly about justice?”

“He says it's just to give each person what is owed to him. I think he's right about that.”

“It's hard to distrust Simonides. He was a wise and inspired man. But perhaps you understand what he means, Polemarchus; I don't. He clearly doesn't mean what we just discussed: giving back something entrusted to us when its owner is out of his mind and asks [332a] for it. Yet what he entrusted to us is something we owe him, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

“But we must never give it back if he asks for it while out of his mind?”

“True,” he said.

“So Simonides apparently means something else when he says it's just to give back what is owed.”

“He certainly does, by Zeus,” he said. “He thinks friends owe their friends something good, not something harmful.”

“I understand,” I said. “If a man returns gold entrusted to him by a friend, he isn't giving back what he owes if giving [332b] and receiving it would cause harm to them, even though both men are friends. Is that what you think Simonides means?”

“Exactly.”

“What about enemies? Should we give them whatever we owe them?”

“Absolutely,” he said, “whatever is owed them. And I think one enemy owes another just what he deserves: some harm.”

“So Simonides apparently spoke in the riddling way poets do [332c] when he said what justice was,” I said. “It seems he meant that justice is giving each person what is appropriate, but he called that ‘what is owed.’”

“What else do you think he meant?” he asked.

“By Zeus,” I said, “suppose someone asked him, ‘Simonides, what does the art of medicine give, to whom, as what's owed and appropriate?’ What do you think he'd answer?”

“Obviously,” he said, “medicines, food, and drink to bodies.”

“And what does cooking give, to what, as what's owed and appropriate?” [332d]

“Seasonings to food.”

“All right. Then what does the art called justice give, and to whom?”

“If we follow what we've said so far, Socrates, it gives benefits to friends and harm to enemies.”

“So by justice he means doing good to friends and harm to enemies?”

“I think so.”

“Who is best able to help sick friends and harm enemies when it comes to disease and health?”

“A doctor.” [332e]

“And who can do that for people at sea, when they're in danger there?”

“A ship's captain.”

“What about a just person? In what activity, and for what purpose, is he best able to help friends and harm enemies?”

“In fighting wars and serving as an ally, I think.”

“All right, Polemarchus. But a doctor is no use to people who aren't sick.”

“True.”

“And a captain is no use to people who aren't sailing.”

“Yes.”

“Is a just person, then, no use to people who aren't at war?”

“I don't think so.”

“So justice is useful in peacetime too?”

[333a] “Yes.”

“And so is farming, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

“For producing crops?”

“Yes.”

“And shoemaking too?”

“Yes.”

“For producing shoes, I suppose you'd say?”

“Certainly.”

“Then tell me: what use or acquisition would you say justice helps us with in peacetime?”

“With agreements, Socrates.”

“By agreements, do you mean partnerships, or something else?”

“Partnerships.” [333b]

“Now, when people partner to place pieces in a board game, is a just person a good, useful partner, or is an expert player?”

“An expert player.”

“When people partner to lay bricks and stones, is a just person more useful and better than a builder?”

“Not at all.”

“In what partnership, then, is a just person better than a builder or a musician, just as a musician is better than a just person at playing a tune?”

“With money, I think.”

“Unless, Polemarchus, you mean using money together to buy or sell a horse. [333c] In that case, I think a horse expert is better. Isn't that right?”

“It seems so.”

“And for a ship, a shipbuilder or a captain?”

“It seems so.”

“So when partners do what with silver or gold is a just person more useful than anyone else?”

“When they deposit it for safekeeping, Socrates.”

“You mean when they don't need to use it, but need to leave it lying there?”

“Exactly.”

“So justice is useful when money is useless?” [333d]

“It seems so.”

“And when we need to look after a pruning knife, justice is useful whether it's shared or belongs to one person. But when we need to use it, the art of tending vines is useful?”

“It seems so.”

“And you'd say justice is useful when a shield or a lyre needs to be stored, not used, but military skill and music are useful when they need to be used?”

“I have to.”

“So for everything else too, justice is useless when a thing is being used, but useful when it isn't?”

“It seems so.” [333e]

“Then justice wouldn't be very important, my friend, if it's useful only for useless things. But let's look at another point. Isn't the person best at landing a blow in a boxing match, or in any other fight, also best at guarding against one?”

“Certainly.”

“And isn't the person most skilled at guarding against a disease also most skilled at bringing it on without anyone noticing?”

“I think so.”

[334a] “And isn't the best guardian of an army camp the very person who can steal the enemy's plans and other operations?”

“Certainly.”

“So a person who's good at guarding something is good at stealing it too.”

“It seems so.”

“Then if a just person is good at guarding money, he's good at stealing it.”

“At least that's what the argument shows,” he said.

“So the just person has turned out to be a kind of thief. You may have learned that from Homer. [334b] He admires Autolycus, Odysseus's grandfather on his mother's side, and says that he surpassed all men in theft and oath-making. So, according to you, Homer, and Simonides, justice appears to be a kind of thievery, for the benefit of friends and the harm of enemies. Isn't that what you said?”

“No, by Zeus,” he said. “I no longer know what I was saying. But I still think justice benefits friends and harms enemies.” [334c]

“When you say ‘friends,’ do you mean the people who seem good to someone, or those who really are good even if they don't seem so? And do you mean the same thing about enemies?”

“People naturally love those they believe to be good,” he said, “and hate those they believe to be bad.”

“But don't people make mistakes about that? Many seem good to them when they aren't, and many seem bad when they aren't.”

“They do make mistakes.”

“So for those people, good men are enemies and bad men are friends?”

“Yes.”

“Yet on that account it's just for them to benefit bad people [334d] and harm good people?”

“It seems so.”

“But good people are just and don't do wrong, aren't they?”

“True.”

“Then by your account it's just to harm people who have done no wrong.”

“Not at all, Socrates,” he said. “There must be something wrong with that argument.”

“So it's just to harm unjust people and help just people?” I asked.

“That sounds better than the other account.”

“Then many people who make mistakes [334e] about others will find it just to harm their friends, because those friends are bad, and help their enemies, because those enemies are good. We'll end up saying the exact opposite of what we said Simonides meant.”

“Yes,” he said, “that's exactly what follows. But let's change our definition. It looks as though we didn't define ‘friend’ and ‘enemy’ correctly.”

“How did we define them, Polemarchus?”

“We said a friend is someone who seems good.”

“And how shall we change it?” I asked.

“A friend,” he said, “is someone who both seems good and really is good;

### Book I, 335–341

[335a] but someone who only seems good, without being good, only seems to be a friend and isn't one. The same rule applies to an enemy.”

“On that account,” I said, “a good person will be a friend, it seems, and a bad person an enemy.”

“Yes.”

“Then you want us to add something to our first account of justice. We said it was just to do good to a friend and harm to an enemy. Now you want us to say it's just to do good to a friend who is good and to harm an enemy who is bad?” [335b]

“Yes,” he said. “That sounds right to me.”

“Then is it right for a just man to harm any other human being?” I asked.

“It certainly is,” he said. “He should harm bad people who are his enemies.”

“When horses are harmed, do they become better or worse?”

“Worse.”

“Worse at the qualities that make dogs good, or those that make horses good?”

“At the qualities of horses.”

“And when dogs are harmed, they become worse at being good dogs, not good horses?”

“They must.” [335c]

“Then shouldn't we say the same of human beings, my friend? When they're harmed, don't they become worse at the qualities that make human beings good?”

“Yes.”

“And isn't justice a human virtue?”

“That follows too.”

“So when human beings are harmed, my friend, they must become more unjust.”

“It seems so.”

“Can musicians use music to make people unmusical?”

“No.”

“Can people skilled with horses use horsemanship to make others bad at it?”

“No.”

“Then can just people use justice to make others unjust? Or, [335d] to put it generally, can good people use virtue to make others bad?”

“That's impossible.”

“It's not the work of heat to make things cold, I think, but of its opposite.”

“Yes.”

“And not the work of dryness to make things wet, but of its opposite.”

“Exactly.”

“And it's not the work of a good person to harm others, but of his opposite.”

“So it seems.”

“And a just person is good?”

“Certainly.”

“So it's not the work of a just person to harm a friend or anyone else, Polemarchus. That's the work of his opposite, an unjust person.”

“I think you're completely right, Socrates,” he said. [335e]

“Then if someone says justice is giving each person what is owed and means that a just man owes harm to his enemies and help to his friends, the person who said this wasn't wise. He was wrong. We've found that it's never just to harm anyone.”

“I agree,” he said.

“Then you and I will join forces against anyone who claims that Simonides said this, or Bias, or Pittacus, or any other wise and blessed man.”

“For my part,” he said, “I'm ready to join the fight.”

[336a] “But do you know whose saying I think it is,” I asked, “that it's just to help friends and harm enemies?”

“Whose?” he asked.

“I think it's the saying of Periander, or Perdiccas, or Xerxes, or Ismenias of Thebes, or some other rich man who thought he had great power.”

“That's absolutely right,” he said.

“Well then,” I said, “since justice and what is just haven't turned out to be this either, what else could we say justice is?” [336b]

While we talked, Thrasymachus had often started to interrupt and take over the discussion. The people sitting beside him kept stopping him because they wanted to hear it through. But when we paused and I asked that last question, he could no longer keep still. He gathered himself like a wild animal and lunged at us as if he meant to tear us apart.

Polemarchus and I were so frightened that we panicked. Thrasymachus shouted out in the middle of the group, “Socrates, what is all this [336c] nonsense you've been carrying on with? Why are you two playing the fool, giving way to one another? If you really want to know what justice is, don't just ask questions and then show off by refuting each answer. You know it's easier to ask than to answer. Give an answer yourself. Tell us what you say justice is. And don't tell me it's [336d] what is right, or useful, or profitable, or gainful, or advantageous. Say clearly and precisely what you mean. I won't accept empty talk like that.”

His words stunned me. I looked at him in fear. I think I would have been struck speechless if I hadn't seen him before he saw me. But I had looked at him first, just as our discussion was beginning to make him angry. [336e] That let me answer him. I said, with a slight tremble, “Thrasymachus, don't be angry with us. If he and I have made mistakes as we examine these arguments, you can be sure we haven't done so on purpose. If we were looking for gold, do you think we'd deliberately give way to each other and ruin our chances of finding it? We're looking for justice, something worth far more than a lot of gold. Do you think we'd be so foolish as to keep yielding to each other instead of doing our best to find it? You may think so, my friend, but I believe we simply aren't able to find it. So you skilled men should have much

[337a] more pity for us than anger.”

When he heard this, he gave a harsh laugh. “By Heracles! Here's Socrates' usual act of pretending not to know. I knew it, and I told everyone here: you wouldn't be willing to answer. You'd pretend not to know and do anything rather than answer a question.”

“That's because you're clever, Thrasymachus,” I said. “You know that if you asked someone what twelve is and warned him in advance, [337b] ‘Don't tell me twelve is twice six, or three times four, or six times two, or four times three. I won't accept that sort of nonsense,’ then no one could answer a question asked that way. But suppose he said to you, ‘Thrasymachus, what do you mean? I mustn't give any of the answers you listed? Not even if one of them is right? Am I to say something [337c] other than the truth? What do you mean?’ What would you say to him?”

“Well,” he said, “as if that case were like this one!”

“There's nothing to prevent it from being like this one,” I said. “But even if it isn't, if it seems similar to the person being questioned, do you think he will be any less likely to give the answer he thinks right, whether we forbid it or not?”

“So that's exactly what you'll do, is it?” he asked. “You'll give one of the answers I ruled out?”

“I wouldn't be surprised,” I said, “if, after thinking it over, that was what seemed right to me.” [337d]

“Suppose I give a different answer about justice,” he said, “one better than all those. What do you think you deserve then?”

“What else but what a person who doesn't know deserves?” I said. “He should learn from someone who does. That's what I think I deserve.”

“Very funny,” he said. “But besides learning, you must pay money too.”

“I will as soon as I have some,” I said.

“He does have some,” Glaucon said. “Go ahead and speak, Thrasymachus, if it's money you want. We'll all contribute for Socrates.” [337e]

“I'm sure you will,” Thrasymachus said, “so that Socrates can do what he always does: refuse to answer, then seize on somebody else's answer and refute it.”

“But my good man,” I said, “how could a person answer when he doesn't know, says he doesn't know, and, even if he has an opinion, has been told by a capable man that he may not say anything he thinks? It's much more reasonable for you

[338a] to speak. You say you know and have an answer to give. Please do answer me. Do me that favor, and don't begrudge Glaucon and the others the chance to learn too.”

When I said this, Glaucon and the others asked Thrasymachus to speak. He clearly wanted to, hoping to impress everyone; he thought he had a splendid answer. But he pretended to insist that I should answer. In the end he agreed. [338b] “This,” he said, “is Socrates' famous wisdom: he refuses to teach anything himself, but goes around learning from others without even thanking them.”

“You're right that I learn from others, Thrasymachus,” I said. “But you're wrong that I don't thank them. I give what I can, which is praise; I have no money. You'll soon see how eagerly I praise someone when I think he speaks well. I expect you to give a good answer.” [338c]

“Listen, then,” he said. “I say justice is nothing other than the advantage of the stronger. Well, why aren't you praising me? Of course you don't want to.”

“First let me understand what you mean,” I said. “I don't yet. You say justice is the advantage of the stronger. What do you mean by that, Thrasymachus? Surely you don't mean this: if the wrestler Polydamas is stronger than we are, and beef helps build his body, then that food is both advantageous and just [338d] for us, who are weaker than he is.”

“That's a disgusting way to argue, Socrates,” he said. “You choose the interpretation most likely to spoil what I'm saying.”

“Not at all, my good man,” I said. “Just tell me more clearly what you mean.”

“Don't you know,” he said, “that some cities are ruled by tyrants, others by democracies, and others by aristocracies?”

“Of course.”

“And in each city the ruling group has the power?”

“Yes.” [338e]

“Each ruling group makes laws to its own advantage: a democracy makes democratic laws, a tyranny makes tyrannical laws, and the others do the same. Once they've made the laws, they declare that obeying what's to their advantage is just for their subjects. They punish anyone who steps outside those laws as a lawbreaker and wrongdoer. So here's what I mean, my good man. In every

[339a] city justice is the same thing: the advantage of the established government. Since that government has power, anyone who reasons correctly can see that justice is the same everywhere: the advantage of the stronger.”

“Now I understand what you mean,” I said. “I'll try to find out whether it's true. You too answered that justice is something advantageous, Thrasymachus, though you forbade me to give that answer. You added ‘of the stronger.’” [339b]

“A tiny addition, perhaps,” he said.

“It's not yet clear whether it's tiny. But we clearly need to examine whether your claim is true. I agree that justice is something advantageous; you add that it's the advantage of the stronger. I don't know if that's right, so we need to examine it.”

“Go ahead,” he said.

“I will. Tell me, don't you also say it's just to obey those in power?”

“I do.” [339c]

“Are the rulers in each city incapable of making mistakes, or can they make some?”

“They can certainly make mistakes,” he said.

“Then when they try to make laws, they make some correctly and some incorrectly?”

“I think so.”

“By ‘correctly,’ do you mean they make laws advantageous to themselves, and by ‘incorrectly,’ laws that aren't advantageous? Or what do you mean?”

“That's what I mean.”

“And their subjects must do whatever they prescribe, and doing that is just?”

“Of course.” [339d]

“So according to your account, it's just not only to do what's advantageous to the stronger, but also to do the opposite, what's not advantageous.”

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

“I think I'm talking about what you are. Let's look more carefully. Haven't we agreed that rulers sometimes make mistakes about what's best for themselves when they give orders to their subjects? And haven't we agreed that it's just for subjects to do whatever the rulers order? Haven't we agreed on that?”

“I think so,” he said. [339e]

“Then realize that you've also agreed it's just to do things that are disadvantageous to the rulers, the stronger people. When rulers mistakenly order things that are bad for themselves, you say it's just for their subjects to do what they ordered. So, wise Thrasymachus, doesn't it follow necessarily that justice can be the opposite of what you said? The weaker people are ordered to do what is disadvantageous to the stronger.”

[340a] “Yes, by Zeus, Socrates,” Polemarchus said. “That's perfectly clear.”

“If you're going to testify for him,” Clitophon broke in.

“Why does he need a witness?” Polemarchus asked. “Thrasymachus himself agrees that rulers sometimes order things that are bad for themselves, and that it's just for their subjects to obey.”

“Thrasymachus said it was just to obey the rulers' orders, Polemarchus.”

“And he said that justice was what benefits the stronger, Clitophon. [340b] He made both claims and then agreed that the stronger sometimes tell the weaker people, their subjects, to do what is disadvantageous to themselves. Given these admissions, doing what benefits the stronger would be no more just than doing what doesn't benefit them.”

“But,” Clitophon said, “by what benefits the stronger he meant what the stronger believes benefits him. The weaker person must do that, and that's what he called just.”

“That isn't what he said,” Polemarchus replied. [340c]

“It doesn't matter, Polemarchus,” I said. “If that's what Thrasymachus means now, let's accept it as his account. Tell me, Thrasymachus, is that what you meant by justice: what seems advantageous to the stronger, whether it actually is or not? Should we say that's your position?”

“Certainly not,” he said. “Do you think I call someone ‘the stronger’ at the very moment he makes a mistake?”

“I thought you did,” I said, “when you agreed that rulers aren't incapable of error but can make mistakes.” [340d]

“You're twisting my words, Socrates,” he said. “Do you call a man a doctor, strictly speaking, when he makes a mistake in treating patients, at the moment and in the respect that he makes it? Or do you call someone an expert at calculation when he makes a mistake in calculating, at that very moment and in respect of that mistake? We do say, loosely, ‘The doctor made a mistake,’ or ‘The calculator made a mistake,’ or ‘The teacher made a mistake.’ But in my view, insofar as each is what we call him, [340e] he never makes a mistake. To speak precisely, since you care so much about precision, no skilled practitioner makes a mistake. A man goes wrong when his knowledge fails him; at that point he isn't exercising his skill. So no skilled practitioner, wise man, or ruler makes a mistake while acting as such, though everyone would say that a doctor made a mistake or a ruler made a mistake.

“Take my earlier answer that way. More precisely, a ruler, insofar as he is a ruler, [341a] doesn't make mistakes. Since he doesn't make mistakes, he sets down what's best for himself, and his subject must do it. So, as I said at the start, justice is doing what benefits the stronger.”

“All right, Thrasymachus,” I said. “Do you think I'm twisting your words?”

“I certainly do,” he said.

“You think I deliberately asked those questions to cause trouble for your argument?”

“I know you did,” he said. “But it won't help you. You won't trick me without my noticing; and if I notice, you won't be able to overpower me in argument.” [341b]

“I wouldn't even try, my friend,” I said. “But so that this doesn't happen again, tell me which sense of ‘ruler’ and ‘stronger’ you mean. Do you mean a ruler in ordinary speech, or a ruler in the precise sense you just described, whose advantage it will be just for the weaker person to pursue?”

“I mean a ruler in the strictest sense,” he said. “Now make trouble and twist my words if you can. I won't give you any leeway. But you won't manage it.” [341c]

“Do you think I'm crazy enough to try to shave a lion,” I asked, “or to twist Thrasymachus's words?”

“You just tried,” he said, “and you weren't up to it.”

“Enough of that,” I said. “Tell me this: the doctor in the precise sense you mentioned just now, is he a moneymaker or someone who cares for the sick? I mean a doctor who really is a doctor.”

“Someone who cares for the sick,” he said.

“What about a ship's captain? Is a real captain a sailor or the person in charge of the sailors?”

“The person in charge of the sailors.” [341d]

“We shouldn't count the fact that he sails on the ship, I think, and call him a sailor. He's called a captain not because he sails but because of his skill and his authority over the sailors.”

“True,” he said.

“Doesn't each group he cares for have something that benefits it?”

“Certainly.”

“And isn't each skill meant to discover and provide that benefit for its group?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“Then does each skill have any benefit of its own apart from being as complete as possible?” [341e]

“What do you mean by that question?”

“Suppose you asked me whether a body can get by merely by being a body, or whether it needs something else,” I said. “I'd answer that it certainly needs something else. That's why the art of medicine has been developed: a body has shortcomings and can't get by in that condition. Medicine was organized to provide what's beneficial to it. Do you think I've put that correctly, or not?”

“Correctly,” he said.

### Book I, 342–349

[342a] “But what about medicine itself? Is it defective? Does any skill need some further excellence, as eyes need sight and ears need hearing, so that they need a skill to find and provide what benefits them? Is there some defect in the skill itself? Does every skill need another skill to work out what benefits it, and does that skill need another like it, without end? [342b] Or will the skill work out its own benefit? Or does it need neither itself nor another skill to find a remedy for its own defect? No skill has a defect or makes a mistake, and a skill should not seek the benefit of anything except the thing it serves. The skill itself remains sound and intact when it is correct, as long as it remains exactly and entirely what it is. Look at it in those strict terms. Is that how it is, or not?”

“That seems right,” he said. [342c]

“So medicine doesn't look after the benefit of medicine, but of the body,” I said.

“Yes,” he said.

“And horsemanship looks after horses, not horsemanship. No skill looks after itself, since it has no need to. It looks after the thing it serves.”

“So it seems,” he said.

“But Thrasymachus, skills do rule and control the things they serve.”

He conceded this, though with great difficulty.

“So no kind of knowledge looks after or orders what benefits the stronger. It looks after what benefits the weaker, [342d] the thing under its control.”

He finally agreed to this too, though he tried to fight it. When he had agreed, I said, “Then a doctor, insofar as he is a doctor, doesn't look after or prescribe what benefits the doctor, but what benefits the patient, does he? We agreed that a doctor, strictly speaking, is in charge of bodies, not a money-maker. Didn't we?”

He agreed.

“And the ship's captain, strictly speaking, is in charge of sailors and isn't a sailor?” [342e]

“We agreed to that.”

“Then a captain and ruler of this kind looks after and orders what benefits the sailor under his command, not the captain.”

He agreed reluctantly.

“So, Thrasymachus,” I said, “no one in any position of command, insofar as he commands, looks after or orders what benefits himself. He looks after what benefits the person he rules and the person for whom he works. He keeps that person in view. Everything he says and does is directed toward what benefits and suits that person.”

[343a] We had reached this point in the argument, and everyone could see that the account of justice had turned into its opposite. Instead of answering, Thrasymachus said, “Tell me, Socrates, do you have a nurse?”

“What's this?” I said. “Shouldn't you answer instead of asking questions like that?”

“She lets you run around with a cold without wiping your nose when you need it,” he said. “You don't even know a sheep from a shepherd.”

“What makes you say that?” I asked. [343b]

“You think shepherds and cattle herders care for their sheep and cattle, feeding them up and tending them, with any aim other than the good of their owners and themselves. And you think the rulers in cities, those who really rule, regard their subjects any differently from the way a shepherd regards sheep. You think they spend night and day thinking about anything [343c] except how to benefit themselves. You are so far off the mark about justice and injustice that you don't know this: justice and what is just are actually good for someone else. They benefit the stronger party, the ruler, and harm the one who obeys and serves him. Injustice does the reverse. It rules over people who are truly simple and just. The subjects do what benefits their stronger ruler and make him happy by serving [343d] him, but do nothing of the sort for themselves. You need to consider it this way, my very naive Socrates: a just man gets less than an unjust man everywhere. First, in dealings between individuals, when a just man and an unjust man go into business together, you will never find the just man coming away with more when they dissolve their partnership. He comes away with less. Then consider their dealings with the city. When there are taxes to pay, the just man pays more from an equal amount of property, and the unjust man pays less. When there is money to be received, [343e] the just man gets nothing, and the unjust man makes a great deal. And when each holds public office, the just man at the very least sees his own affairs suffer from neglect, while his justice prevents him from profiting at all from public funds. Besides that, his relatives and acquaintances resent him when he refuses to do them favors that go against justice. For the unjust man, all the results are the opposite. I'm talking about

[344a] the man I mentioned just now, the one able to take advantage on a grand scale. Look at him if you want to judge just how much more profitable it is for an individual to be unjust than just. You will see it most easily if you turn to the fullest form of injustice. It makes the wrongdoer supremely happy, and those he wrongs, who refuse to do wrong themselves, utterly miserable. This is tyranny. It takes other people's property in one sweep, not bit by bit, whether secretly or by force, and whether sacred or secular, private or public. [344b] When someone commits any one of these offenses and gets caught, he is punished and disgraced. Those who commit such wrongs one at a time are called temple robbers, kidnappers, burglars, swindlers, and thieves. But when someone not only takes the citizens' property but also enslaves the citizens themselves, instead of receiving those shameful names he is called happy and blessed, [344c] not just by his citizens but by others who hear that he has carried out injustice on a complete scale. People who condemn injustice do so because they fear suffering it, not because they fear doing it. That is why injustice, when practiced fully, is stronger, freer, and more powerful than justice, Socrates. As I said at the start, what is just benefits the stronger, while what is unjust pays off and benefits the person who does it.” [344d]

After saying this, Thrasymachus meant to leave, as though he were a bath attendant who had poured a great flood of words over our ears. But the others wouldn't let him go. They made him stay and account for what he had said. I begged him myself. “Thrasymachus,” I said, “you have thrown out such a claim, and now you mean to leave before you have properly taught us, or learned for yourself, whether it is [344e] true or not? Do you think it is a small matter to decide how each of us should live our whole lives to our greatest advantage?”

“Do I think otherwise?” said Thrasymachus.

“You seem either not to care about us or not to mind whether we live better or worse because we don't know what you say you know. Please, my friend, make an effort to show us. [345a] Doing a favor for so many of us won't be a bad investment for you. For my part, I tell you that I'm not convinced. I don't think injustice is more profitable than justice, even if someone lets it do as it pleases and doesn't stop it. Suppose a man is unjust and can get away with his wrongdoing either by concealing it or by fighting back. Even so, you haven't convinced me that injustice pays better than justice. [345b] Perhaps someone else here feels the same way. So convince us properly that we are wrong to value justice more highly than injustice.”

“How am I supposed to convince you?” he said. “If what I've said already hasn't convinced you, what more can I do? Put my argument directly into your soul?”

“No, by Zeus,” I said, “don't do that. But first, stand by what you say. Or if you change your position, change it openly and don't mislead us. Look, Thrasymachus, [345c] let's return to the earlier point. At first you defined the doctor in the strict sense. Later you didn't think you had to hold the shepherd in the strict sense to the same standard. You think that insofar as he is a shepherd, he feeds up the sheep not for their own good but for a feast, like someone preparing to eat them, or [345d] to sell them, like a money-maker rather than a shepherd. But the shepherd's skill cares only for what it is assigned to care for, providing what is best for it. The skill already has everything it needs to be as good as it can be, so long as it lacks nothing that makes it a shepherd's skill. So I thought we had to agree that every kind of rule, insofar as it is rule, looks after the best interests only of what it rules and cares for, whether in public or private life. [345e] But do you think the rulers in cities, the ones who truly rule, are willing to rule?”

“No, by Zeus,” he said. “I know they aren't.”

“What about other positions of authority, Thrasymachus? Haven't you noticed that nobody willingly takes on the responsibility of ruling without asking for pay? They expect the benefit of their rule to go not to themselves but

[346a] to those they rule. Answer me this: don't we say that one skill differs from another because it has a different capacity? And please, my friend, answer what you really think, so we can make progress.”

“Yes,” he said, “that's what makes it different.”

“Then each skill gives us its own distinct benefit, not a benefit shared by all. Medicine gives health, navigation gives safety at sea, and so on.”

“Certainly.” [346b]

“And the skill of earning wages gives wages? That is its particular capacity. Or do you call medicine and navigation the same skill? If you want to make careful distinctions, as you proposed, you wouldn't call navigation medicine just because a captain grows healthy from the sea voyage that suits him, would you?”

“Certainly not,” he said.

“And you wouldn't call the skill of earning wages medicine because a wage earner stays healthy?”

“No.”

“Would you call medicine wage earning if a doctor gets paid for treating someone?” [346c]

“No,” he said.

“So we've agreed that the benefit of each skill is distinct?”

“Let it be so,” he said.

“Then if all skilled workers receive the same kind of benefit, clearly they receive it by making use of some further skill shared by them all.”

“So it seems,” he said.

“And we say that when skilled workers benefit by receiving wages, they get that benefit by using the skill of earning wages.”

He agreed reluctantly. [346d]

“So this benefit, receiving pay, doesn't come from each person's own skill. To be exact, medicine produces health, and wage earning produces pay. Building produces a house, and the wage earning that accompanies it produces pay. Every other skill similarly does its own work and benefits the thing it was assigned to serve. If no pay comes along with a skill, does the worker receive a benefit from that skill?”

“Apparently not,” he said. [346e]

“But doesn't he still provide a benefit when he works for free?”

“I think so.”

“Then, Thrasymachus, this much is clear now: no skill or position of authority provides its own benefit. Rather, as we've said all along, it provides and orders what benefits the thing it rules. It considers the interests of the weaker, not of the stronger. That's why I said earlier, my friend Thrasymachus, that no one willingly rules and takes on the job of putting other people's troubles right without asking for pay.

[347a] Someone who is going to do his job properly never acts or gives orders through his skill for his own benefit. He acts for the benefit of the one he rules. It seems that for this reason people who are to be willing to rule need a reward: money, honor, or a penalty if they refuse to rule.”

“What do you mean, Socrates?” said Glaucon. “I know the first two rewards, but I don't understand the penalty you're talking about, or why you've called it a kind of reward.”

“Then you don't understand the reward that moves the best people [347b] to rule when they are willing to do it,” I said. “Don't you know that being ambitious or greedy is considered disgraceful, and rightly so?”

“Yes,” he said.

“That is why good people don't want to rule for money or honor. They don't want to be called hired hands for openly charging a fee to rule, or thieves for secretly taking money from office. Nor do they want honor, because they aren't ambitious. [347c] There must therefore be some compulsion or penalty to make them willing to rule. That may be why it is considered shameful to seek office voluntarily rather than wait until one is compelled to take it. The greatest penalty is to be ruled by someone worse than yourself if you won't rule yourself. I think it is fear of this that makes decent people rule when they do. They take office not because they see it as something good or expect to enjoy it, but [347d] because they have to. They can't hand the job over to anyone better than themselves, or even anyone as good. If there were a city of good men, they might compete to avoid ruling, just as people now compete to rule. Then it would be clear that a true ruler by nature doesn't look after his own interests, but those of his subjects. Anyone who understood this would rather receive a benefit from someone else than go to the trouble of benefiting others. So I do not agree [347e] with Thrasymachus that justice is what benefits the stronger. We can examine that again later. But his new claim seems much more important to me: he says the unjust person's life is better than the just person's. Which do you choose, Glaucon? Which claim sounds truer to you?”

“I think the just person's life is more profitable.”

[348a] “Did you hear all the benefits Thrasymachus just listed for the unjust person?” I said.

“I heard them,” he said, “but I'm not convinced.”

“Shall we try to convince him, if we can find a way, that what he says isn't true?”

“Of course,” he said.

“Suppose we trade speeches, one against another. We could list all the benefits of being just, then let him reply and answer in turn. We would need to count [348b] and weigh the benefits each side names in each case, and then we would need judges to settle it. But if we examine the matter as we did before, agreeing with each other as we go, we'll be both the speakers and the judges.”

“Certainly,” he said.

“Which method do you prefer?” I asked.

“The second,” he said.

“Come then, Thrasymachus,” I said, “answer us from the beginning. Do you say that complete injustice is more profitable than complete justice?” [348c]

“I certainly do,” he said. “And I've told you why.”

“Then tell me this: you presumably call one of them a virtue and the other a vice?”

“Of course.”

“Justice a virtue, then, and injustice a vice?”

“That would make sense, wouldn't it, my dear fellow,” he said, “when I say injustice pays and justice doesn't?”

“Then what do you call them?”

“The reverse,” he said.

“Do you call justice a vice?”

“No. I call it a very noble kind of foolishness.” [348d]

“Then you call injustice wickedness?”

“No,” he said. “Good judgment.”

“Do you also think unjust people are intelligent and good, Thrasymachus?”

“Those who can carry out injustice fully,” he said, “and can bring cities and entire peoples under their power. Perhaps you think I'm talking about people who cut purses. That sort of thing does pay too, if you escape detection, but it isn't worth discussing. I mean what I was talking about just now.” [348e]

“I know what you mean,” I said. “What surprised me was that you place injustice on the side of virtue and wisdom, and justice on the opposite side.”

“Yes, that's exactly where I place them.”

“That's a firmer position, my friend. It's no longer easy to find an answer. If you said injustice was profitable but agreed, like others, that it was a vice or something shameful, we could appeal to commonly held views. But now you will plainly say it is admirable and strong. You'll give it all the other qualities

[349a] we used to give justice, since you've dared to call it virtue and wisdom.”

“You've guessed exactly right,” he said.

“Still,” I said, “I mustn't shrink from following the argument and examining it, so long as I take you to mean what you say. Thrasymachus, it seems to me you're no longer joking. You're saying what you believe is true.”

“What difference does it make to you whether I believe it?” he said. “Why don't you challenge the argument?” [349b]

“No difference,” I said. “But try to answer one more question. Do you think a just person would want to get more than another just person?”

“Not at all,” he said. “If he did, he wouldn't be the polite, naive person he is now.”

“What about getting more in a just action?”

“Not even in a just action,” he said.

“Would he think it right to get more than an unjust person? Would he want to?”

“He would think it right and want it,” he said, “but he wouldn't manage it.”

“That isn't what I'm asking,” I said. “I'm asking whether [349c] a just person doesn't claim or want more than another just person, but does want more than an unjust one.”

“Yes, that's how it is,” he said.

“What about the unjust person? Does he think he should get more than a just person and more than a just action?”

“Of course,” he said. “He thinks he deserves more than everyone.”

“So the unjust person will also try to get more than another unjust person and more than an unjust action? Will he compete to get the most of all?”

“That's right.”

“Let's put it this way,” I said. “The just person doesn't seek more than someone like himself, but does seek more than someone unlike himself. The unjust person seeks more than both [349d] someone like himself and someone unlike himself.”

“That's well put,” he said.

“And the unjust person is intelligent and good, while the just person is neither?” I asked.

“That's right too,” he said.

“Then the unjust person resembles the intelligent and good person, while the just person doesn't?”

“How could someone with those qualities fail to resemble such people?” he said. “And how could the other person resemble them?”

“Good. So each is the same kind of person as the people he resembles?”

“Of course,” he said.

“All right, Thrasymachus. Do you call one person musical and another unmusical?” [349e]

“Yes.”

“Which is knowledgeable and which isn't?”

“Surely the musical person is knowledgeable and the unmusical one isn't.”

“And to the extent each is knowledgeable, he's good; to the extent he isn't, he's bad?”

“Yes.”

“Is it the same with someone trained in medicine?”

“Yes.”

“Then do you think a trained musician, while tuning a lyre by tightening and loosening its strings, would want to go beyond another trained musician, or claim to do more?”

“I don't.”

“But he would go beyond someone with no musical training?”

“He would have to,” he said.

### Book I, 350–354

[350a] “What about a doctor? When it comes to food and drink, would a doctor want to do more than another doctor, or go beyond another doctor's judgment or practice?”

“Certainly not.”

“But would he want to go beyond someone untrained in medicine?”

“Yes.”

“Now look at knowledge and ignorance in general. Do you think any knowledgeable person would choose to do or say more than another knowledgeable person in the same matter? Wouldn't he choose the same course as someone like himself?”

“Perhaps that must be so,” he said.

“What about an ignorant person? Wouldn't he equally try to get ahead of [350b] both a knowledgeable person and an ignorant one?”

“Perhaps.”

“And someone with knowledge is wise?”

“Yes.”

“And someone wise is good?”

“Yes.”

“Then the good and wise person won't try to get ahead of someone like himself. He will try to get ahead of someone different from him and opposed to him.”

“So it seems,” he said.

“But the bad and ignorant person tries to get ahead of both someone like himself and someone opposed to him.”

“Apparently.”

“Now, Thrasymachus,” I said, “doesn't the unjust person try to get ahead of someone unlike himself and someone like himself? Isn't that what you said?”

“Yes,” he said. [350c]

“But the just person won't try to get ahead of someone like himself, only someone unlike himself?”

“Yes.”

“Then the just person resembles the wise and good person, while the unjust person resembles the bad and ignorant person.”

“It looks that way.”

“And we agreed that each person is the kind of person he resembles.”

“Yes, we agreed.”

“So we have found that the just person is good and wise, and the unjust person ignorant and bad.”

Thrasymachus agreed to all this, but not as easily as I tell it now. I had to drag it out of him with great difficulty, and he sweated a remarkable amount, since it was summer. [350d] Then for the first time I saw Thrasymachus blush. After we had agreed that justice is virtue and wisdom, and injustice is vice and ignorance, I said, “All right, let that stand. But we also said injustice is powerful. Don't you remember, Thrasymachus?”

“I remember,” he said. “But I don't like what you've just said, and I have something to say about it. If I said it, I know you'd accuse me of making a speech. So either let me say everything I want, or, if you want to ask questions, ask them. I'll say ‘Fine,’ as one does to old women telling stories, and nod or shake my head.” [350e]

“Not if that goes against what you really think,” I said.

“So I'll say what pleases you, since you won't let me speak. What more do you want?”

“Nothing else, by Zeus,” I said. “If that's what you'll do, do it. I'll ask the questions.”

“Then ask.”

“I'll ask what I was asking just now, so that we can continue examining

[351a] how justice stands in relation to injustice. Someone said that injustice is more effective and powerful than justice. But now,” I said, “if justice is wisdom and virtue, it will easily turn out to be more powerful than injustice, since injustice is ignorance. No one could fail to see that. Still, Thrasymachus, I don't want to look at it quite so simply. I want to consider it this way. [351b] Would you say a city can be unjust, can try unjustly to enslave other cities, and can succeed, holding many cities it has enslaved under its control?”

“Of course,” he said. “And the best city will do that especially well if its injustice is complete.”

“I understand that was your view,” I said. “But here's what I'm wondering about it. Will a city that has become stronger than another city have that power without justice, or will it need justice as well?” [351c]

“If things are as you just said, and justice is wisdom, it will need justice,” he said. “If they are as I said, it will need injustice.”

“I'm very pleased, Thrasymachus,” I said, “that you aren't just nodding or shaking your head. You're giving excellent answers.”

“I'm doing it to please you,” he said.

“And I appreciate it. Now please do this too and tell me: do you think a city, an army, a band of robbers or thieves, or any other group that joins together in some unjust undertaking could achieve anything if its members wronged one another?” [351d]

“Certainly not,” he said.

“And if they didn't wrong one another, would they do better?”

“Certainly.”

“After all, Thrasymachus, injustice produces conflict, hatred, and fighting among people, while justice produces agreement and friendship. Isn't that so?”

“Let it be so,” he said, “so I don't have to argue with you.”

“Thank you, my friend. Now tell me this: if injustice's effect is to cause hatred wherever it appears, won't it make free people and slaves hate one another, quarrel, and become unable to work [351e] together?”

“Certainly.”

“What if it arises between two people? Won't they disagree, hate each other, and become enemies both to each other and to just people?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Now, my remarkable friend, if injustice arises within one person, will it lose its power, or keep it just as fully?”

“Let it keep it just as fully,” he said.

“Then it seems to have this power: wherever it arises, whether in a city, a family, an army, or

[352a] anything else, it first makes that group unable to act together because its members fight and disagree. It then makes it an enemy to itself, to everything opposed to it, and to the just. Isn't that right?”

“Certainly.”

“And when it is in one person, I think it will do the same things it naturally does. First, it will make him unable to act, because he will be at odds with himself rather than of one mind. Then it will make him an enemy to himself and to just people. Won't it?”

“Yes.”

“And the gods are just too, my friend?”

“Let that be so,” he said. [352b]

“Then the unjust person will also be an enemy of the gods, Thrasymachus, while the just person will be their friend.”

“Enjoy your feast of arguments without fear,” he said. “I won't oppose you and make these people dislike me.”

“Come then,” I said, “finish serving me the rest of the feast by answering as you have been. Just people do seem wiser and better and more able to act, while unjust people cannot even work together. [352c] And when we say that unjust people have sometimes acted effectively together, we aren't being entirely accurate. If they had been completely unjust, they wouldn't have refrained from wronging each other. Clearly they had some justice among them. It stopped them from wronging each other at the same time as they attacked others, and that let them do what they did. They set out on their unjust undertaking because they were unjust, but only half bad. People who are entirely bad and completely unjust are completely unable to act. [352d] That is how I understand things now, rather than the way you first proposed. But we must examine whether just people also live better and are happier than unjust people. That was the question we proposed to examine later. What we have said so far already makes it look that way to me, but we still need to examine it more carefully. We aren't discussing some trivial matter. We are discussing how we ought to live.”

“Then examine it,” he said.

“I will,” I said. “Tell me, do you think a horse has a function?” [352e]

“Yes.”

“Would you say the function of a horse, or of anything else, is what you can do only with that thing, or do best with it?”

“I don't understand,” he said.

“Let me put it this way. Can you see with anything other than eyes?”

“No.”

“Can you hear with anything other than ears?”

“Not at all.”

“Then we'd be right to call those their functions?”

“Certainly.”

[353a] “And you can cut a vine shoot with a knife, a carving blade, and many other tools?”

“Of course.”

“But I think nothing would do it as well as a pruning hook made for that purpose.”

“True.”

“So shall we call that the pruning hook's function?”

“Yes.”

“Now I think you can better understand what I was asking a moment ago: whether a thing's function is what it alone can do, or can do better than anything else.”

“Yes, I understand,” he said, “and I think that's the function of each [353b] thing.”

“Good,” I said. “Now do you think each thing with an assigned function also has its own excellence? Let's go over the same examples again. We say eyes have a function?”

“Yes.”

“And do eyes have an excellence?”

“Yes, an excellence too.”

“Did ears have a function?”

“Yes.”

“And an excellence too?”

“Yes.”

“What about everything else? Isn't it the same?”

“Yes.”

“Hold on. Could eyes ever perform their function well [353c] if they lacked their own proper excellence and had a defect instead?”

“How could they?” he said. “I suppose you mean blindness instead of sight.”

“Whatever their excellence may be,” I said. “I'm not asking that yet. I'm asking whether things that perform a function will perform it well through their own excellence, and badly through a defect.”

“Yes, that's true,” he said.

“And ears deprived of their own excellence will also perform their function badly?”

“Certainly.” [353d]

“Shall we apply the same account to everything else?”

“I think so.”

“Now consider this next point. Is there a function of the soul that you couldn't perform with anything else? For example, looking after things, governing, making decisions, and all such activities: could we rightly assign them to anything other than the soul and say they belong to it alone?”

“To nothing else.”

“And what about living? Shall we say that is a function of the soul?”

“Yes, above all,” he said.

“And we say there is an excellence of the soul?”

“Yes.” [353e]

“Now, Thrasymachus, could a soul ever perform its functions well if it lacked its own excellence, or is that impossible?”

“Impossible.”

“Then a bad soul must govern and look after things badly, while a good soul must do all these things well.”

“It must.”

“And didn't we agree that justice is an excellence of the soul, and injustice a defect?”

“We did.”

“Then the just soul and the just person will live well, and the unjust person will live badly.”

“So it appears, according to your argument,” he said.

[354a] “And someone who lives well is blessed and happy, while someone who doesn't is the opposite.”

“Of course.”

“So the just person is happy and the unjust person miserable.”

“Let it be so,” he said.

“And it doesn't pay to be miserable, but it does pay to be happy.”

“Of course.”

“Then, my dear Thrasymachus, injustice never pays better than justice.”

“Take that as your feast at the festival of Bendis, Socrates,” he said.

“It was you who served it, Thrasymachus,” I said, “now that you've become gentle with me and stopped being angry. But I haven't had a satisfying feast, [354b] and that's my fault, not yours. Greedy people grab a taste of each new dish as it comes by before they've properly enjoyed the last one. I think I did the same. Before finding out the first thing we were examining, what justice actually is, I let that go and rushed to examine whether it is vice and ignorance or wisdom and virtue. Then another claim came along, that injustice pays better than justice, and I couldn't keep from leaving the first question to pursue that one. The result of our discussion is that I know [354c] nothing. If I don't know what justice is, I can hardly know whether it is a virtue or not, or whether the person who has it is unhappy or happy.”

### Book II, 357–365

[357a] After saying this, I thought I was done with the discussion. But it seems that was only the introduction. Glaucon has always been exceptionally bold in everything, and at that point he refused to accept Thrasymachus's withdrawal.

“Socrates,” he said, “do you want us merely to seem convinced, or do you want to convince us [357b] that it really is better in every way to be just than unjust?”

“I would choose to convince you for real,” I said, “if it were up to me.”

“Then you aren't doing what you want. Tell me this. Is there a kind of good that we'd welcome for its own sake, not because we want what comes from it? Enjoyment is one example, along with harmless pleasures that have no later result beyond our pleasure in having them.”

“I think there is such a kind,” I said. [357c]

“And what about something we value both for itself and for what comes from it, such as thinking, seeing, and being healthy? Surely we welcome these for both reasons.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Do you see a third kind of good? It includes exercise, medical treatment when we're sick, medicine, and other ways of making money. We'd call these things hard work but useful. We wouldn't choose them for their own sake, [357d] but for the pay and other things we get from them.”

“Yes, there is that third kind too,” I said. “But why do you ask?”

“Which of these kinds,” he asked, “does justice belong to?”

[358a] “I think it belongs to the finest kind,” I said. “Anyone who wants to be happy must value it both for itself and for what comes from it.”

“Most people don't think so,” he said. “They place it in the burdensome kind, something to practice for its rewards and the respect that comes with a good reputation. They think it is difficult and should be avoided for its own sake.”

“I know that's what they think,” I said. “Thrasymachus has long attacked justice as that kind of thing and praised injustice. But apparently I'm a slow learner.” [358b]

“Come on, then, hear me out too, and see whether you still think the same. You seem to have charmed Thrasymachus into silence too soon, as if he were a snake. I'm not yet satisfied with the case made for either side. I want to hear what each one is and what effect it has in itself when it is present in the soul. Set aside the rewards and everything else that comes from them. So, if you agree, here's what I'll do: I'll take up [358c] Thrasymachus's argument again. First I'll say what people claim justice is and where it comes from. Second, I'll say they claim everyone who practices it does so unwillingly, because they must, not because it's good. Third, I'll say why, according to them, that's reasonable: the unjust person's life is much better than the just person's. I don't believe that myself, Socrates. But I'm confused. I've heard Thrasymachus and countless others say it so often that my ears are ringing, while I've never heard anyone make the case for justice over injustice [358d] in the way I'd like. I want to hear justice praised for itself, and I think you're the one best able to do that. So I'll put all my effort into praising an unjust life. When I'm finished, you'll see how I want to hear you condemn injustice and praise justice. But first tell me if you're willing to listen.”

“More than willing,” I said. “What other subject could a sensible person take more pleasure in discussing and hearing about, again and again?” [358e]

“Good,” he said. “Listen, then, to the first thing I promised to discuss: what justice is and where it came from.

“People say that doing wrong is naturally good, while suffering wrong is bad. But the harm of suffering it outweighs the benefit of doing it. So when people wrong each other and suffer wrong in turn, and experience both sides, those who cannot avoid being harmed while still doing harm themselves decide it pays to make a mutual agreement neither to wrong nor to be wronged. This is how, they say, people began [359a] to set up laws and contracts. They called what the law commands both lawful and just. This, they say, is the origin and nature of justice. It falls between the best situation, doing wrong without being punished, and the worst, suffering wrong without being able to take revenge. Justice is valued as a middle ground, not because it is good [359b] but because people lack the power to do wrong. Someone with the power, a real man, would never make an agreement with anyone to refrain from both doing and suffering wrong. He'd have to be mad. That, Socrates, is the nature of justice and its origin, according to this account.

“To see most clearly that people practice justice unwillingly, because they cannot do wrong, let's imagine this: we give both a just and an unjust person permission to do anything they want, [359c] and then follow them to see where each person's desires lead. We'd catch the just person going exactly where the unjust one goes, driven by the desire to get more. Every creature naturally pursues this as a good, though the law forces it away from that goal and toward respecting equality. The kind of freedom I mean would be like the power that people say came to the ancestor of [359d] [Gyges] the Lydian. He was a shepherd working for the man who ruled Lydia at the time. After a heavy rain and an earthquake, the ground split open where he was grazing his flock. Amazed at the sight, he climbed down. There he saw the other wonders people tell of, including a hollow bronze horse with openings. When he looked inside, he saw a corpse that appeared larger than a human body. It had nothing on it except [359e] a gold ring on its hand. He took the ring and climbed out. When the shepherds held their usual meeting to report each month to the king on the flocks, he came along with the ring. As he sat among the others, he happened to turn the setting of the ring inward toward his palm. At once [360a] he became invisible to the people sitting beside him, and they talked as though he had gone away. Amazed, he felt for the ring again and turned its setting outward. As soon as he did, he became visible. He tested the ring to see whether it really had this power. It did: when he turned the setting inward he disappeared, and when he turned it outward he reappeared. Once he knew that, he arranged to be one of the messengers sent to the king. When he arrived, [360b] he had an affair with the king's wife. Together they attacked and killed the king, and he took power.

“Now suppose there were two such rings, one worn by a just person and the other by an unjust one. It seems no one would be so strong-willed that he'd stay just and dare to keep his hands off other people's things. After all, he could safely take anything he wanted from the marketplace, [360c] enter homes and sleep with anyone he chose, kill people or free them from prison at will, and do everything else among humans with the power of a god. If the just person acted this way, he'd behave no differently from the other man. Both would go the same way. Someone might call this strong evidence that nobody is just willingly, but only under compulsion, since justice isn't good for a person in itself. Whenever anyone thinks he can get away with doing wrong, he does it. Everyone thinks injustice brings him much more personal gain [360d] than justice does, and the speaker defending this argument will claim that everyone is right. If someone with this power never chose to do wrong and never touched anything belonging to another person, those who found out would think him utterly miserable and foolish. Yet they'd praise him to each other's faces, deceiving one another because each fears being wronged. So much for that.

[360e] “To judge the two lives we've been discussing correctly, we must set the most just person and the most unjust person far apart. Otherwise we won't be able to judge them. How shall we separate them? We must take nothing away from the unjust person's injustice or the just person's justice. Let each be perfect in his way of life.

“First, let the unjust person work like a highly skilled craftsman. An expert ship's captain or doctor knows what is possible in his profession and what isn't. He attempts what can be done and leaves the rest alone. And if he does slip up, he knows how to put things right. [361a] Likewise, the unjust person must plan his wrongs well and escape detection, if he is to be thoroughly unjust. Anyone who gets caught should be thought incompetent: the height of injustice is to seem just without being so. We must give the wholly unjust person complete injustice and not diminish it. Allow him to commit the greatest wrongs while gaining the greatest reputation [361b] for justice. If he makes a mistake, let him be able to fix it. If his wrongdoing comes to light, he must be able to talk his way out of it. When force is required, he must be able to use it, with his courage, strength, friends, and money.

“Now place beside him in our argument a just man, honest and noble, who, as Aeschylus says, wants not to seem good but to be good. We must take away his appearance of goodness. If he seems just, [361c] he'll be honored and rewarded because people think he is just. Then we won't know whether he is just for the sake of justice or for the rewards and honors. Strip him of everything except justice and put him in the opposite position from the first man. Though he does no wrong, give him the strongest reputation for wrongdoing. This will test his justice: let him remain unaffected by his bad name and everything that follows from it. Let him keep the same course until [361d] death, seeming unjust throughout his life while really being just. Then, with both men at their extremes, one of justice and the other of injustice, we can judge which is happier.”

“Good heavens, Glaucon,” I said, “you've done a powerful job of polishing each man up for our judgment, as if he were a statue.”

“I've done the best I can,” he said. “Given what they're like, I think it won't be hard to describe the life waiting for each. I must say it, [361e] and if the words sound rather crude, Socrates, remember that they belong not to me but to people who praise injustice over justice.

“They'll say that the just man in this position will be whipped, tortured, chained, [362a] have his eyes burned out, and finally, after suffering every kind of harm, be impaled. He'll learn that he should want to seem just, not be just. Aeschylus's words would be much more fitting for the unjust man. They will say that the unjust man deals in reality, not appearances, and does not want merely to seem unjust but to be unjust:

“‘He harvests a deep furrow in his mind, [362b] from which good plans grow.’

“First he can rule the city because he seems just. Then he can marry into any family he wants and give his children in marriage to whomever he wants. He can make contracts and partnerships with anyone he likes. In all these dealings he profits because he has no objection to wrongdoing. In private and public contests, he defeats his enemies and gets the better of them. He grows rich by gaining more than they do, [362c] and so can benefit his friends and harm his enemies. He can offer the gods plentiful and magnificent sacrifices and gifts. He can serve the gods, and whichever people he wants, far better than the just man can. It follows, they say, that he's more likely to be loved by the gods than the just man. So, Socrates, they say gods and humans alike provide a better life for the unjust man than for the just man.” [362d]

When Glaucon had finished, I was preparing to reply. But his brother Adeimantus spoke up.

“You don't think the argument has been presented fully, do you, Socrates?”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“The most important thing still hasn't been said.”

“Well,” I said, “as the saying goes, a brother should come to a man's aid. If Glaucon has left anything out, help him. Though he's already said enough to throw me down and make me unable to defend justice.” [362e]

“That's no answer,” he said. “Listen to this too. We must also go through the arguments opposed to those Glaucon gave, the ones that praise justice and condemn injustice. That will make what I take to be Glaucon's aim clearer.

“Fathers tell their sons, and anyone responsible for others tells those in their care, that they must be just. But they don't praise justice itself. They praise the good reputation it brings. If a man seems just, [363a] his reputation will bring him offices and marriages and everything else Glaucon just listed as benefits that come to the just man from being well regarded. And they go further with this talk of reputations. They add a good reputation with the gods and have an endless list of benefits that, they say, the gods give to the devout. The noble Hesiod and Homer say the same. Hesiod says the gods make the oak trees of just people ‘bear acorns at their tops and bees in their middles,’ [363b] and that ‘their woolly sheep are heavy with fleece.’ He describes many other blessings as well. Homer says much the same:

“‘So it is with a blameless king who fears the gods and upholds justice: the dark earth bears [363c] wheat and barley, the trees are heavy with fruit, the flocks always bear young, and the sea yields fish.’

“Musaeus and his son promise the just even more extravagant benefits from the gods. In their story they take them down to Hades, lay out a banquet for the devout, and have them spend all their time [363d] crowned and drunk. They apparently think endless drunkenness is the finest reward for virtue. Others extend the gods' rewards even further. They say that the children of one's children, and generations after them, survive for the devout person who keeps his oaths. These and similar things are how they praise justice. As for the impious and unjust, they bury them in mud in Hades and force them to carry water in a sieve. While they're still alive, [363e] they give them a bad reputation. They describe the punishments Glaucon assigned to just people who are thought unjust, applying them to the unjust instead. They have nothing else to say. That's how they praise one side and condemn the other.

“Consider, besides, another kind of talk about justice and injustice, Socrates. You hear it in private [364a] and from poets. They all say with one voice that self-control and justice are fine things but hard and painful, while lack of restraint and injustice are pleasant and easy to acquire, and shameful only by convention and reputation. They say that unjust acts are generally more profitable than just ones. They're quick to call wicked rich people and other powerful people happy and to honor them, in public and in private. But they slight and look down on people who are [364b] weak or poor, though they admit those people are better than the others. Most astonishing of all is what they say about the gods and virtue: that the gods themselves allot misfortune and a bad life to many good people, but the opposite fate to bad people. Begging priests and diviners go to rich people's doors and convince them that they have a god-given power. With sacrifices and spells they can heal a wrong committed [364c] by a man or his ancestors, all amid pleasures and celebrations. If someone wants to hurt an enemy, they promise to harm just and unjust people alike at little expense, through incantations and binding spells. They claim they can persuade the gods to serve them. They cite poets in support of all this. For the ease of wrongdoing, some teach:

“‘Wickedness can easily be chosen in crowds; [364d] its road is smooth, and it lives very near. But the gods put sweat in front of virtue,’

“and describe a long, rough, uphill road to it. For the claim that humans can sway the gods, others cite Homer, who also said:

“‘Even the gods can be won over, and people turn them aside with sacrifices and gentle prayers, [364e] libations and the smoke of offerings, begging forgiveness when someone oversteps and does wrong.’

“They bring a noisy heap of books by Musaeus and Orpheus, whom they say were descendants of the Moon and the Muses. They perform sacrifices by these books, and persuade not only individuals but whole cities that there are ways to release and purify us from wrongdoing through sacrifices, [365a] pleasurable festivities, both while we're alive and after we die. They call these rites initiations. They promise the rites will free us from the evils of the next world, while terrible things await those who fail to sacrifice.

“All these numerous claims about virtue and vice, my dear Socrates, and how humans and gods reward them—what effect do we think they have on young people's souls? Especially the bright young people who can seize on everything they hear and work out what kind of person they should be, and which road to take [365b] for the best possible life? Such a young person would probably ask himself the question in Pindar's lines: ‘Should I climb the high wall by justice, or by crooked tricks, and so build my defenses for life?’ For people say that if I'm just but don't seem just, it does me no good; instead, it clearly brings trouble and loss. But if I'm unjust and secure a reputation for justice, they say an extraordinary life awaits me. [365c] Since, as wise people show me, appearance overpowers even truth and decides happiness, I must turn wholly toward appearance. I must paint a picture of virtue all around me, like a facade, while dragging behind me the clever, crafty fox of the very wise Archilochus. ‘But,’ someone says, ‘it's not easy to stay hidden when you're bad.’ Nothing great is easy, [365d] we'd answer. Still, if we mean to be happy, we must take this road. That is where the trail of arguments leads. To stay hidden we'll organize sworn groups and clubs. There are teachers of persuasion who can teach us to speak effectively in assemblies and courts. So we can use persuasion in some cases and force in others, taking more without paying the penalty. ‘But we can't hide from the gods or overpower them.’ Well, if there are no gods, or if they don't care about human affairs, why should we [365e] care about hiding from them? If they do exist and care, we know and have heard of them only from our laws and from poets who have told us their family histories. Yet those same poets say that sacrifices, gentle prayers, and gifts can persuade and turn them aside. We have to believe the poets on both points or on neither. If we believe them, we should commit wrongs and make sacrifices

### Book II, 366–373

[366a] “from what we gain by wrongdoing. If we're just, all we'll get from the gods is freedom from punishment, while passing up the profits of injustice. If we're unjust, we'll profit; and when we've gone too far and done wrong, we'll pray to the gods, persuade them, and escape punishment. ‘But in Hades we'll be punished for the wrongs we've committed here, either ourselves or through our children's children.’ My friend, a young man reasoning this through will reply, the initiation rites have great power, and so do the gods who grant release. The greatest cities say so, [366b] as do the poets who are children of gods and have become their prophets. They tell us that this is how things work.

“So what reason remains for choosing justice over the greatest injustice? If we get hold of injustice and cover it with a false appearance of decency, things will go as we wish with gods and humans alike, both while we live and after we die. That's what many people, including leading people, tell us. In light of everything said, [366c] how could anyone with strength of mind, wealth, bodily strength, or good birth be willing to honor justice, rather than laugh when he hears it praised? Even a person who can show that what we've said is false, and who knows well that justice is best, will surely have a lot of sympathy for the unjust, not anger. He knows that, apart from someone who has a god-given dislike of wrongdoing or who has learned to avoid it through knowledge, [366d] nobody else is just willingly. A person condemns injustice because he is too cowardly, too old, or too weak in some other way to do wrong himself. That's plain to see: as soon as one of those people gains power, he starts doing wrong as much as he can.

“And there's only one reason for all this, the very reason my brother and I began this whole argument with you, Socrates. It's this: astonishing as it is, of all [366e] of you who claim to praise justice, from the earliest heroes whose words survive down to the people of today, not one has ever blamed injustice or praised justice for anything but the reputations, honors, and rewards they bring. No one has ever given an adequate account, either in poetry or in ordinary speech, of what each does by its own power when present in a person's soul, unseen by gods and humans. No one has shown that injustice is the greatest evil a soul can contain and justice its greatest good.

[367a] “If you had all told us this from the beginning and convinced us of it while we were young, we wouldn't be watching one another to prevent wrongdoing. Each of us would be his own best guard, afraid that if he acted unjustly he'd have to live with the greatest evil.

“Socrates, Thrasymachus or anyone else might say all this and perhaps much more about justice and injustice, crudely reversing their real effects, as it seems to me. But I speak as forcefully as I can, [367b] because I want to hear you make the opposite case. There's no point in hiding that from you. So don't just show us in an argument that justice is better than injustice. Show us what each does to the person who has it, how one is good and the other bad in itself. Leave reputation out of it, as Glaucon urged. If you don't strip each one of its true reputation and give it a false one, we'll say you're praising the appearance of being just, not justice itself, and condemning the appearance of being unjust, not injustice itself. [367c] We'll say you're telling unjust people to hide what they are. You'd be agreeing with Thrasymachus that justice is good for someone else, advantageous to the stronger, while injustice benefits the person who commits it and is bad for the weaker person.

“You've agreed that justice is among the greatest goods: the kind worth having both for their results and, much more, for their own sake, like sight, hearing, understanding, and health, [367d] and all the other goods that are fruitful by their own nature, not because of reputation. So praise this very thing about justice: the benefit it brings someone who has it in itself, and the harm injustice brings. Let others praise rewards and reputations. I could accept it from other people if they praise justice and condemn injustice that way, celebrating and attacking the reputations and rewards they bring. But I won't accept it from you, unless you tell me to, because you've spent your whole life [367e] studying exactly this question. So don't just demonstrate to us that justice is better than injustice. Show us what each does by itself to the person who has it, whether or not gods and humans know about it, making one good and the other bad.”

I listened. I'd always admired Glaucon's and Adeimantus's character, but now I was especially delighted.

[368a] “Sons of that man,” I said, “Glaucon's admirer chose a fitting opening for his poem about you, after you distinguished yourselves in the battle at Megara. He said, ‘Sons of Ariston, godlike children of a famous man.’ Friends, I think that is right. There's something remarkable about you if, despite being able to argue so powerfully for injustice, you aren't convinced that it's better than justice. And I believe [368b] you really aren't convinced. I judge from your whole way of life; if I had only your words to go by, I'd have doubted you. But the more I trust you, the more I'm at a loss about what to do. I don't know how to defend justice. I don't think I'm capable of it: you rejected what I said to Thrasymachus when I thought I had shown that justice is better than injustice. But I don't know how not to defend it either. I'm afraid it would be wrong to stand by while justice is attacked [368c] and give up without helping her, when I can still breathe and speak. So the best thing is to do what I can in her defense.”

Glaucon and the others urged me to defend justice in every way and not to drop the discussion. They wanted us to examine what justice and injustice each are and settle the truth about the benefit of each. So I told them what I thought: the question we've taken on isn't simple. It seems to require sharp eyesight. [368d] Since our eyesight isn't that good, I suggested we investigate it as we would if someone had told people who couldn't see very well to read small letters from a distance. Suppose someone noticed that the same letters were written somewhere else in larger print and on a larger surface. What a piece of luck that would be! They could read the large letters first, then examine the smaller ones to see whether they're the same.

“Certainly,” said Adeimantus. “But, Socrates, [368e] what has that to do with our search for justice?”

“I'll tell you. We say there is justice in one person, but also, presumably, in a whole city, don't we?”

“Yes.”

“And a city is larger than a person?”

“Larger.”

“Then perhaps there is more justice in the larger thing, where it may be easier to understand. If you like, let's look for its character first [369a] in cities. Then we can examine it in each individual, comparing the likeness of the larger thing with its form in the smaller one.”

“That sounds good to me,” he said.

“Then if we watch a city coming into being in our discussion, will we also see its justice and injustice coming into being?”

“Perhaps,” he said.

“And once the city has formed, should it be easier to see what we're looking for?” [369b]

“Much easier.”

“Should we try to carry this out, then? I think it's quite a job, so consider it.”

“I've considered it,” Adeimantus said. “Just go ahead.”

“I think a city comes into being because no one of us is self-sufficient. Each of us needs many things. Can you think of any other reason for founding a city?”

“No.” [369c]

“Because we need other people for different things, each of us takes on another as a helper. We have many needs, and gather many people into one place to live together as partners and helpers. We call this shared settlement a city. Right?”

“Right.”

“And when one person gives something to another or receives something in return, he does so because he thinks it's better for himself?”

“Yes.”

“Come on, then. Let's build a city from its beginning in our discussion. It seems our needs will build it.”

“Of course.” [369d]

“Our first and greatest need is food, so that we can exist and stay alive.”

“Absolutely.”

“Next comes housing, and third comes clothing and things like it.”

“That's right.”

“Now then, how will the city provide all this? Won't it need one farmer, one builder, and another person to weave? Shall we add a shoemaker too, or someone else who looks after bodily needs?”

“Yes.”

“The most basic city would have four or five people.” [369e]

“So it seems.”

“Well, then, should each one contribute his work to everyone? Should a single farmer produce food for four people, spending four times as long and working four times as hard to produce food to share? Or should he ignore the others and produce only a quarter as much food for himself in a quarter of the time, then spend the other three quarters, one on building his home, one on making clothes, and one on making shoes? On that plan he would have no need to share with others, but would take care of his own needs himself.” [370a]

Adeimantus said, “Socrates, perhaps the first way is easier.”

“That wouldn't be surprising, by Zeus. What you say reminds me that, to begin with, we're not all born alike. Our natural abilities differ, and different people are suited to different jobs. Don't you agree?” [370b]

“I do.”

“Now, does one person do better if he works at many trades, or if he sticks to one?”

“If he sticks to one,” he said.

“And I think it's clear that if someone misses the right time to do a job, the work is spoiled.”

“Clearly.”

“The work won't wait until the worker has spare time. He has to attend to it [370c] as his main concern, not as a side job.”

“He does.”

“So more things will be produced, and produced better and more easily, when each person does one job that suits his nature, at the right time, free from other work.”

“Absolutely.”

“So, Adeimantus, we'll need more than four citizens to provide the things we were talking about. If the farmer is going to have a good plow, [370d] he won't make it himself, or his hoe, or his other farming tools. The builder won't make his own tools either; he needs a lot of them. The weaver and the shoemaker are in the same position. Right?”

“True.”

“Then carpenters, metalworkers, and many other craftsmen will join our little city as partners and make it quite large.”

“Yes.”

“Still, it wouldn't be very large even if we added cattle herders, shepherds, and other animal keepers. That way the farmers would have oxen to plow with. The builders and farmers could use draft animals for transport, [370e] and the weavers and shoemakers would have hides and wool.”

“But a city with all that wouldn't be small,” he said.

“Now, it would be almost impossible to settle this city in a place where it needed nothing from outside.”

“Impossible.”

“So we'll need still more people to bring it what it needs from another city.”

“We will.”

“But if a person making these trips arrives empty-handed, bringing nothing that the suppliers need [371a] in exchange for what our people need, he'll go away empty-handed too, won't he?”

“I think so.”

“So we must produce at home not only enough for ourselves but also the kinds and amounts of goods those others need.”

“We must.”

“Then our city needs more farmers and other craftsmen.”

“Yes, more.”

“And more people to handle the movement of goods in and out. Those are merchants, aren't they?”

“Yes.”

“So we'll need merchants.”

“Certainly.”

“And if the trade goes by sea, we'll need quite a lot [371b] of other people who know how to work at sea.”

“Quite a lot.”

“Now, inside the city itself, how will people exchange what each of them makes? After all, we built the city and formed our partnership so that they could do just that.”

“Obviously by buying and selling,” he said.

“That will bring us a marketplace and a currency to use as a means of exchange.”

“Of course.” [371c]

“Suppose a farmer or some other craftsman brings what he makes to the marketplace, but the people who need to trade with him don't arrive at the same time. Will he sit in the market idle instead of doing his work?”

“Not at all. Some people recognize this need and take on the job themselves. In well-run cities, they are usually the people least able to do physical work and unfit for other jobs. They stay [371d] at the marketplace and give out goods to people who need to buy them, in exchange for money. In turn, they give money to those who bring goods for sale.”

“So this need creates retailers in our city. Don't we call the people stationed in the marketplace to buy and sell retailers, and those who travel between cities merchants?”

“Yes.” [371e]

“I think there are other workers as well. They may not have much to contribute through their minds, but they have enough bodily strength for hard work. They sell the use of that strength, call its price wages, and are therefore known as wage laborers. Right?”

“Yes.”

“It seems, then, that wage laborers also help fill out a city.”

“I think so.”

“So, Adeimantus, has our city grown enough to be complete?”

“Perhaps.”

“Where would justice and injustice be in it? And along with which of the things we've discussed did they appear?”

[372a] “I can't see, Socrates,” he said, “unless it's somewhere in the way these people need one another.”

“Perhaps you're right. We must look and not give up. First, let's see how people in this city will live. They'll produce grain, wine, clothes, and shoes, won't they? After building their houses, they'll usually work barefoot and lightly dressed in summer, and they'll have adequate clothing and shoes in winter. [372b] They'll prepare barley meal and wheat flour for food, baking and kneading it into good loaves and barley cakes. They'll lay these out on reeds or clean leaves. Then they'll recline on beds of leaves covered with greenbrier and myrtle, feasting with their children. They'll drink wine with their meals, wear wreaths, sing hymns to the gods, and enjoy one another's company. They'll have no more children than they can support, because they'll be careful to avoid poverty or war.” [372c]

Glaucon interrupted. “It looks like you're serving these people a meal with no side dishes.”

“You're right,” I said. “I forgot that they'll have side dishes too. They'll have salt, of course, and olives and cheese. They'll cook onions, vegetables, and the sorts of things people boil in the countryside. For dessert we'll serve them figs, chickpeas, and beans. They'll roast myrtle berries and acorns [372d] by the fire and drink wine in moderation. Living this way in peace and good health, they'll probably reach old age and leave their children a life like their own.”

“But if you were setting up a city of pigs, Socrates,” he said, “what else would you feed them?”

“What should I do instead, Glaucon?” I asked.

“Give them the usual things,” he said. “If they're not going to live in discomfort, they should recline on couches, eat from tables, and have the side dishes and desserts that people have today.” [372e]

“All right,” I said. “I understand. It seems we aren't looking only at how a city starts. We're looking at a luxurious city too. Perhaps that's not a bad idea. By examining a city like that, we may see how justice and injustice develop in cities. The true city, as I see it, is the one we just described. It's like a healthy city. But if you want, let's look at a city that's sick with excess too. Nothing prevents us.

[373a] “For some people, it seems, the things we described and that way of life won't be enough. They'll add couches, tables, and other furniture, as well as rich food, perfumes, incense, courtesans, and cakes, with every sort of each. Houses, clothes, and shoes, which we named at the start, will no longer count as just necessities. We'll bring in painting and decoration, and acquire gold, ivory, and everything like that. Right?” [373b]

“Yes,” he said.

“Then we must enlarge the city again. That healthy city is no longer big enough. We must swell it with crowds of people whose occupations aren't necessary: hunters of every kind, imitators, many artists who make shapes and colors, and many who work in music. We'll need poets and those who serve them, reciters, actors, dancers, contractors, and makers of all kinds of things, including things [373c] used to adorn women. We'll also need more helpers: tutors, wet nurses, child minders, hairdressers, barbers, cooks who prepare side dishes, and chefs. We'll need swineherds too. We didn't need them in the earlier city, so we had none; this city will need them. And it will need a great many other livestock, if people are going to eat meat. Won't it?”

“Of course.” [373d]

“And if we live like this, won't we have a much greater need for doctors than before?”

“Much greater.”

“And the land that was enough to feed our people before will no longer be large enough. What do you say?”

“That's right,” he said.

“Then we'll have to take some of our neighbors' land if we want enough for pasture and farming. And they'll have to take some of ours if they, too, give themselves over to acquiring unlimited wealth and go beyond the limits of what they need.” [373e]

“They certainly will, Socrates.”

“So next we'll go to war, Glaucon. Isn't that how it will be?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Let's not yet say whether war does any good or harm. For now let's say only that we've discovered the origin of war, the source of the greatest harms to cities and to individuals when it breaks out.”

“Absolutely.”

“Now, my friend, we must enlarge the city once more, and not by a little,”

### Book II, 374–381

[374a] “But with a whole army. It will march out and fight the invaders for all our property and for everything we were just talking about.”

“Why?” he said. “Aren’t the citizens themselves enough?”

“No, if you and all of us were right when we founded the city,” I said. “We agreed, if you remember, that one person cannot do many crafts well.”

“That’s true,” he said. [374b]

“So isn’t fighting in war a skilled occupation?” I asked.

“Very much so,” he said.

“Should we care more about shoemaking than warfare?”

“Not at all.”

“We stopped the shoemaker from trying to be a farmer, weaver, or builder at the same time. He was to be a shoemaker, so that his work would be done well. In the same way, we assigned each other person one job suited to his nature. He was to devote his life to it, free from other work, and not miss the right times to do it well. [374c] Isn’t it especially important that work in war be done well? Or is it so easy that someone can be a skilled soldier while farming, making shoes, or doing any other craft? Yet nobody could become good at checkers or dice without practicing from childhood, if he treated the game as a sideline. [374d] Will simply picking up a shield or some other weapon or piece of military equipment make a person a capable fighter in heavy armor, or in any other kind of combat, on that very day? No other tool, just by being picked up, makes anyone a craftsman or athlete. It would be useless to someone who had neither learned the skill nor practiced it enough.”

“If it did,” he said, “tools would be worth a great deal.”

“So the greater the guardians’ work,” I said, “[374e] the more they must be free of other work, and the more skill and attention it will require.”

“I think so,” he said.

“And won’t it also require a nature suited to the occupation?”

“Of course.”

“Then our job, if we can manage it, is to select the people with the right natures to guard the city.”

“Yes, it is.”

“By Zeus,” I said, “we have taken on no small task. Still, we must not lose our nerve, as long as we have the strength to go on.”

[375a] “No, we mustn’t,” he said.

“Do you think,” I asked, “that a well-bred puppy’s nature differs from a well-born young man’s when it comes to guarding?”

“In what respect?”

“Both must have sharp senses, be quick to chase whatever they detect, and be strong enough to fight once they catch it.”

“Yes,” he said, “they need all those things.”

“And courage too, if they’re going to fight well.”

“Of course.”

“But will a horse, a dog, or any other animal be brave without a spirited nature? Haven’t you noticed that [375b] spirit is impossible to fight or defeat? When it is present, every soul is fearless and unconquerable in the face of anything.”

“I have noticed.”

“So it’s clear what kind of body the guardian needs.”

“Yes.”

“And what kind of soul: a spirited one.”

“That too.”

“Then, Glaucon,” I said, “with natures like that, how will they avoid being savage toward one another and the other citizens?”

“By Zeus,” he said, “not easily.” [375c]

“But they must be gentle with their own people and fierce with enemies. Otherwise they won’t wait for someone else to destroy them; they’ll do it themselves first.”

“That’s true,” he said.

“What can we do?” I asked. “Where can we find a character that is both gentle and bold? A gentle nature seems to be the opposite of a spirited one.”

“So it seems.”

“But anyone who lacks either trait can never be a good guardian. Having both seems impossible. [375d] So it follows that a good guardian is impossible.”

“It looks that way,” he said.

I was at a loss, but after thinking back over our argument I said, “We have good reason to be at a loss, my friend. We’ve lost sight of the example we set before ourselves.”

“What do you mean?”

“We didn’t realize that there actually are natures with both these opposite traits, though we thought there weren’t.”

“Where?”

“You can see them in other animals, but especially [375e] in the animal we compared to a guardian. You know that a well-bred dog is by nature as gentle as can be toward those it knows and is used to, and just the opposite toward strangers.”

“Yes, I know.”

“So it’s possible,” I said. “We’re not asking for a guardian who goes against nature.”

“Apparently not.”

“Do you think the person fitted to guard needs one more thing? Besides being spirited, must he also be philosophical by nature?”

[376a] “How so?” he said. “I don’t see what you mean.”

“You’ll see this in dogs too,” I said, “and it’s remarkable in the animal.”

“What is?”

“When it sees someone it doesn’t know, it gets angry, even if that person has never hurt it. But it welcomes someone it knows, even if that person has never done it any good. Hasn’t that ever surprised you?”

“I haven’t paid much attention to it until now,” he said. “But dogs plainly do act that way.”

“That feature of its nature seems quite clever, [376b] and genuinely philosophical.”

“How?”

“It distinguishes a friendly face from a hostile one on no other grounds than knowing one and not knowing the other. How can it fail to love learning when it uses knowledge and ignorance to decide what belongs and what is foreign?”

“It can’t,” he said.

“And loving learning is the same thing as being philosophical, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Then we can confidently say the same about a person. [376c] If he is to be gentle toward people he knows and who belong to him, he must naturally be philosophical and love learning.”

“Let’s say so,” he said.

“So a good guardian of our city must by nature be philosophical, spirited, quick, and strong.”

“Absolutely,” he said.

“That gives us his nature. But how will we bring these people up and educate them? Will examining that question help us see what we have been seeking all along: how justice and injustice come to be in a city? We don’t want to leave out a useful discussion, or spend too long on one.” [376d]

Glaucon’s brother said, “I certainly expect this inquiry to help us with that.”

“By Zeus, my dear Adeimantus,” I said, “we mustn’t abandon it, even if it turns out to be rather long.”

“No, we mustn’t.”

“Come, then. Let’s tell a story, as though we had time to spare, and educate these men in our discussion.” [376e]

“Yes, we should.”

“What education will they have? It’s hard to find anything better than what a long tradition has discovered. There is physical training for bodies and education in music and the arts for souls.”

“Yes.”

“So shouldn’t we begin with music and the arts before physical training?”

“Of course.”

“And you include stories in education in music and the arts, don’t you?” I asked.

“I do.”

“There are two kinds of stories: true and false?”

“Yes.”

[377a] “They must be educated in both, but first in the false ones?”

“I don’t understand what you mean,” he said.

“Don’t you understand,” I asked, “that we first tell children myths? Taken as a whole, a myth is fiction, though it contains some truth. We use myths with children before physical exercises.”

“That’s right.”

“That’s why I said we must begin with music and the arts before physical training.”

“Right,” he said.

“You know how important the beginning of any task is, [377b] especially for anything young and tender. That is when it is most easily shaped and takes on whatever impression a person wants to stamp on it.”

“Certainly.”

“Then shall we casually let children hear whatever stories anyone happens to make up? Shall we let them take into their souls beliefs mostly opposed to those we think they should hold when they grow up?”

“We certainly won’t.”

“First, then, we must supervise the storytellers. [377c] We must accept any fine story they make and reject the others. We’ll persuade nurses and mothers to tell the accepted stories to children and shape their souls with stories far more than they shape their bodies with their hands. Most of the stories they tell now must be thrown out.”

“Which ones?” he asked.

“We can see the lesser stories in the greater ones,” I said. “The greater and lesser must follow the same pattern and have the same effect. Don’t you agree?” [377d]

“Yes,” he said. “But I don’t even understand which greater stories you mean.”

“The ones Hesiod and Homer and the other poets have told us,” I said. “They made up false stories for people and told them, and they still do.”

“Which stories?” he asked. “What fault do you find with them?”

“The fault we should find first and above all, particularly when the fiction is badly made.”

“What fault?” [377e]

“When someone gives a bad picture in words of what gods and heroes are like. It’s like a painter making a painting that doesn’t resemble what he set out to portray.”

“Yes,” he said, “it’s right to criticize such things. But what stories are we talking about?”

“First,” I said, “there is the greatest falsehood about the greatest beings. The person who said that Uranus did what Hesiod says he did made a bad fiction, as did the one who told how Cronus [378a] took revenge on him. As for what Cronus did and suffered at the hands of his son, even if it were true, I don’t think it should be told so casually to the young and foolish. It would be best left unspoken. If it absolutely had to be told, as few people as possible should hear it in secret, after sacrificing not a pig but some great and hard-to-obtain offering. That way very few would get to hear it.”

“Yes,” he said, “these stories are disturbing.” [378b]

“And they must not be told in our city, Adeimantus,” I said. “A young listener must not be told that the worst injustice is nothing surprising, or that punishing an unjust father in every possible way would only be doing what the earliest and greatest gods did.”

“No, by Zeus,” he said. “I don’t think such things should be told either.”

“Nor should anyone say that gods fight gods, plot against them, and battle each other. [378c] It isn’t true. Those who will guard our city must consider it utterly shameful to fall easily into hostility with each other. We certainly shouldn’t tell them tales of wars with giants, or depict those wars in colorful pictures, or show gods and heroes in their many different feuds with relatives and friends. Instead, if we want to persuade them that no citizen has ever hated another citizen and that such hatred is wrong, that is what men and women should tell children from their earliest years. When they get older, we must require poets to write stories along those lines. [378d] We must not admit into the city stories of Hera being bound by her son, or Hephaestus being thrown down by his father when he tried to defend his mother from a beating. Nor should we admit any of Homer’s battles among the gods, whether they are meant as allegories or not. A young person cannot judge what is an allegory and what isn’t. The beliefs he takes in at that age tend to be hard to wash away and hard to change. [378e] That may be why we must make sure that the first stories children hear are as well made as possible for teaching virtue.”

“That makes sense,” he said. “But if someone asked us which stories we mean, what would we say?”

I said, “Adeimantus, [379a] you and I aren’t poets right now. We’re founders of a city. Founders must know the patterns poets should use to tell stories, and must forbid departures from them. But we don’t have to compose the stories ourselves.”

“Right,” he said. “So what are these patterns for stories about the gods?”

“Something like this,” I said. “A god must always be portrayed as he really is, whether someone writes about him in epic verse, in songs, or in tragedy.”

“He must.” [379b]

“And god really is good, and must be described that way?”

“Certainly.”

“Nothing good is harmful, is it?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Does something that isn’t harmful cause harm?”

“Not at all.”

“Does what causes no harm do any evil?”

“No.”

“And what does no evil cannot be the cause of any evil?”

“How could it?”

“Is the good beneficial?”

“Yes.”

“So it is the cause of things going well?”

“Yes.”

“Then the good isn’t the cause of everything. It is the cause of good things, not of bad ones.” [379c]

“Exactly,” he said.

“Then god, because he is good, cannot be the cause of everything as most people claim,” I said. “He is responsible for few things that happen to humans and not responsible for many. We have far fewer good things than bad ones. We must attribute good things to no one else, but look for other causes of bad things, not god.”

“What you say seems completely true,” he said.

“Then,” I said, “we must not accept Homer’s mistake about the gods, [379d] or any other poet’s thoughtless mistake, when he says:

‘Two jars stand on Zeus’s floor,
full of fates: one of good, the other of bad.
For the man to whom Zeus gives a mixture of both,
sometimes he meets with evil, sometimes with good.
But the man to whom he gives the one unmixed,
a wretched hunger drives him over the holy earth.’

[379e] Nor should we say that Zeus is our dispenser

‘of good things and bad things.’

“If someone says that Athena and Zeus caused Pandarus to break the oaths and the truce, we won’t approve. Nor will we approve the quarrel and judgment among the gods [380a] brought about by Themis and Zeus. Nor must young people be allowed to hear what Aeschylus says:

‘A god plants guilt in mortals
when he wants to destroy a house completely.’

“If someone writes about Niobe’s sufferings, or those of Pelops’s descendants, or the events at Troy, or anything else of that sort, and includes those lines, we must not let him say these events are a god’s work. Or, if they are a god’s work, he must give something like the account we are now looking for. [380b] He must say the god acted justly and well, and those who were punished benefited. The poet must not say that those who paid the penalty were miserable and god was responsible for it. But if poets say that bad people were miserable because they needed punishment, and that they benefited when god punished them, we should allow it. We must fight in every way against anyone who says that a good god causes evil for someone. If a city is to be well governed, no one in it, young or old, must tell or hear such stories, [380c] in verse or in prose. Saying them would be irreverent, harmful to us, and inconsistent in itself.”

“I vote for that law,” he said. “I like it.”

“That, then,” I said, “would be one law and pattern concerning the gods. Storytellers and poets must observe it: god is not the cause of everything, but only of good things.”

“That is quite enough,” he said. [380d]

“What about this second question? Do you think god is a magician who deliberately appears in different forms at different times? Does he sometimes change himself into many shapes, and at other times deceive us into thinking he has? Or is he simple and less likely than anything else to depart from his own form?”

“I can’t answer that just now,” he said.

“What about this: if anything changes from its own form, must it be changed either by itself or by something else?” [380e]

“Yes.”

“And aren’t the things in the best condition least changed or moved by something else? Take a body affected by food, drink, and exertion, or a plant affected by sunlight, winds, and similar conditions. Isn’t the healthiest and strongest body, or plant, [381a] changed the least?”

“Of course.”

“And isn’t the bravest and wisest soul the least disturbed and changed by anything that happens to it from outside?”

“Yes.”

“The same goes for all manufactured things, tools, buildings, and clothes. Well-made things in good condition are changed least by time and other influences.”

“That’s true.” [381b]

“So anything in good condition, by nature or craftsmanship or both, changes very little when something else acts upon it.”

“So it seems.”

“But god and everything belonging to god are in the very best condition.”

“Of course.”

“On that ground god would be least likely to take on many shapes.”

“Certainly.”

“But would he change and alter himself?”

“He would have to, if he changes at all,” he said.

“Would he change himself for the better and more beautiful, or for the worse and uglier?” [381c]

“For the worse, if he changes,” he said. “We can’t say god lacks beauty or excellence.”

“You’re quite right,” I said. “Given that, Adeimantus, do you think any god or human would willingly make himself worse in any way?”

“Impossible,” he said.

“Then it is also impossible for a god to want to change himself,” I said. “Each god, being as beautiful and good as possible, apparently remains forever, simply in his own form.”

“That seems absolutely necessary to me,” he said. [381d]

“Then, my friend,” I said, “let none of the poets tell us that

‘the gods, looking like travelers from foreign lands,
take every kind of shape as they roam the cities.’

“And let no one tell lies about Proteus and Thetis. In tragedies or other poems, let no one bring on Hera transformed into a priestess collecting alms

‘for the life-giving children of Inachus, the Argive river.’

[381e] Let them tell us no more lies like these. And let mothers not be persuaded by them to terrify their children with bad stories about gods roaming at night in all sorts of strange disguises. That would both speak falsely about the gods and make the children more cowardly.”

“They mustn’t,” he said.

“But perhaps,” I said, “the gods themselves never change, yet make us think they appear in many forms, tricking and enchanting us?”

“Perhaps,” he said.

### Book II, 382–383

[382a] “But would a god want to lie in word or deed by presenting a false appearance?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Don’t you know,” I said, “that all gods and humans hate what we can call a real lie?”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“I mean that nobody willingly wants the most important part of himself to be deceived about the most important things. That is where he is most afraid of holding on to a lie.”

“I still don’t understand,” he said. [382b]

“You think I mean something grand and mysterious,” I said. “But I mean that everyone would least of all accept having false beliefs in the soul about things as they are, being mistaken and ignorant, and keeping that lie inside. That is the kind of lie they hate most.”

“By far,” he said.

“And what I just described can most accurately be called a real lie: the ignorance in the soul of a person who has been deceived. A lie in words is a kind of imitation of that condition of the soul. It is an image that comes afterward, [382c] not a pure lie in itself. Isn’t that so?”

“Certainly.”

“Then the real lie is hated not only by gods but also by humans.”

“I think so.”

“What about a lie in words? When and for whom is it useful enough not to deserve hatred? Isn’t it useful, like a medicine, against enemies? And also against those we call friends, when madness or some other foolishness makes them attempt something bad, and we need to stop them? And in the stories [382d] we were just talking about, we don’t know what really happened long ago. By making the fiction as much like the truth as possible, we make it useful. Isn’t that so?”

“Yes,” he said. “That’s exactly right.”

“Which of those uses for a lie could apply to a god? Would he make something up to resemble the past because he didn’t know what happened?”

“That would be ridiculous,” he said.

“Then god has no need to make up false stories.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Would he lie because he was afraid of enemies?” [382e]

“Far from it.”

“Or because his own people were foolish or mad?”

“But no foolish or mad person is loved by god,” he said.

“Then there is no reason why a god would lie.”

“No reason.”

“So all divine beings are entirely free of falsehood.”

“Entirely,” he said.

“Then god is entirely simple and truthful in both deed and word. He doesn’t change himself or deceive others, whether through appearances, words, or signs he sends, while they are awake or dreaming.”

[383a] “When you put it that way,” he said, “that’s how it seems to me too.”

“Then you agree,” I said, “that this is the second pattern poets and storytellers must follow when speaking about gods. Gods don’t change themselves by magic, or mislead us with lies in either word or deed.”

“I agree.”

“So, while we praise many things in Homer, we won’t praise his story that Zeus sent a dream to Agamemnon. Nor will we praise Aeschylus when he has Thetis say that Apollo sang at her [383b] wedding and celebrated the future happiness of her children:

‘He said they would live long lives untouched by disease.
He said my whole future was blessed by the gods,
then sang a joyful hymn to cheer me.
I expected Phoebus’s divine mouth,
so full of prophecy, to speak only the truth.
But he was the one who sang, attended the feast,
and spoke those words. He was also the one
who killed my child.’

[383c] When someone says such things about the gods, we will be angry and will not give him a chorus to perform them. Nor will we let teachers use them to educate the young, if our guardians are to become as reverent toward the gods and as godlike as a human can be.”

“I agree completely with these patterns,” he said, “and I would use them as laws.”

### Book III, 386–394

[386a] “So these are roughly the kinds of stories about the gods,” I said, “that children must and must not hear from the start, if they are to honor the gods and their parents and consider their friendship with one another important.”
“I think we have got that right,” he said.
“What if they are also to be brave? Mustn’t we tell stories that will make them as little afraid of death as possible? [386b] Or do you think anyone can be brave while holding that fear inside?”
“By Zeus, I don’t.”
“And do you think someone who believes the world of Hades exists and is terrible will be unafraid of death? Will he choose death in battle over defeat and slavery?”
“Not at all.”
“It seems, then, that we must supervise people who try to tell these stories too. We must ask them not to speak so badly of the world of Hades but rather to praise it. What they say now is neither true [386c] nor useful to those who will be soldiers.”
“We certainly must,” he said.
“Then we will strike out all such passages,” I said, “starting with this one:
‘I would rather work the land as a hired hand for another man,
a man without an inheritance who has little to live on,
than rule over all the dead who have perished.’
And this one: [386d]
‘Then the house of the dead would appear to mortals and immortals,
horrible and dank, hated even by the gods.’
And:
‘Oh no! So there really is, even in the house of Hades,
a soul, a phantom, but no understanding at all.’
And:
‘He alone still has his mind; the rest dart about as shadows.’
And:
‘His soul flew from his body and went to Hades,
lamenting its fate, leaving behind his manhood and youth.’

[387a] And:
‘The soul went below the earth like smoke,
shrieking as it vanished.’
And:
‘As bats fly squeaking deep inside a vast cave
when one falls from its cluster on the rock
and the others cling to one another,
so the souls went together, shrieking.’
[387b] We will ask Homer and the other poets not to be angry when we erase these and all similar passages. It is not because they lack poetry or because most people do not enjoy hearing them. The more poetic they are, the less children and men who must be free should hear them. Such people must fear slavery more than death.”
“Absolutely.”
“Then must we also reject all the frightening and alarming names for these things? Cocytus and Styx, [387c] the dead below and the ghosts, and every other name of this kind that makes everyone who hears it shudder, as people think it does. Perhaps those names are useful for some other purpose. But we worry about our guardians. Such shudders might make them more excitable and softer than they should be.”
“And we are right to worry,” he said.
“So we must remove them?”
“Yes.”
“And tell and compose stories in the opposite manner?”
“Clearly.” [387d]
“Then shall we also remove the laments and expressions of grief spoken by men of standing?”
“We must,” he said, “if we are to follow our earlier rule.”
“Consider whether we would be right to do so,” I said. “We say that a decent man will not think death terrible for another decent man who is his friend.”
“We do.”
“So he would not lament for his friend as though something terrible had happened to him.”
“No.”
“And we also say that such a man is more self-sufficient than anyone else when it comes to living well. Unlike [387e] other people, he has the least need of anyone else.”
“That’s true,” he said.
“So the loss of a son or brother, of money, or of anything like that is least terrible for him.”
“Certainly.”
“And he will grieve least and bear such a misfortune as calmly as possible when it happens to him.”
“Very much so.”
“Then we would be right to remove laments from the words of famous men. We would leave them to women, though not to respectable women,

[388a] and to the worst of men. That way, those we say we are raising to guard our land will be ashamed to behave like them.”
“That’s right,” he said.
“So we will again ask Homer and the other poets not to portray Achilles, the son of a goddess, as
‘lying now on his side, now on his back,
now face down,’
then standing up and wandering distraught [388b] along the shore of the barren sea. Nor should they have him take dark dust in both hands and pour it over his head. They should not show him weeping and lamenting in all the other ways Homer described. Nor should they show Priam, who was close to the gods, begging and
‘rolling in the dirt,
calling out each man by name.’
Still more strongly, we will ask them not to portray the gods lamenting and saying: [388c]
‘Poor me, wretched mother of a noble son!’
And if they do portray gods like that, they must at least not dare represent the greatest of the gods so badly that he says:
‘Oh no! I see a man I love being chased around the city,
and my heart mourns for him.’
Or:
‘Oh, my grief! Sarpedon, dearest of men to me, is fated
[388d] to fall at the hands of Patroclus, son of Menoetius.’
For if our young people take such things seriously, my dear Adeimantus, instead of laughing at them as unworthy things to say, it will be hard for any of them, mere humans, to think this behavior beneath them. They will hardly reproach themselves if they feel like saying or doing something similar. Without shame or restraint, they will sing many songs of lament over minor troubles.” [388e]
“What you say is absolutely true,” he said.
“But they must not do that, as our argument just showed. We must follow it until someone persuades us with a better one.”
“They must not.”
“And they must not be fond of laughter either. When someone lets himself go in violent laughter, it usually brings about a violent change in his state of mind.”
“I think so,” he said.
“So we should not accept portrayals of people worth mentioning overcome by

[389a] laughter, still less portrayals of gods that way.”
“Much less,” he said.
“Then we will not accept lines like these from Homer about the gods:
‘Uncontrollable laughter broke out among the blessed gods
when they saw Hephaestus bustling through the hall.’”
“According to your argument, we should not accept them.”
“If you want to call it mine,” he said. “But [389b] we certainly should not accept them.”
“We must also put a high value on truth. If we were right a moment ago that a lie is useless to gods but useful to humans as a kind of medicine, clearly it must be left to doctors. Ordinary people must not touch it.”
“Clearly,” he said.
“So the rulers of the city, if anyone, may lie to enemies or citizens for the city’s benefit. No one else may do so. [389c] We will say that an ordinary person who lies to these rulers commits the same offense, and a greater one, than a patient who fails to tell his doctor the truth about his illness, or an athlete who hides his physical condition from his trainer, or a sailor who conceals from the captain the real state of the ship and its crew, including how he himself or another sailor is doing.”
“Absolutely true,” he said. [389d]
“Then if a ruler catches anyone else in the city lying, one of those
‘who practice the trades,
a seer, a healer of illness, or a worker in wood,’
he will punish him for bringing in a practice that could overturn and destroy a city as it could a ship.”
“If the actions follow the words,” he said.
“And what about self-control? Won’t our young people need that?”
“Of course.”
“For most people, aren’t its most important parts these: to obey their rulers [389e] and to rule themselves where pleasures of drinking, sex, and eating are concerned?”
“I think so.”
“So I think we will approve lines like what Diomedes says in Homer:
‘Friend, sit in silence and obey what I say,’
and the lines that follow, such as:
‘The Achaeans went forward breathing fury,
silent in their fear of their commanders,’
and anything else of that sort.”
“Yes.”
“But what about lines like these:
‘You drunken man, with the eyes of a dog and the heart of a deer,’

[390a] and the lines that follow? Are those right? And what about all the other insolent things that ordinary people have said to rulers, in prose or in poetry?”
“No.”
“I don’t think young people should hear such things if they are to learn self-control. If these lines offer some other pleasure, that is no surprise. What do you think?”
“I agree,” he said.
“What about making the wisest of men say that he thinks the best thing of all is when
‘tables are filled [390b] with bread and meat,
and a cupbearer draws wine from a mixing bowl
and carries it around to pour into the cups’? Do you think it helps a young person learn self-control to hear that? Or to hear that
‘death by hunger is the most pitiful fate’? Or to hear how Zeus, while all the other gods and humans slept, lay awake making plans, then easily [390c] forgot every one of them because he wanted sex? He was so overwhelmed when he saw Hera that he would not even go inside, but wanted to sleep with her there on the ground. He said his desire was stronger than when they first met in secret without their parents knowing. And what about Ares and Aphrodite being caught in Hephaestus’s bonds for the same sort of reason?”
“By Zeus, no,” he said. “I don’t think these stories are suitable.” [390d]
“But if distinguished men say or do anything that shows endurance in all circumstances,” I said, “we should watch and listen. For example:
‘He struck his chest and spoke sharply to his heart:
Endure, my heart. You have endured something worse before.’”
“Absolutely,” he said.
“And we must not let our men take bribes or love money.” [390e]
“Certainly not.”
“Nor should they be sung the line
‘Gifts persuade gods, and gifts persuade respected kings.’
Nor should we praise Phoenix, Achilles’ tutor, as though he gave good advice when he urged Achilles to accept gifts and then defend the Achaeans, but without gifts to keep his anger. And we will not think it right, or agree, that Achilles himself loved money so much that he accepted gifts from Agamemnon and demanded payment to release a dead body,

[391a] but would not otherwise do it.”
“No, it is not right to praise such things,” he said.
“Out of respect for Homer,” I said, “I hesitate to say that it is impious to make these claims about Achilles or believe others who make them. There is also the claim that he said to Apollo:
‘You harmed me, far-shooting god, most destructive of all the gods.
I would pay you back if I had the power.’
[391b] He was said to have defied the river, though it was a god, and to have been ready to fight it. And about the hair dedicated to another river, the Spercheius, he said, ‘Let me give my hair for the hero Patroclus to take with him,’ though Patroclus was dead. We should not believe that Achilles did this. Nor will we say it is true that he dragged Hector around Patroclus’s tomb or slaughtered living captives at his funeral pyre. We will not allow [391c] our people to believe that Achilles, the son of a goddess and of Peleus, a very self-controlled man and the third in descent from Zeus, and raised by the very wise Chiron, was so confused that he had two opposing illnesses within him: a slavish love of money and a proud contempt for gods and humans.”
“You’re right,” he said.
“Then let us not believe,” I said, “or let anyone claim, that Theseus, son of Poseidon, and Pirithous, son of Zeus, [391d] set out to commit terrible abductions. Nor should we believe that any other son of a god or any hero would dare do the dreadful, impious things falsely attributed to them today. Instead, we must force the poets either to say these were not their deeds or to say these men were not sons of gods. They must not say both or try to convince our young people that gods produce evil offspring and heroes are no better than other humans. As we said earlier, [391e] such claims are neither pious nor true. We have shown that evil cannot come from the gods.”
“Of course.”
“And the stories harm their listeners. Everyone will excuse his own wrongdoing if he is persuaded that similar deeds are done, and have been done, even by
‘those whose blood is close to the gods,
those near to Zeus, whose altar to their ancestral Zeus
stands in the open sky on Mount Ida,’
and that
‘the blood of the gods has not yet faded in them.’
That is why we must stop such stories. They might give our young people far too much

[392a] readiness to do wrong.”
“Quite so,” he said.
“So what kind of stories remains for us to set rules about, deciding which may and may not be told?” I asked. “We have dealt with how people should speak of gods, divine beings, heroes, and those in Hades.”
“Yes.”
“Doesn’t that leave stories about human beings?”
“Clearly.”
“But we cannot set rules for them now, my friend.”
“Why not?”
“Because I think we will say that poets and storytellers mostly get human affairs wrong. They say that many unjust people are happy and just people are miserable; [392b] that wrongdoing pays if it goes unnoticed; and that justice benefits someone else but costs the person who has it. We would forbid them to say such things and order them to tell and sing the opposite. Don’t you agree?”
“I certainly do,” he said.
“Then if you agree that I am right, won’t I say you have agreed to the very thing we have been seeking all this time?”
“You have understood correctly,” he said. [392c]
“So we will agree on the kind of stories to tell about humans only when we discover what justice is, and how by its very nature it benefits the person who has it, whether or not that person appears to be just?”
“Exactly,” he said.
“Let that finish our discussion of what stories say. Next, I think, we must examine how they say it. Then we will have examined completely both what should be said and how.”
Adeimantus said, “I don’t understand what you mean.” [392d]
“But you should,” I said. “Perhaps this will make it clearer. Isn’t everything said by storytellers or poets an account of things past, present, or future?”
“What else could it be?” he said.
“And don’t they give such accounts either by straightforward narration, by imitation, or by a mixture of the two?”
“I still need a clearer explanation of that,” he said.
“I seem to be a ridiculous, unclear teacher,” I said. “Like someone who cannot explain a thing as a whole, I will take one part [392e] and use it to show what I mean. Tell me: you know the beginning of the Iliad? The poet says Chryses asks Agamemnon to release his daughter, Agamemnon gets angry, and Chryses, when he fails,

[393a] prays to the god against the Achaeans.”
“I do.”
“Then you know that down to the lines
‘he begged all the Achaeans,
and especially the two sons of Atreus, leaders of the people,’
the poet speaks in his own voice. He does not try to make us think the speaker is anyone but himself. But after that, he speaks as if he were Chryses [393b] and does everything he can to make us think the speaker is not Homer but the priest, an old man. He tells almost the whole rest of the story this way, about events at Troy and the experiences in Ithaca and throughout the Odyssey.”
“Certainly,” he said.
“But it is still narration when he gives each speech as well as when he tells what happens between the speeches, isn’t it?”
“Of course.” [393c]
“Yet when he speaks as if he were someone else, won’t we say that he makes his own speech resemble as closely as he can that of the person he has said will speak?”
“Yes. What else?”
“And making oneself like another person in voice or appearance is imitating that person, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“Then it seems that Homer and the other poets use imitation to tell stories in such cases.”
“Certainly.”
“But if the poet never hid his own identity, [393d] all his poetry and narration would be free of imitation. So that you don’t say again that you don’t understand how that could happen, I will explain. Suppose Homer said that Chryses arrived with a ransom for his daughter and begged the Achaeans, especially their kings. Suppose he then continued speaking not as Chryses but as Homer. That would not be imitation; it would be straightforward narration. It would go something like this. I will put it in prose, since I’m no poet. [393e] When the priest arrived, he prayed that the gods would grant the Achaeans victory over Troy and a safe return home, and that they would take the ransom and release his daughter out of respect for the god. The other Achaeans treated him with respect and agreed, but Agamemnon grew angry. He ordered the priest to leave at once and not come back, or his staff and the god’s wreaths might not protect him. Before his daughter was released, Agamemnon said, she would grow old with him in Argos. He told the priest to leave and not provoke him,

[394a] so that he could get home safely. The old man was frightened when he heard this and went away in silence. Once outside the camp, he prayed at length to Apollo. He called the god by his titles and reminded him of any gifts that had pleased him, whether in building temples or making sacrifices. In return, he prayed that Apollo would make the Achaeans pay for his tears with the god’s arrows. That, my friend,” I said, “is what [394b] straightforward narration without imitation looks like.”
“I understand,” he said.
“Then understand that its opposite occurs when someone removes what the poet says between the speeches and leaves only the exchanges.”
“I understand that too,” he said. “That is how tragedies are written.”
“You have it exactly,” I said. “Now I think I can show you what I could not show you earlier. Some poetry and storytelling consists entirely of imitation, [394c] as you said of tragedy and comedy. Some consists of the poet’s own narration, as you find especially in dithyrambs. Some combines the two, as epic poetry does, and many other kinds of poetry too. Do you follow?”
“Yes,” he said. “I understand now what you meant.”
“Remember, too, what we said before: we had settled what should be said but still needed to examine how to say it.”
“I remember.” [394d]
“That was exactly my point. We need to agree whether to allow the poets to use imitation when they tell their stories, and, if so, which things they may imitate and which they may not; or whether to forbid imitation altogether.”
“I suspect,” he said, “that you are considering whether we should admit tragedy and comedy into the city.”
“Perhaps,” I said, “and perhaps still more than that. I don’t yet know. We must go wherever the argument carries us, like a wind.”
“Well said,” he replied. [394e]
“Then think about this, Adeimantus. Do our guardians need to be imitators, or not? Doesn’t the same principle follow from what we said earlier? Each person can practice one occupation well, but not many. If someone tries his hand at many, he will fail at all of them and never become respected for any.”
“Of course.”
“Doesn’t the same hold for imitation? One person cannot imitate many things well in the way he can imitate one.”
“No, he cannot.”

### Book III, 395–402

[395a] “So it would be hard for someone to work at a serious occupation and at the same time imitate many things and become an imitator. People cannot even make two forms of imitation well when they seem closely related, such as comedy and tragedy. Didn’t you just call them two forms of imitation?”
“I did. And you’re right that the same people cannot do both.”
“Nor can people be both reciters of poetry and actors.”
“True.”
“And comic and tragic actors are not even the same people. [395b] Yet all these arts involve imitation, don’t they?”
“They do.”
“And I think, Adeimantus, human nature breaks down into even smaller parts than these. A person cannot imitate many things well, or do well all the things of which imitations are copies.”
“That is quite true,” he said.
“So if we keep to our original argument, the guardians must leave all other occupations alone. They must be expert workers at securing the city’s freedom, [395c] and do nothing that does not serve that end. Then they must neither do nor imitate anything else. If they do imitate, they should imitate the qualities that suit them from childhood onward: brave, self-controlled, pious, and free people, and all similar qualities. They must neither behave in a servile way nor become good at imitating it, or at imitating any other shameful thing. Otherwise, imitation may lead them to become what they imitate. Haven’t you noticed that if people imitate things from childhood on, the imitations turn into habits [395d] and become part of their nature, affecting their bodies, their voices, and their minds?”
“Very much so,” he said.
“Then we won’t let the men we care about, whom we want to become good men, imitate a woman, whether young or old. They should not imitate a woman quarreling with her husband, or arguing with the gods and boasting because she thinks herself happy. Nor should they imitate one caught up in disaster, mourning, and lamentation. [395e] We would still more strongly object to their imitating a woman who is ill, in love, or in labor.”
“Absolutely,” he said.
“Nor should they imitate enslaved women and men doing the work of slaves.”
“Not that either.”
“Nor, it seems, should they imitate bad men or cowards, who do the opposite of what we just described: people who slander and mock one another and speak obscenely, whether drunk or

[396a] sober. They must not imitate the other ways such people go wrong in speech and action toward themselves and others. Nor, I think, should they get used to making themselves like people who have lost their minds, in either speech or action. They must know what such people are like, just as they must know bad men and women, but they must not do or imitate any of these things.”
“That is quite true,” he said.
“What about imitating people working at a forge,” I asked, “or practicing some other craft? [396b] What about rowing warships, giving orders to their crews, or doing any related work?”
“How could they,” he said, “when they will not even be allowed to pay attention to any of it?”
“And will they imitate neighing horses, bellowing bulls, noisy rivers, pounding seas, thunder, and the like?”
“They are forbidden to go mad,” he said, “or to act like people who are mad.”
“If I understand you, then,” I said, “there is a kind of speaking and storytelling in which a truly good and honorable person would tell a story when he needed to. And there is another, unlike it, that someone raised with the opposite character would always favor when telling a story.” [396c]
“What are these kinds?” he asked.
“I think that when a reasonable man reaches a point in his story where a good man speaks or acts, he will want to tell it as though he were that man. He will not be ashamed to imitate him, especially when he is acting with steadiness and good sense. [396d] He will imitate him less often and less fully when illness, love, drunkenness, or some other misfortune has led him to stumble. But when he comes to someone beneath him, he will not want to take on the part of the worse man in earnest. He might do so briefly when that man does something good. Otherwise he will be ashamed. For one thing, he has had no practice imitating such people. For another, he dislikes taking on [396e] and fitting himself into the roles of worse people. Deep down he has no respect for them, except as a joke.”
“That seems likely,” he said.
“So he will tell stories in the way we described a little earlier when discussing Homer’s poetry. His style will use both imitation and the other kind of narration, but imitation will form only a small part of a long account. Does that make sense?”
“Yes,” he said. “That is how such a speaker would have to speak.”

[397a] “But a man who is not like that will be more willing to tell every kind of story the worse he is. He will think nothing beneath him. So he will try seriously to imitate everything, and do it in front of a crowd: the thunder, the sounds of winds, hail, axles, and pulleys we mentioned a moment ago; the sounds of trumpets, flutes, pipes, and all kinds of instruments; and even the voices of dogs, sheep, and birds. [397b] Then his whole style will consist of imitation in voice and gesture, with little narration, if any.”
“That must be so too,” he said.
“Those are the two kinds of style I meant,” I said.
“Yes, they are.”
“Now one of them changes very little. If you give it music and rhythm suited to the words, a person using it correctly can say almost everything in the same musical mode, since the changes are small, [397c] and use a rhythm that is much the same throughout.”
“That is just how it is,” he said.
“And the other kind? Doesn’t it need the opposite—all musical modes and all rhythms—if it is to be performed properly, since it changes in so many different ways?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“So every poet and everyone who tells a story uses one of these styles or the other, or blends the two?”
“They must,” he said. [397d]
“What shall we do, then?” I asked. “Shall we admit all these styles into our city, or one of the unmixed styles, or the mixed one?”
“If I have my way,” he said, “we will admit the unmixed style that imitates a decent person.”
“But the mixed style is pleasant too, Adeimantus. Children, their teachers, and the great majority of people find the style opposite to your choice far more pleasant.”
“They certainly do.”
“But perhaps,” I said, “you would say that it does not suit [397e] our city’s way of life. No one here plays two roles, let alone many, because each person does one job.”
“It certainly does not suit it.”
“So in this city alone, we will find a shoemaker who is just a shoemaker, not also a ship’s captain; a farmer who is just a farmer, not also a judge; a soldier who is just a soldier, not also a businessman. It will be the same for everyone.”
“True,” he said.

[398a] “Then if a man comes to our city who is so skilled that he can become all kinds of people and imitate everything, and if he wants to show us his poems, we will bow to him as a remarkable, delightful, sacred man. But we will tell him that there is no one like him in our city and that our laws do not allow such a man to live among us. We will pour perfume on his head, crown him with wool, and send him off to another city. For our own good, we will use a more austere and less entertaining poet [398b] and storyteller. He will imitate the speech of a decent person and tell his stories within the rules we laid down at the start when we undertook to educate the soldiers.”
“Yes,” he said. “That is what we would do if it were up to us.”
“Well, my friend,” I said, “we have probably completed the part of education in music and poetry that concerns stories and speech. We have said what to tell and how to tell it.”
“I think so too,” he said. [398c]
“So next,” I said, “the way a song is sung and its melodies remain to be discussed.”
“Clearly.”
“If we are to be consistent with what we have said, isn’t it already clear to everyone what these things ought to be like?”
Glaucon laughed. “Then I must be the exception to everyone, Socrates,” he said. “Right now I can’t quite work out what we should say they ought to be like. I have a suspicion, though.”
“At least,” I said, “you can certainly say this much: [398d] a song is made up of three things—words, musical mode, and rhythm.”
“Yes, that much I can say,” he replied.
“And the words of a song are no different from words that are not sung when it comes to the rules for what may be said. They must follow the same rules we just laid down, in the same way.”
“True,” he said.
“And the music and rhythm must follow the words.”
“Of course.”
“But we said we had no need for laments and cries of grief in our stories.”
“We have no need for them.” [398e]
“So tell me, since you know music: which modes are used for laments?”
“The mixed Lydian and the high Lydian,” he said, “and others like them.”
“Then should we remove them?” I asked. “They are no use even to women who should be decent, much less to men.”
“Certainly.”
“And drunkenness, softness, and idleness are completely unsuitable for guardians.”
“Of course.”
“So which modes are soft and fit for drinking parties?”
“The Ionian,” he said, “and some varieties of the Lydian called relaxed.”

[399a] “Could you make any use of those among soldiers, my friend?”
“None at all,” he said. “It seems that leaves you with the Dorian and Phrygian.”
“I don’t know the modes by name,” I said. “Keep the mode that properly imitates the voice and tone of a brave man in war or any other dangerous task. When he fails, is wounded, [399b] faces death, or suffers some other misfortune, he holds his position and endures what happens. Keep another mode for a man engaged in peaceful activity that he chooses freely, rather than being forced into it. He may be persuading someone or asking for something, praying to a god or teaching and advising a person. Or he may be listening to another person’s request, lesson, or persuasion. He gets what he wants through this approach. He does not behave arrogantly but acts with self-control and moderation in all these situations, [399c] and accepts the outcome. Keep these two modes, the one for hardship and the one for chosen action. Let them represent as well as possible the voices of people who face bad or good fortune, who have self-control and are brave.”
“The two you ask to keep,” he said, “are exactly the ones I just named.”
“So our songs and melodies will need neither a great number of strings nor instruments that play in every mode,” I said.
“I don’t think so,” he said.
“Then we will not support makers of triangular harps, pectides, and all other instruments with [399d] many strings and many modes.”
“It seems not.”
“What about flute makers and flute players? Will you admit them into the city? Isn’t the flute the instrument with the greatest range, and aren’t the instruments that can play in every mode really copies of it?”
“Clearly,” he said.
“So the lyre and cithara are left for use in the city,” I said, “and in the countryside the shepherds may have the pipe.”
“That, at any rate, is where our argument leads,” he said. [399e]
“We are doing nothing new, my friend, when we choose Apollo and his instruments instead of Marsyas and his instruments.”
“By Zeus, I don’t think we are,” he said.
“And, by the dog,” I said, “without noticing it, we have once again been cleansing the city that we recently called luxurious.”
“We are showing good sense,” he said.
“Come on, then,” I said, “let us cleanse the rest. After modes, we should discuss rhythms. We should not pursue complicated rhythms and patterns of every kind. Instead, we should find out which rhythms belong to an orderly, brave life. Once we know them, we must make the musical beat and tune follow the words of a person who lives that way,

[400a] rather than making his words follow the beat and tune. As with the modes, it is your job to tell us which rhythms these are.”
“By Zeus, I can’t,” he said. “From what I have observed, I can say that there are three kinds of patterns from which beats are woven, just as there are four kinds of sounds from which all the modes come. But I cannot say what sort of life each pattern imitates.” [400b]
“Then we will discuss with Damon which patterns suit slavishness, arrogance, madness, and other forms of vice, and which rhythms we should keep for their opposites,” I said. “I vaguely remember hearing him name a certain compound march rhythm, a dactyl and a heroic rhythm. I don’t know how he arranged it, giving equal parts to the rise and fall of the beat, which became short and long. I think he also mentioned an iamb and another beat, a trochee, and assigned them lengths [400c] and shortnesses. I believe that with some of these he was as ready to praise or criticize the speed of the beat as the rhythm itself—or perhaps the two together. I cannot say for sure. But, as I said, let us leave that to Damon. Sorting it out would take a long discussion. Don’t you think?”
“By Zeus, I do.”
“But you can tell the difference between good form and bad form, and see how these go with good and bad rhythm, can’t you?”
“Of course.” [400d]
“And good rhythm follows and resembles good speech, while bad rhythm follows bad speech. The same goes for good and bad musical modes, if rhythm and music must follow the words, as we just said, rather than the words following them.”
“They certainly must follow the words,” he said.
“And doesn’t the way someone speaks, and what he says,” I asked, “follow the character of his soul?”
“Of course.”
“And everything else follows his speech?”
“Yes.”
“Then good speech, good music, good form, and good rhythm [400e] follow from a good character. I do not mean the lack of understanding that we politely call simplicity. I mean a mind genuinely formed with a good and fine character.”
“Absolutely,” he said.
“Then shouldn’t young people pursue these qualities everywhere, if they are to do their own work?”
“They should.”

[401a] “Painting and every craft like it are full of such qualities, as are weaving, embroidery, building, and making every other kind of object. The shapes of bodies and growing plants are full of them too. In all these things we find good form or bad form. Bad form, bad rhythm, and discord go hand in hand with poor speech and bad character. Their opposites go hand in hand with, and represent, a character that is self-controlled and good.”
“Absolutely,” he said. [401b]
“Must we supervise only the poets and require them either to put the image of a good character into their poems or not write among us? Or must we supervise other craftspeople as well? Must we stop them from putting bad character, lack of self-control, servility, and bad form into images of living things, into buildings, or into anything else they make? Anyone who cannot meet this rule must not practice a craft among us. Otherwise, our guardians will grow up surrounded by images of vice, like animals feeding on bad pasture. [401c] Every day they will pick and feed on little pieces from many sources, without noticing the great evil they are putting together in their souls. Instead, we must look for craftspeople gifted at tracing the nature of beauty and good form. Then young people will live as if in a healthy place, and everything will benefit them. Beautiful works will reach their eyes and ears like a breeze bringing health from good places. [401d] From childhood on, it will quietly guide them toward likeness, friendship, and harmony with fine reasoning.”
“That would give them the best possible upbringing,” he said.
“And that is why,” I said, “training in music and poetry is so important, Glaucon. Rhythm and melody sink deep into the soul and take the strongest hold on it. They bring good form and make a person well formed [401e] if he has been educated correctly, and the opposite if he has not. And someone properly brought up this way will be very quick to notice anything neglected or badly made, or anything badly formed by nature. His distaste will be justified. He will praise beautiful things, enjoy them, take them into his soul, and be nourished by them,

[402a] becoming a good and honorable person. While still young, before he can grasp a reasoned explanation, he will rightly condemn and hate ugly things. Then, when reason comes, he will welcome it and recognize it, especially because his upbringing has made it familiar to him.”
“That, at any rate, is why I think education in music and poetry matters,” he said.
“Think of how we learned to read,” I said. “We knew the small number of letters wherever they appeared. We did not treat them as beneath notice, [402b] whether they appeared in something small or large. We made an effort to recognize them everywhere. We would not know how to read until we could do that.”
“True.”
“And if the images of letters appear in water or in mirrors, we won’t recognize them before we know the letters themselves. Both things belong to the same skill and practice.”
“Absolutely.”
“Then, by the gods, isn’t it the same with education in music and poetry? [402c] Neither we nor the guardians we say we must educate will really be trained until we can recognize all the forms of self-control, courage, generosity, and greatness of spirit, and all related qualities, as well as their opposites. We must spot them wherever they appear and see them, and their images, in whatever contains them. We must not dismiss them in anything small or large, but treat recognizing them all as part of the same skill and practice.”
“We certainly must,” he said. [402d]
“Then if a person has fine qualities in his soul and matching qualities in his appearance, with both sharing the same pattern, wouldn’t he be the finest sight for anyone able to see it?”
“By far.”
“And the finest thing is the most lovable, isn’t it?”
“Of course.”
“Then a person trained in music and poetry would love people like that most. But he would not love anyone whose outward and inward qualities did not match.”
“He would not, if the defect were in the soul,” he said. “But if it were in the body, he might put up with it and still want to love that person.” [402e]
“I understand,” I said. “You have, or have had, someone you love like that, and I will allow it. But tell me: is there anything in common between self-control and excessive pleasure?”
“How could there be,” he said, “when pleasure can drive a person out of his mind as much as pain can?”
“And what about pleasure and the other virtues?”

### Book III, 403–410

[403a] “Not at all.”

“And with arrogance and lack of self-control?”

“More than anything.”

“Can you name a pleasure greater and more intense than sexual pleasure?”

“No,” he said, “or one that drives people more out of their minds.”

“But proper love naturally loves what is orderly and beautiful, with self-control and a sense of what is fitting?”

“Absolutely,” he said.

“So we must not bring anything wild or lacking in self-control into proper love?”

“We must not.” [403b]

“Then we must not bring this pleasure into it either. A lover and the person he loves, if they love and are loved properly, must not share in it?”

“No, by Zeus, Socrates,” he said. “They must not.”

“So it seems you will make a law in the city we are founding. A lover may kiss the boy he loves, spend time with him, and touch him as a father would a son, for the sake of what is beautiful, if the boy agrees. In every other respect he must behave toward the person he cares for in such a way that no one will ever think their intimacy goes further [403c] than this. Otherwise he will be blamed for lacking culture and any sense of what is beautiful.”

“That is how I would make the law,” he said.

“Now,” I said, “do you think we have finished our discussion of music and the arts? It has at least reached the point where it ought to end. These things should end in a love of beauty.”

“I agree,” he said.

“After music and the arts, then, the young people must be trained in physical exercise.”

“Of course.”

“And they must be trained carefully in this too, from childhood throughout [403d] life. Here is how I see it; consider it yourself. I do not think a sound body makes the soul good by its own excellence. It is the other way around: a good soul, by its excellence, makes the body as good as it can be. What do you think?”

“I think so too,” he said.

“Then suppose we give the mind enough care and leave it to work out the details of caring for the body, while we offer only [403e] an outline so that our discussion does not grow too long. Would that be right?”

“Certainly.”

“We have said that they must keep away from drunkenness. Anyone but a guardian might be allowed to get drunk and lose track of where on earth he is.”

“It would be absurd,” he said, “for a guardian to need a guardian.”

“And what about their food? These men are athletes in the greatest contest, aren't they?”

“Yes.”

[404a] “Then would the condition of today's athletes be suitable for them?”

“Perhaps.”

“But,” I said, “that kind of condition makes a person sleepy and puts health at risk. Don't you see that athletes sleep away their lives, and that if they stray even a little from their fixed diet they become seriously ill?”

“I do.”

“Our athletes of war,” I said, “need a more adaptable kind of training. Like dogs, they must stay alert and keep their sight and hearing as sharp as possible. On campaigns they will meet many changes in water, [404b] food, heat from the sun, and winter weather. Their health must not be so fragile.”

“That seems right to me.”

“Then would the best physical training be a close relative of the simple music and arts we discussed just now?”

“What do you mean?”

“Training that is simple and sensible, especially for soldiers.”

“How would it work?”

“One could learn this sort of thing from Homer,” I said. “You know that when he gives his heroes meals on campaign, he does not serve them fish, though they are [404c] beside the sea at the Hellespont. He does not give them boiled meat either, but only roasted meat, which would be easiest for soldiers to get. Nearly everywhere, it is easier to cook over a fire than to carry pots around.”

“Very true.”

“And I don't think Homer ever mentions seasonings. Don't other athletes also know that someone who wants to keep his body healthy must avoid all such things?”

“They know it,” he said, “and they are right to avoid them.” [404d]

“So, my friend, if you agree with this, you apparently do not approve of a Syracusan banquet and the great variety of Sicilian delicacies.”

“I suppose I do not.”

“Then you also disapprove of men who want to stay physically fit taking a Corinthian girl as a lover.”

“Completely.”

“And of the supposed pleasures of Athenian pastries?”

“Necessarily.”

“For we would be right, I think, to compare this whole kind of food and way of life to songs and music composed in every possible mode and [404e] rhythm.”

“Of course.”

“Variety produced a lack of self-control there, and it produces disease here. Simplicity in music and the arts produces self-control in the soul, and in physical training it produces health in the body.”

“Exactly,” he said.

[405a] “When a city is full of disorderly behavior and disease, don't law courts and doctors' offices spring up everywhere? Don't legal practice and medicine become important professions when even many free citizens devote themselves eagerly to them?”

“How could they not?”

“Can you find any clearer sign of a city's bad and shameful education than this: not just ordinary workers and craftsmen, but people who claim to have been brought up as free citizens, need expert doctors and judges? [405b] Isn't it shameful, and a strong sign of poor education, when you lack your own sense of justice and have to bring in others to administer it to you, like masters and judges?”

“It is the most shameful thing of all,” he said.

“Or is this even more shameful?” I said. “A man spends most of his life in court, either defending himself or suing someone else. Worse, he has so little sense of what is fine that he takes pride in it. He thinks it impressive to be skilled at wrongdoing, to twist and turn through every possible escape route [405c] and dodge punishment, all for trivial things of no worth. He does not know how much better and more honorable it is to arrange his life so that he never needs a half-asleep judge.”

“No,” he said. “That is even more shameful.”

“And isn't it shameful,” I said, “to need medical treatment, not for wounds or some seasonal illness that has struck, but because idleness and the lifestyle we described have filled a person, like a pool, with fluids and gases? They force the clever descendants of Asclepius to invent names such as ‘bloating’ and ‘catarrh’ for diseases.” [405d]

“Yes, indeed,” he said. “These really are new and strange names for diseases.”

“I imagine there were no such diseases in Asclepius's day. [405e] I judge this from the fact that when his sons were at Troy they did not criticize the woman who gave the wounded Eurypylus a drink of Pramnian wine with plenty of barley meal sprinkled over it

[406a] and cheese grated into it, even though these ingredients are supposed to produce phlegm. Nor did they criticize Patroclus, who was treating him.”

“Yet that was a strange drink for a man in his condition,” he said.

“Not if you remember,” I said, “that, as people say, the descendants of Asclepius did not use today's medicine, which nurses diseases along, before Herodicus came along. Herodicus was a physical trainer who became sickly. He mixed exercise [406b] with medicine and wore out himself first and most of all, then many others after him.”

“How?” he asked.

“By drawing out his own death,” I said. “He watched his disease closely, though it was fatal. I don't think he could cure himself, and he spent his whole life occupied with treatment, distressed whenever he departed from his usual routine. Thanks to his skill at dying slowly, he made it to old age.”

“A fine prize for his art,” he said. [406c]

“Just the prize you would expect for someone who did not understand why Asclepius failed to teach this kind of medicine to his descendants. It was not from ignorance or lack of experience. He knew that in every well-governed city, each person has an assigned job that must be done, and nobody has the leisure to spend a whole life sick and under treatment. We see the absurdity of such a life when it comes to craftsmen, but fail to see it when it comes to the rich and those thought to be fortunate.”

“How so?” he asked. [406d]

“A carpenter falls ill,” I said, “and asks a doctor for a drug that will make him vomit out the illness. Or he wants to be purged from below, or cured by cautery or surgery. But if someone prescribes a long course of treatment, wraps little caps around his head, and goes on with more of the same, he quickly says he has no time to be sick. A life spent attending to his illness instead of his work is no use to him. So he says goodbye [406e] to that doctor and returns to his usual way of life. If he gets well, he lives on and does his work. If his body cannot survive, he dies and is free of the trouble.”

“For someone like him,” he said, “that seems the right way to use medicine.”

[407a] “Isn't that because he had a job that made life not worth living if he couldn't do it?” I said.

“Clearly,” he said.

“But the rich man, as we say, has no such job that he must do for life to be worth living.”

“At least no one says he has.”

“Haven't you heard Phocylides say that once you have enough to live on, you must practice virtue?”

“I think you should practice it even before that,” he said.

“Let's not argue with him about it,” I said. “Let's ask ourselves whether a rich man must practice virtue and whether life is not worth living if he does not. Nursing an illness prevents a carpenter or any other worker from concentrating on work. Does it also prevent someone from following Phocylides' advice? [407b]”

“By Zeus, yes,” he said. “This excessive concern with the body, going far beyond physical training, is perhaps the greatest obstacle of all. It makes managing a household, serving in the army, and holding an office in the city difficult.”

“Most of all, it interferes with every kind of learning, thinking, and private study. [407c] A person is always on the lookout for tension in the head and dizziness and blames them on philosophy. Wherever someone practices and tests virtue this way, such worry gets in the way. It always makes him think he is sick and never stops him from worrying about his body.”

“That is likely,” he said.

“Then let's say Asclepius understood this too. He taught medicine for people whose bodies were healthy by nature and by their way of life, but who had developed a particular illness. [407d] He drove the illness out with drugs and surgery, then prescribed their usual routine so he would not harm the city's affairs. But he did not try to treat bodies that were sick throughout. He would not keep draining and refilling them bit by bit through diets, giving people long, wretched lives and likely causing them to have children just as sick as themselves. He did not think he should treat someone who could not live through the normal course [407e] of life, since that would benefit neither the person nor the city.”

“You make Asclepius sound like a doctor concerned with the city,” he said.

“Clearly he was,” I said. “And don't you see that his sons showed what kind of man he was?

[408a] At Troy they proved themselves good in war, and they practiced medicine as I have described it. Remember how, after Pandarus wounded Menelaus, they

‘sucked out the blood and applied soothing medicines.’

They did not tell him any more than they told Eurypylus what he should eat or drink afterward. They believed their medicines were enough to cure men who had been healthy before their wounds and had lived orderly lives, even if those men happened to drink a barley-and-wine mixture at the time. [408b] But they thought it served neither the patient nor anyone else for a man who was sickly by nature and without self-control to stay alive. Their art was not meant for such men, and they would not treat them, even if they were richer than Midas.”

“You give Asclepius's sons a very impressive reputation,” he said.

“As they deserve,” I said. “The tragic poets and Pindar disagree with us, though. They say that Asclepius was the son of Apollo, but that gold persuaded him to heal a rich man who was already dying, and that he was struck by lightning for it. Based on what we have said, we won't accept both parts of their story. If he was a god's son, we will say, he was not greedy for a shameful profit. If he was greedy for such a profit, he was not a god's son.” [408c]

“That is exactly right,” he said. “But what about this, Socrates? Don't we need good doctors in the city? The best doctors would surely be those who have treated the most healthy and sick people. And likewise the best judges would be those who have dealt with people of every kind.” [408d]

“Yes,” I said, “I certainly mean good ones. But do you know which doctors and judges I consider good?”

“Tell me,” he said.

“I'll try,” I said. “But you have combined two different questions.”

“How?” he asked.

“Doctors might become most skilled,” I said, “if, from childhood, they learn their craft while dealing with as many bodies as possible, including the sickest ones, and if they themselves suffer every kind of illness and are not naturally very healthy. After all, I don't think doctors treat a body with their own bodies. If they did, their bodies could never be or become unhealthy. They treat bodies with their souls. A soul that has become sick and remains sick cannot treat anything well.” [408e]

“Right,” he said.

[409a] “But a judge, my friend, rules one soul with another. His soul cannot grow up among bad souls or have close dealings with them from youth. Nor can he himself commit every kind of wrong so that he can quickly infer others' wrongs from his own experience, as he might recognize bodily diseases. When he is young, his soul must be innocent of and untainted by bad habits, if he is to become a decent man who judges questions of justice soundly. That is why decent people seem naive when they are young and are easily deceived [409b] by unjust people. They have no examples of such wickedness within themselves.”

“That certainly happens to them,” he said.

“So,” I said, “a good judge must be old, not young. He must come to know injustice late in life. He must not discover it as something living in his own soul. Instead, over a long period he studies it as something foreign, in other people's souls. He comes to understand what kind of evil it is through knowledge, not through experience of wrongdoing himself.” [409c]

“That kind of judge sounds like a very honorable man,” he said.

“And a good man too, which is what you asked for,” I said. “A person with a good soul is good. But consider the clever, suspicious man who has committed many wrongs and thinks himself cunning and wise. When he deals with people like himself, he appears sharp because he is on guard, using examples from his own mind. But when he meets good people, especially older ones, he seems foolish instead. He distrusts them at the wrong times and knows nothing of healthy character, because he has no example of it inside himself. [409d] Yet he meets bad people more often than good ones, so both he and others think him wiser rather than more ignorant.”

“That is entirely true,” he said.

“Then the good and wise judge we seek must not be like him, but like the first man. Wickedness can never know either virtue or itself. But virtue, when its natural powers have been educated, will in time understand both itself and wickedness. It is this man, I think, who becomes wise, not the wicked man.” [409e]

“I agree,” he said.

“So you will establish in the city the kind of medicine we described, together with the corresponding kind of judging. They will care for those of your citizens

[410a] whose bodies and souls are sound by nature. Those whose bodies are not sound they will let die, while those whose souls are naturally bad and beyond cure they will put to death themselves.”

“That,” he said, “seems best both for the people affected and for the city.”

“And your young people will clearly take care not to need a judge, since they practice the simple music and arts that we said produce self-control.”

“Of course,” he said. [410b]

“And if someone educated in music and the arts follows the same path in physical training, won't he choose to live so that he needs medicine only when he must?”

“I think so.”

“In his exercises and hard work, he will aim more at awakening the spirited part of his nature than at building strength. Unlike other athletes, he will not arrange his meals and exercise just to increase his physical power.”

“Exactly,” he said.

“Glaucon,” I said, “those who established education in music and physical training may not have done it for the reason some people think. They did not mean to care for the body with the one and the soul with the other.” [410c]

“Then what did they mean?” he asked.

“It seems they established both chiefly for the sake of the soul,” I said.

“How?”

“Haven't you noticed what happens to the minds of people who spend their whole lives on physical training but never touch music and the arts? Or what happens to those who do the opposite?”

“What are you referring to?” he asked. [410d]

“To harshness and savagery on the one hand, and softness and gentleness on the other,” I said.

“I have noticed,” he said. “Those who practice nothing but physical training become more savage than they should, while those who practice only music and the arts become softer than is good for them.”

“And the savage quality may come from the spirited part of their nature,” I said. “If raised properly, it would become courage. If stretched too far, it would probably become harsh and difficult.”

“I think so,” he said. [410e]

“What about gentleness? Wouldn't that belong to the nature that loves wisdom? If it is relaxed too far, wouldn't it become softer than it should, but if raised well, gentle and orderly?”

“Yes.”

“And we say the guardians must have both these natures.”

“We do.”

“Then they must be brought into harmony with one another.”

“Certainly.”

“And when they are in harmony, the

### Book III, 411–417

[411a] soul is self-controlled and courageous?”

“Absolutely.”

“And when they are out of harmony, cowardly and uncultivated?”

“Very much so.”

“So when someone lets music play over him and pour through his ears into his soul like water through a funnel—the sweet, soft, mournful tunes we were just talking about—and spends his whole life humming to himself and delighting in song, at first it softens any spirited quality he has, as one softens iron. It makes that quality useful where it was once hard and useless. [411b] But if he keeps listening without stopping and lets the music enchant him, it then starts to melt and drain his spirit. Finally it melts it all away and cuts the strength from his soul like tendons from a body, leaving him a feeble fighter.”

“Yes, indeed,” he said.

“And if he has little spirit by nature to begin with,” I said, “the change happens quickly. If he has a spirited nature, the music weakens it and makes it unstable. Small things provoke it quickly, and it dies down just as quickly. Instead of spirited people, they become [411c] hotheaded, quick-tempered people, full of bad temper.”

“Exactly.”

“Now suppose instead someone works hard at physical training and eats very well, but never touches music or philosophy. At first his physical well-being fills him with pride and spirit, doesn't it? He becomes braver than he was before.”

“Certainly.”

“But what if he does nothing else and has no contact at all with the arts? [411d] If his soul had any desire to learn, wouldn't it grow weak, deaf, and blind? It has no taste of learning or inquiry, no part in discussion or the rest of music and the arts. Nothing awakens or nourishes it or clears its powers of perception.”

“Yes,” he said.

“Then I think he grows to hate reasoning and loses all culture. He no longer uses words to persuade people, but deals with everything by force and savagery, like a wild animal. He lives in ignorance and clumsiness, without any sense of rhythm or grace.” [411e]

“That is exactly how it is,” he said.

“So I would say that some god has given human beings two arts for these two parts of us: music and physical training for the spirited part and the part that loves wisdom. They are not mainly for soul and body respectively, except as a side effect. They are for these two parts,

[412a] to bring them into harmony by tightening or relaxing each to the proper degree.”

“That seems right,” he said.

“Then the person who mixes physical training with music and the arts most beautifully, and applies them to the soul in the best proportion, is the one we should rightly call most completely musical and most in harmony. Far more so than a person who merely tunes strings to each other.”

“That makes sense, Socrates,” he said.

“Then, Glaucon, won't our city always need someone to oversee these things, if its system of government is to survive?” [412b]

“It certainly will.”

“So much for the outlines of their education and upbringing. Why go through the details of their dances, hunts and chases, athletic contests, and horse races? It is fairly clear that these must follow the same principles, and they are no longer hard to work out.”

“Perhaps not,” he said.

“Well,” I said, “what should we decide next? Isn't it which of these people will rule and which will be ruled?” [412c]

“Of course.”

“Clearly the rulers must be older and those they rule younger?”

“Clearly.”

“And the rulers must be the best of them?”

“Yes.”

“Aren't the best farmers those who are best at farming?”

“Yes.”

“Since these people must be the best guardians, shouldn't they be the best at guarding the city?”

“Yes.”

“Then they must have good judgment and ability for the job, and they must care about the city.” [412d]

“That is right.”

“And people care most about what they love.”

“They must.”

“And they love most what they believe benefits them as well as the thing they love. They think that [especially when] it does well, they too do well, and if it does badly, the opposite happens.”

“That's right,” he said.

“So we must select from the other guardians those men who, when we examine them throughout their lives, seem most eager to do whatever they believe benefits the city, and unwilling under any circumstances to do what they think does not benefit it.” [412e]

“They are the right people,” he said.

“I think we must watch them at every age to see whether they hold on to that belief. We must make sure neither deception nor pressure makes them forget and cast aside the conviction that they must do what is best for the city.”

“What do you mean by ‘cast aside’?” he asked.

“I'll explain,” I said. “I think a belief leaves the mind either willingly or unwillingly. When a person learns better, he willingly lets go of a false belief;

[413a] but a true belief always leaves unwillingly.”

“I understand letting go willingly,” he said, “but I need to understand the unwilling kind.”

“Don't you too think,” I said, “that people lose good things unwillingly but get rid of bad things willingly? Isn't it bad to be mistaken about the truth and good to get it right? And doesn't having beliefs about things as they really are count as getting it right?”

“Yes, you are right,” he said. “I think people lose true beliefs unwillingly.” [413b]

“Doesn't this happen when they are robbed of them, put under a spell, or forced?”

“I still don't understand,” he said.

“I seem to be talking like a tragic poet,” I said. “By ‘robbed’ I mean those who change their minds because they are persuaded or because they forget. Time secretly takes the belief from those who forget, and an argument takes it from those who are persuaded. Do you understand now?”

“Yes.”

“By ‘forced’ I mean people whose opinion changes because of suffering or pain.”

“I understand that too,” he said. “You are right.” [413c]

“And I think you would say that those ‘put under a spell’ are people whose opinion changes because pleasure charms them or fear frightens them.”

“Yes,” he said. “Anything deceptive seems to cast a spell.”

“Then, as I was just saying, we must find out who best guards the belief inside them that they must always do what they think best for the city [for themselves to do]. We must observe them from childhood. We should set them tasks where someone would be especially likely to forget that belief or be deceived out of it. We should select the one who remembers [413d] and is hard to deceive, and reject the one who does not. Agreed?”

“Yes.”

“We should also give them hard work, pain, and contests, and watch for the same thing in those conditions.”

“Right,” he said.

“Then,” I said, “we must make a trial of the third kind, being put under a spell, and observe them. Just as people lead young horses toward noises and commotion to see whether they are easily frightened, we must expose our young people to frightening things and then plunge them into pleasures. We must test them far more thoroughly than gold is tested in fire. [413e] We must see whether they resist deception and behave properly in every situation, guarding themselves and the education in music and the arts that they have received. They must show good rhythm and harmony throughout these trials. A person like that would be most useful to himself and to the city.

“We should appoint as ruler and guardian of the city the man who has been tested as a child, a young man, and an adult,

[414a] and has come through unchanged. We should honor him both while he lives and after his death, giving him the greatest honors of burial and memorial. We should reject anyone who does not meet this standard. Glaucon,” I said, “that, in broad outline rather than full detail, seems to me the way to select and appoint our rulers and guardians.”

“It seems about right to me too,” he said. [414b]

“Should we, then, call these rulers the true guardians? They will guard against enemies outside the city and friends inside it, preventing the former from wanting to do harm and the latter from being able to do so. And should we call the young men we have called guardians up to now ‘helpers,’ who support the decisions of the rulers?”

“I think so,” he said.

“Then how could we invent one of those useful lies we were discussing and use it to persuade, if possible, even the rulers themselves? Or, failing that, the rest of the city? It would have to be a grand lie.” [414c]

“What kind?” he asked.

“Nothing new,” I said. “It's an old Phoenician story that, according to the poets, has happened in many places before; they have persuaded people it did. It has not happened in our own time, and I don't know if it could. It would take a great deal of persuasion to make people believe it.”

“You sound reluctant to tell it,” he said.

“Once I do, you will see that I have good reason to be reluctant,” I said.

“Tell it,” he said. “Don't be afraid.” [414d]

“Very well, though I don't know where I will find the nerve or the words. I will first try to persuade the rulers themselves and the soldiers, and then the rest of the city. I will tell them that the upbringing and education we gave them only seemed, like a dream, to be happening to them. In truth they were being formed and raised under the ground then, while their weapons and all their other equipment were being made there too. Once they were fully formed, the earth, their mother, sent them up. So now they must plan and fight for the land where they live, as for their mother and nurse, if anyone attacks it. They must regard their fellow citizens as brothers born from the same earth.” [414e]

“No wonder you were ashamed to tell this lie earlier,” he said.

[415a] “Quite right,” I said. “But listen to the rest of the story. We will tell them: ‘All of you in the city are brothers. But when the god formed you, he mixed gold into the making of those who are fit to rule. That is why they are the most highly valued. He mixed silver into the helpers, and iron and bronze into the farmers and other craftsmen. Since all of you are related, most of your children will be like you. [415b] But sometimes a child with silver in him will be born to parents with gold, or a child with gold to parents with silver. And children of every other kind can likewise come from one another. So the god's first and strongest command to the rulers is that nothing deserves their watchful care as much as their children do. They must watch what metals are mixed into their souls. If their own child has bronze or iron in him, they must [415c] show no pity at all, but give him the position suited to his nature and send him to work among the craftsmen or farmers. If a child of the farmers or craftsmen has gold or silver in him, they must honor him and raise him to the role of guardian or helper, as appropriate. For there is a prophecy that the city will be destroyed when an iron or bronze guardian watches over it.’ Can you think of any way to make them believe this story?”

“Not the people who first hear it,” he said. “But their sons might believe it, and later generations, and everyone who comes after them.” [415d]

“Even that would help them care more about the city and one another,” I said. “I think I understand what you mean. But let the story fare however public opinion takes it. Now let's arm these earthborn men and bring them out, with the rulers in the lead. Once they arrive, they should look for the best place in the city to make camp. From there they should be able to control people within the city if anyone refuses to obey the laws, and defend against attackers from outside if an enemy comes like a wolf against a flock. [415e] Once they have set up camp and sacrificed to the proper gods, they should make places to sleep. Agreed?”

“Yes,” he said.

“And these places must shelter them well enough in winter and summer?”

“Of course,” he said. “I suppose you mean houses.”

“Yes,” I said. “Houses for soldiers, not for men bent on making money.”

[416a] “How do you distinguish the two?” he asked.

“I'll try to explain,” I said. “Nothing could be more dangerous or disgraceful for shepherds than to raise dogs to help guard their flocks in such a way that, through lack of self-control, hunger, or another bad habit, the dogs themselves attack the sheep. Instead of dogs, they become like wolves.”

“That would certainly be dangerous,” he said. [416b]

“Then we must do everything we can to prevent our helpers from behaving like that toward the citizens. They have more power than the citizens, and might turn from friendly allies into savage masters.”

“We must prevent it,” he said.

“And wouldn't the best protection be for them to have a genuinely good education?”

“But they do have one,” he said.

“I wouldn't insist on that, my dear Glaucon,” I said. “What we can insist on is the point we just made. They need the right education, whatever that is, if they are to gain what matters most: being gentle to each other and to the people they guard.” [416c]

“That's right,” he said.

“And besides this education, any sensible person would say we should provide them with homes and other possessions of a kind that will not stop them from being the best possible guardians or tempt them to mistreat the other citizens.”

“That is certainly what such a person would say.” [416d]

“Now consider,” I said, “whether the following is how they should live and be housed if they are to be such guardians. First, none of them should own any private property except what is absolutely necessary. Second, none should have a house or storeroom that anyone who wishes cannot enter. As for the provisions that moderate and courageous athletes of war need, they should receive a fixed amount from the other citizens as payment for guarding them. It should be enough for the year, with nothing left over and nothing lacking. [416e] They should go to communal meals and live together as if they were in a military camp.

“We should tell them they always have divine gold and silver in their souls, given by the gods, and have no need of the human kind. It is not right to contaminate their divine possession by mixing it with mortal gold. Many unholy things have been done for the

[417a] currency used by ordinary people, but the gold within the guardians is pure. They alone among the citizens must not handle or touch gold or silver. They must not enter a house that holds them, wear them, or drink from vessels made of them. That is how they will stay safe and protect the city. But once they acquire private land, houses, and money, they will become household managers and farmers instead of guardians. Instead of allies to the other citizens, they will become hostile masters. [417b] They will spend their lives hating and being hated, plotting against others and facing plots themselves. They will fear the enemies inside the city far more than those outside it. By then they and the rest of the city will already be racing toward ruin. For all these reasons,” I said, “shall we say that the guardians' housing and other arrangements must be set up this way, and make these provisions into law?”

“Absolutely,” said Glaucon.

### Book IV, 419–427

[419a] Adeimantus interrupted. “So, Socrates,” he said, “how will you defend yourself if someone says you aren't making these men very happy? And it's their own city, really, yet they get none of its benefits. Other people own land, build fine large houses and furnish them to match. They make private sacrifices to the gods, entertain guests, and, as you just mentioned, own gold and silver and everything else people think a happy person needs. Someone might say that these men seem simply to sit in the city like hired [420a] troops, doing nothing but guard it.”

“Yes,” I said, “and they get their meals but no wages on top of their food, unlike other people. So they can't travel abroad on their own if they want to, give gifts to courtesans, or spend money on anything else they choose, the way people thought to be happy spend it. You're leaving these and many similar charges off the list.”

“Then count those as charges too,” he said. [420b] “What will we say in defense?”

“Yes.”

“By following the same path,” I said, “I think we'll find the answer. We'll say that it wouldn't be surprising if these men were happiest as they are. But our aim in founding the city isn't to make one group exceptionally happy. It's to make the whole city as happy as possible. We thought we would most likely find justice in that kind of city, and [420c] injustice in the worst-governed one. Once we had seen both, we could decide the question we've been asking all along. Right now, then, we are making what we think is a happy city. We aren't setting aside a few people to make them happy. We are making the city happy as a whole. After that we'll examine its opposite. Imagine that we were painting a statue and someone criticized us for not putting the most beautiful colors on the most beautiful parts. The eyes, its most beautiful part, were painted black instead of purple. We would reasonably [420d] answer: 'My friend, don't expect us to paint the eyes so beautifully that they stop looking like eyes, or to do the same to the other parts. Look instead at whether we make the whole statue beautiful by giving each part the right color.' Likewise, don't force us to give the guardians a kind of happiness that would make them anything but guardians. [420e] We know how to dress farmers in elegant robes and gold and tell them to work the land only for pleasure. We could seat potters reclining beside the fire, drinking and feasting, with their wheels next to them, and let them make pots only when they feel like it. We could make everyone else happy in the same way, supposedly so that the whole city would be happy. But don't advise us to do that. If we listen to you, [421a] the farmer won't be a farmer, the potter won't be a potter, and none of the occupations that make up a city will keep their character. It matters less in other cases. If cobblers become corrupt, do poor work, and pretend to be cobblers when they aren't, that isn't a terrible thing for the city. But if those who only appear to guard its laws and the city aren't really guardians, you can see they ruin the whole city. And they alone have the chance to make it live well and happily. If we're making real [421b] guardians who will do the least harm to the city, while our critic is talking about farmers who live like happy guests at a festival rather than citizens in a city, then he's talking about something other than a city. We must decide whether we're appointing guardians to give them the greatest possible happiness, or whether we should look to the whole city and see whether happiness exists there. In that case we must require and persuade these helpers and [421c] guardians to become as good as possible at their own work, and require the same of everyone else. Then, as the whole city grows and is well ordered, we must let nature give each group its share of happiness.”

“That seems right to me,” he said.

“Will you think the same of a related point?” I asked.

“What point?” [421d]

“Think about whether these two things ruin the other workers too, making them bad at their work.”

“Which things?”

“Wealth and poverty,” I said.

“How?”

“Like this. Do you think a potter who gets rich will still want to pay attention to his craft?”

“Not at all,” he said.

“He'll become lazier and less careful than he was?”

“Much more so.”

“So he becomes a worse potter?”

“Much worse,” he said.

“And if poverty prevents him from getting tools or anything else needed for his craft, his [421e] products will be worse. He will also teach his sons or other pupils to be worse workers.”

“Of course.”

“So both poverty and wealth make the work worse, and make the workers themselves worse.”

“Apparently.”

“We've found two more things, then, that the guardians must watch with all their care and never allow to slip into the city unnoticed.”

“What are they?”

“[422a] Wealth and poverty,” I said. “Wealth produces luxury, idleness, and a taste for revolution. Poverty produces servility and shoddy work, as well as a taste for revolution.”

“Certainly,” he said. “But consider this, Socrates. How can our city fight a war if it has no money, especially if it has to fight a large, wealthy city?”

“Clearly,” I said, “fighting one such city will be harder, [422b] but fighting two will be easier.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“First,” I said, “if they have to fight, won't our trained athletes of war be facing rich men?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Now, Adeimantus, don't you think that one boxer trained as well as possible could easily fight two rich, fat men who aren't boxers?”

“Perhaps not both at the same time,” he said.

“[422c] Not even if he could dodge the first man to approach him, turn and strike him, then do this again and again in the heat of the sun? Couldn't such a boxer beat even more than two of those men?”

“He certainly could. That wouldn't be surprising,” he said.

“And don't you think rich men have more knowledge and experience of boxing than of warfare?”

“I do,” he said.

“Then it's reasonable to expect our trained fighters to take on two or three times their number without much trouble.”

“I'll grant you that,” he said. “I think you're right.”

“[422d] Suppose they send an embassy to the other city and tell the truth: 'We don't use gold or silver, and our laws don't allow us to. You do. Fight beside us and take the other city's property.' Do you think anyone who hears that would choose to fight tough, lean dogs rather than join the dogs in fighting fat, soft sheep?”

“I don't think so. But [422e] if the wealth of the other cities is gathered together in one city, look out: it might endanger the city that has no wealth.”

“You're lucky,” I said, “if you think any city other than the one we're building deserves to be called a city.”

“What else would you call it?” he asked.

“We need a bigger name for the others,” I said. “Each of them is many cities, not one city, as children say when they play. There are at least two cities at war with each other, [423a] one of the poor and one of the rich. Each contains many more. If you deal with them as one, you'll miss your aim entirely. But if you treat them as many, give the wealth, power, or even the people of one group to another, you'll always have many allies and few enemies. As long as your city is governed sensibly, according to the plan we've just made, it will be the greatest city. I don't mean greatest in reputation but truly greatest, even if it has only 1,000 defenders. You'll have trouble finding a single city that large among Greeks or [423b] foreigners, though you'll find many that seem far larger. Do you disagree?”

“By Zeus, no,” he said.

“Then this would also be the best limit for our rulers: how large the city should grow, how much land to mark out for it at that size, and when to leave the rest alone.”

“What limit?” he asked.

“This one, I think: let it grow as long as it can remain one city, but no further.”

“A good limit,” he said. [423c]

“And we'll give the guardians another order: take every precaution that the city is neither too small nor apparently large, but a sufficient size and united.”

“Perhaps that will be an easy order for them,” he said.

“Easier still is the order we mentioned earlier. If a guardian has a child who is unfit for the role, send that child to the other groups. If a child from another group is fit, bring that child into the guardians. [423d] We meant that every citizen should be assigned the single job that fits their nature. That way each person, occupied with their own work, will be one person rather than many, and the whole city will grow into one rather than many cities.”

“Yes,” he said, “that's an even smaller task.”

“My good Adeimantus,” I said, “these orders may sound numerous and important, but they're all easy if the guardians protect the one great thing, or rather [423e] the one sufficient thing.”

“What is it?” he asked.

“Education and upbringing,” I said. “If a good education makes them reasonable people, they'll easily see to all this and the other matters we're leaving out now: the sharing of women, marriage, and having children. As the saying goes, [424a] friends should share everything as much as possible.”

“That would be exactly right,” he said.

“Once a state starts well,” I said, “it grows like a circle. Good upbringing and education, when kept in place, produce good natures. Good natures receiving that education become even better than the previous generation in every way, including [424b] their ability to produce children, just as with other animals.”

“That seems likely,” he said.

“To put it briefly, the city's leaders must hold firmly to this and watch that it isn't corrupted without their noticing. Above all they must preserve the established system of physical and musical education, allowing no changes in it. They must be on guard when someone says that people give more attention to”

“the song that is newest when it comes around among singers.”

“[424c] They must not take the poet to mean a new style of song rather than new songs, and praise it. They must neither praise nor accept such a thing. They must beware of changing the form of music, since that puts everything at risk. The styles of music are never changed without changing the most important laws of the city. Damon says so, and I agree.”

“Put me among those who agree too,” Adeimantus said.

“[424d] Then the guardians must build their lookout post here, in music,” I said.

“That's certainly where lawlessness easily slips in unnoticed,” he said.

“Yes,” I said, “because it looks like mere play and seems to do no harm.”

“It does nothing else,” he said, “except gradually settle in and quietly seep into people's habits and ways of life. From there it grows and passes into their dealings with each other, and from those dealings it [424e] attacks the laws and forms of government with great arrogance, Socrates. In the end it overturns everything, private and public.”

“Well,” I said, “is that how it is?”

“I think so,” he said.

“Then, as we said at the start, our children must take part in more law-abiding games from the beginning. If their games and the children themselves become lawless, they can't grow into law-abiding, decent [425a] adults.”

“Of course not,” he said.

“So when children begin by playing properly and absorb respect for law through music, the effect runs the other way. It follows them everywhere, grows with them, and even repairs earlier faults in the city.”

“That's true,” he said.

“Then they'll rediscover all the small rules of behavior that earlier people lost.”

“What rules?”

“[425b] Rules like how young people should keep quiet before their elders, give them seats and stand up for them; how they should care for their parents; and how they should wear their hair, their clothes and shoes, and carry themselves generally. All the other things of that kind. Don't you think so?”

“I do.”

“But I think it's foolish to make laws about them. Rules of this kind aren't brought into being by being spoken or written down, and they wouldn't last that way.”

“How could they?”

“A person's education, Adeimantus, seems to [425c] set the course for everything that follows. Doesn't like always lead to like?”

“Yes.”

“In the end, I think, it produces a complete and vigorous result, good or bad.”

“Of course,” he said.

“That's why I wouldn't try to pass laws about these things,” I said.

“Reasonably so,” he said.

“But, for heaven's sake,” I said, “what about business in the marketplace? What about the contracts people make with one another there, or, if you like, [425d] contracts with tradespeople, insults, assaults, bringing lawsuits, selecting juries, and any necessary levies or payments imposed or collected in marketplaces and harbors? What about all the regulations for markets, streets, harbors, and similar matters? Will we dare make laws about these?”

“[425e] It isn't worth instructing good, decent people about them,” he said. “They'll easily work out most of the rules that need to be made.”

“Yes, my friend,” I said, “provided a god lets them preserve the laws we went through earlier.”

“Otherwise,” he said, “they'll spend their lives constantly making and revising rules of that kind, expecting at last to find the best arrangement.”

“You mean they'll live like sick people who, through lack of self-control, refuse to give up a harmful way of life.”

“Exactly.”

“[426a] They do live amusingly. Their treatments achieve nothing except to make their illnesses more complicated and serious. Yet they always hope that if someone recommends a drug, it will cure them.”

“Yes,” he said, “that's just what happens to sick people like that.”

“And isn't this funny?” I asked. “They hate most of all the person who tells them the truth: until they stop drinking, overeating, having sex without restraint, and idling, [426b] no drugs, cautery, surgery, spells, amulets, or anything like them will help.”

“Not very funny,” he said. “There's nothing amusing about getting angry at someone who gives good advice.”

“You don't seem to admire people of that sort,” I said.

“By Zeus, I don't.”

“So you wouldn't approve if the whole city did what we were just describing. Don't badly governed cities do the same thing? They forbid [426c] their citizens to disturb the city's whole arrangement, on pain of death. But whoever serves them most pleasantly under that arrangement, flatters them, anticipates their wishes and skillfully carries them out, is considered a good man, wise in the most important matters, and is honored by them.”

“They do exactly the same thing,” he said, “and I don't approve at all.”

“[426d] What about those who are willing and eager to serve cities like that? Don't you admire their courage and readiness?”

“Yes,” he said, “except for those who are fooled by the cities and think they're real statesmen because the crowd praises them.”

“What do you mean? Can't you forgive them?” I asked. “Suppose a man can't measure, and many other people who can't measure tell him [426e] he's four cubits tall. Can he avoid believing that about himself?”

“No, not in that case,” he said.

“Then don't be angry with them. They're the most amusing people of all. They keep making and revising the laws we've been discussing. They always think they'll find some way to stop wrongdoing in contracts and the other areas I mentioned. They don't realize they're really chopping up a Hydra.”

“[427a] That's exactly what they're doing,” he said.

“In my view,” I said, “a real lawgiver shouldn't spend time on laws and arrangements of that kind, whether the city is badly or well governed. In a badly governed city, they're useless and change nothing. In a well-governed city, anyone could work out some of them, while the rest follow on their own from the practices established earlier.”

“[427b] Then what's left for us to legislate?” he asked.

“Nothing for us,” I said. “But the greatest, finest, and most basic laws are left to Apollo at Delphi.”

“Which ones?” he asked.

“Establishing temples, sacrifices, and other ways to honor gods, divine spirits, and heroes; burial of the dead and the services needed to keep those in the next world well-disposed toward us. We don't know these things. And if we have any sense while founding a city, we'll follow no other guide in them than our ancestral one. [427c] This god, sitting [in the middle] of the earth at its navel, is surely everyone's ancestral guide in such matters.”

“Well said,” he replied. “That's what we must do.”

“So now, [427d] son of Ariston,” I said, “your city is founded. Next, get enough light from somewhere and look inside it. Call your brother, Polemarchus, and the others to help. Perhaps we can see where justice and injustice are in it, how they differ, and which one a person must possess to be happy, whether or not that person escapes the notice of all gods and human beings.”

“Nonsense,” Glaucon said. “You promised to look for it. [427e] You said it would be wrong not to do everything you can to defend justice.”

“That's a true reminder,” I said. “I must do that, but you must help too.”

“We will,” he said.

“Then here's how I hope to find it,” I said. “If our city is correctly founded, I think it must be good in every respect.”

“It must,” he said.

“Clearly, then, it's wise, courageous, self-controlled, and just.”

“Clearly.”

“So if we find some of those qualities in it, the one left over will be the one we haven't found.”

### Book IV, 428–435

[428a] “Of course.”

“Suppose there were four other things, and we were looking for one of them somewhere. If we recognized it first, that would settle the matter. But if we recognized the other three first, that would also tell us what we were looking for. Obviously it could only be the one left over.”

“That's right,” he said.

“Then since we're dealing with four qualities here, shouldn't we look for them in the same way?”

“Clearly.”

“The first one I can plainly see in the city is [428b] wisdom. But there seems to be something odd about it.”

“What?” he asked.

“The city we've described really does seem wise, because it makes good decisions, doesn't it?”

“Yes.”

“And good judgment is obviously a kind of knowledge. People make good decisions through knowledge, not ignorance.”

“Obviously.”

“But there are many different kinds of knowledge in the city.”

“Of course.”

“Should we call the city wise and good at deciding because of the carpenters' knowledge?”

“[428c] No,” he said. “That would make it skilled in carpentry, not wise.”

“So the city can't be called wise because it knows how to make the best decisions about wooden furniture.”

“No.”

“What about knowledge of making things out of bronze, or any similar kind?”

“No kind like that,” he said.

“Nor knowledge of how to grow crops from the earth. That would make it skilled in farming.”

“I agree.”

“Well,” I said, “is there knowledge among some of the citizens of the city we've just founded that makes decisions, not about one thing in the city, but [428d] about the whole city: how it should best deal both with itself and with other cities?”

“There is.”

“What is that knowledge, and who has it?” I asked.

“It's the guardians' knowledge,” he said. “It's held by the rulers we were just calling guardians in the fullest sense.”

“And what would you call the city because of this knowledge?”

“Good at making decisions,” he said, “and truly wise.”

“Do you think there will be [428e] more bronze workers in our city than these true guardians?”

“Far more bronze workers,” he said.

“And of all the people named for some kind of knowledge they possess, would these guardians be the fewest?”

“By far.”

“Then a city founded according to nature is wise as a whole because of its smallest group and the knowledge that group possesses: the group that leads and rules. And it seems that the people naturally fit to share in this knowledge are [429a] the fewest of all. Of all kinds of knowledge, this one alone should be called wisdom.”

“That's absolutely right,” he said.

“So, somehow, we've found one of the four qualities, along with the place it has in the city.”

“I think we've found it well enough,” he said.

“Courage itself, and the part of the city where it lies and makes the city courageous, aren't very hard to see.”

“How so?”

“[429b] Would anyone call a city brave or cowardly on the basis of any group other than the one that fights and goes to war for it?” I asked.

“No one would,” he said.

“The courage or cowardice of the other people in it, I think, wouldn't determine which of these the city is.”

“No.”

“Then the city is courageous because of one part of itself. That part has the power to preserve, through everything it faces, [429c] the belief about what is to be feared and what kind of things they are. It preserves the belief taught by the lawgiver in their education. Isn't that what you call courage?”

“I didn't quite follow you,” he said. “Say it again.”

“I mean that courage is a kind of preservation,” I said.

“Preservation of what?”

“Of the belief established by law through education about which things are to be feared and what they are like. By 'through everything' I mean keeping that belief [429d] in pain, pleasure, desire, and fear without giving it up. If you like, I'll compare it to something I think resembles it.”

“Please do.”

“You know how dyers work when they want to dye wool purple. First, among all the colors available, they select naturally white wool. Then they carefully prepare it, with considerable effort, to make it take the dye as well as possible. Only then do they dye it. [429e] Wool dyed this way holds its color. Washing can't remove the color, with or without soap. But you know what happens if someone dyes other colors of wool, or even white wool that hasn't been prepared.”

“I do,” he said. “The color washes out and looks ridiculous.”

“Think of us, then, as doing something like that, as far as we can, when we select the soldiers and [430a] educate them in music and physical training. Our only purpose is to make them take in the laws as thoroughly as possible, like a dye. Their beliefs about what is to be feared and everything else will then hold fast, because their nature and upbringing have been properly prepared. That dye won't be washed out by these powerful cleansing agents: pleasure, which works more fiercely than any washing soda or lye, and [430b] pain, fear, and desire, stronger than any other cleanser. This power to keep the correct, lawful belief about what is and isn't to be feared through everything: that is what I call courage, unless you would put it differently.”

“I wouldn't,” he said. “I think you don't consider a correct belief about these same things, if it arises without education, to be lawful in the full sense. An animal or a slave might have it, but you would call it something other than courage.”

“[430c] That's exactly right,” I said.

“Then I accept that this is courage.”

“Accept it as the courage of a citizen,” I said, “and you'll be right. We can examine it more fully another time if you like. Right now we're looking for justice, not courage, and I think we've done enough toward that inquiry.”

“That's right,” he said.

“Two qualities remain for us to find in the [430d] city,” I said. “One is self-control, and the other is the reason for this whole search: justice.”

“Yes.”

“Can we find justice without having to bother about self-control?”

“I don't know,” he said, “and I wouldn't want justice to show itself first if that meant we wouldn't examine self-control. If you want to please me, look at self-control before justice.”

“[430e] I do want to,” I said, “unless it's wrong to do so.”

“Then look,” he said.

“We must,” I said. “From here, self-control looks more like a kind of agreement and harmony than the other two qualities did.”

“How?”

“Self-control is a kind of order and mastery over certain pleasures and desires. People say, somehow, that a person is 'master of himself.' Other expressions like that are used as hints about it, aren't they?”

“They certainly are,” he said.

“But isn't 'master of himself' a funny expression? Whoever is master of himself must also be a slave to himself, and a person who is a slave to himself must also be master of himself. [431a] It's the same person in all these descriptions.”

“Yes.”

“But I think the expression means this: within the person, in the soul, there is a better part and a worse part. When the naturally better part controls the worse, people call that person master of himself, and praise him. But when bad upbringing or bad company lets the stronger, worse part overcome the smaller, better part, people criticize him for it. They call him [431b] a slave to himself and lacking in self-control.”

“That seems to be what it means,” he said.

“Now look at our new city,” I said. “You'll find one of those situations there. You can rightly call it master of itself, if a place where the better part rules the worse part can be called self-controlled and master of itself.”

“I see it,” he said, “and you're right.”

“And you find many different desires, pleasures, and pains, [431c] especially in children, women, household servants, and the great mass of supposedly free people who aren't particularly good.”

“Certainly.”

“But the few desires that are simple and measured, guided by reason and correct belief through reflection, you'll find among a small number of people who have the best natures and the best education.”

“That's true,” he said.

“Don't you see both in your city? [431d] The desires of the many, who aren't particularly good, are controlled by the desires and good judgment of the fewer, better people.”

“I do,” he said.

“So if any city should be called master of its pleasures and desires, and master of itself, this one should.”

“Absolutely,” he said.

“And shouldn't it be called self-controlled for all these reasons?”

“Certainly,” he said.

“[431e] Also, if there is any city in which rulers and ruled share the same belief about who should rule, ours is one. Don't you think so?”

“I certainly do,” he said.

“Then which citizens have self-control when things stand like this: the rulers or the ruled?”

“Both, I suppose,” he said.

“Now do you see that we made a good guess when we said self-control was like a kind of harmony?”

“Why?”

“Because it isn't like courage and wisdom, each of which is found in one part of the city and makes the whole city brave or wise. Self-control runs right through the whole city, [432a] bringing the weakest, the strongest, and those in between into agreement. It doesn't matter whether you rank them by intelligence, strength, numbers, wealth, or anything else of that kind. We would be right to call this agreement self-control: the natural agreement of the worse and better parts about which should rule, both in a city and in each individual.”

“I agree completely,” he said.

“[432b] Well,” I said, “we've now seen three qualities in the city, at least as far as we can tell. What is the remaining quality by which the city shares in goodness? It must clearly be justice.”

“Clearly.”

“Glaucon, now we must surround the thicket like hunters and [432c] watch carefully so justice doesn't escape somewhere and disappear from sight. Obviously it's somewhere around here. Look closely and try to spot it. If you see it before I do, tell me.”

“I wish I could,” he said. “But you'd get better use from me if I follow you and look at what you point out.”

“Follow me, then,” I said, “and pray with me.”

“I will. You just lead,” he said.

“But the place seems hard to cross and full of shade,” I said. “It's dark, at any rate, and hard to search. Still, let's go on.”

“[432d] Let's go on,” he said.

“Then I saw something. 'Aha, Glaucon!' I said. 'I think we may have found a trail. I don't think justice will get away from us now.'”

“That's good news,” he said.

“What fools we've been,” I said.

“How so?”

“All along, my friend, it's been right at our feet from the start, and we didn't see it. We were ridiculous, like people sometimes searching for the thing they're holding in their hands. [432e] We didn't look at it. We looked far away, and perhaps that's why we missed it.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“I mean,” I said, “I think we've been talking about it and hearing about it for a long time without realizing that, in a way, we were talking about this very thing.”

“That's a long introduction for someone who wants to hear the answer,” he said.

“[433a] Then listen and see if I make sense,” I said. “The rule we set from the beginning and applied throughout the founding of the city is, I think, justice, or a form of it. We set down, as you remember, and often said that each person should do the one job in the city for which their nature best fits them.”

“We did.”

“And we've heard many other people say, and often said ourselves, that justice means doing your own work and not taking on other people's business.” [433b]

“We have.”

“Then, my friend, it seems that justice, in a certain sense, is this practice of doing your own work. Do you know what makes me think so?”

“No. Tell me,” he said.

“Of the qualities we've examined in the city—self-control, courage, and wisdom—I think the one left over is what gave all the others the power to come into being and, once they existed, keeps them in place as long as it remains. And we said that justice would be what remained if we found the other three.” [433c]

“It has to be,” he said.

“But if we had to judge which of these qualities would most make our city good, it would be hard to decide. Is it the shared belief of rulers and ruled? Is it the soldiers' preservation of the lawful belief about what should and shouldn't be feared? Is it the wisdom and watchfulness found in the rulers? Or is the decisive thing found in children and women, slaves and free people, workers and rulers and ruled alike: that each person does their own work without meddling in anyone else's?” [433d]

“It would be hard to decide,” he said.

“Then the power that makes each person in the city do their own work seems to compete with its wisdom, self-control, and courage in making the city good.”

“It certainly does,” he said.

“Wouldn't you identify the quality that competes with them in making the city good as justice?” [433e]

“Absolutely.”

“Look at it another way and see if you still agree. Will you put the rulers in charge of judging cases in the city?”

“Of course.”

“Will their chief aim in judging be anything other than making sure people don't take what belongs to others or lose what belongs to themselves?”

“No, that's their aim.”

“Because that's just?”

“Yes.”

“So this is another way we could agree that justice consists in having and doing what is properly your own.” [434a]

“Yes, it is.”

“Now see whether you agree with me here too. Suppose a carpenter tries to do a shoemaker's work or a shoemaker a carpenter's, or they swap tools or positions. Suppose one person tries to do both jobs, or all such occupations get rearranged. Do you think any of that would cause serious harm to the city?”

“Not much,” he said.

“But suppose a worker or some other person [434b] naturally suited to making money is puffed up by wealth, supporters, strength, or something else and tries to join the soldiers. Or suppose a soldier who isn't fit to rule tries to become a counselor and guardian. Suppose they exchange tools and positions, or one person tries to do all these jobs at once. You and I both think these changes and this meddling would ruin the city.”

“Absolutely.”

“[434c] Then when the three groups intrude on one another's work and exchange places, they do the greatest harm to the city. We would be completely right to call it the worst wrongdoing.”

“Exactly.”

“And won't you say that the worst wrongdoing against one's own city is injustice?”

“Of course.”

“So that's injustice. Now let's turn it around. The working class, the helpers, and the guardians each doing their own work in the city: wouldn't this be the opposite, justice, and make the city just?”

“That's how it seems to me,” he said.

“[434d] Let's not say so too firmly yet,” I said. “If we find that this same pattern is justice when applied to individual people, then we'll agree. What else could we say? If it doesn't fit, we'll look for something else. For now, let's finish the investigation we began. We thought that if we first looked for justice in something larger that possessed it, we'd find it more easily in a single person. We chose a city as that larger thing, and we founded the best city we could, knowing that justice would be found in a good city. [434e] Let's apply what we found there to the individual. If it fits, fine. But if something else appears in the individual, we'll go back to the city and test the idea there. [435a] Perhaps by comparing the two and rubbing them together, like fire sticks, we'll make justice flare up. Then, once we see it, we can firmly establish it for ourselves.”

“That's the right way to proceed,” he said. “We should do it.”

“If the same name applies to something large and something small,” I asked, “are they different or alike in the respect for which they share that name?”

“Alike,” he said.

“[435b] Then a just person won't differ from a just city in the very form of justice. They'll be alike.”

“Alike,” he said.

“We decided that the city was just when each of its three natural groups did its own work. And we decided it was self-controlled, courageous, and wise because of certain other conditions and qualities of these same groups.”

“That's true,” he said.

“Then, my friend, we'll expect an individual who [435c] has these same kinds of parts in their soul to deserve the same descriptions as the city, because the parts have the same qualities.”

“We must,” he said.

“But now, my friend, we've stumbled into no small question about the soul: does it have these three kinds of parts or not?”

“I don't think it's a small question,” he said. “Perhaps the saying is true, Socrates, that beautiful things are difficult.”

“So it seems,” I said. “[435d] And believe me, Glaucon, I don't think the methods we're using in this discussion will ever settle it precisely. There's another, longer and more involved path to that answer. Still, we may be able to answer it well enough for what we've said and examined so far.”

“Wouldn't that be enough?” he asked. “It would be enough for me at present.”

“It would be quite enough for me too,” I said.

“Then don't give up,” he said. “Keep looking.”

“[435e] Don't we have to agree,” I said, “that each of us has the same kinds of qualities and ways of behaving that the city has? After all, they didn't get into it from anywhere else. It would be absurd to think that the spirited character of a city doesn't come from its people. People in Thrace, Scythia, and, in general, the lands to our north have that reputation. Or take love of learning, which is especially associated with us—”

### Book IV, 436–442

[436a] Someone might especially blame the place itself, or say that love of money is especially strong among the Phoenicians and the people of Egypt.

“Certainly,” he said.

“That much is clear,” I said, “and not hard to see.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“But this is hard: do we do each of these things with the same part of ourselves, or do we use three parts, a different one for each? Do we learn with one part, get angry with another, and with a third desire the pleasures of food and sex and everything [436b] like them? Or do we act with our whole soul in each case, whenever we set out to do something? These questions will be hard to settle properly.”

“I think so too,” he said.

“Then let’s try to decide this way whether these parts are the same as each other or different.”

“How?”

“Clearly the same thing will not do or undergo opposite things at the same time, in the same respect, and in relation to the same thing. So if we find opposites happening in them, we’ll know we aren’t dealing with one [436c] thing but with more than one.”

“All right.”

“Think about what I mean.”

“Go on,” he said.

“Can the same thing,” I asked, “be still and moving at the same time and in the same respect?”

“Not at all.”

“Let’s agree on this more precisely, so we don’t argue as we go on. Suppose someone said that a man standing still but moving his hands and head is both still and moving at once. I don’t think we’d accept [436d] that way of putting it. We’d say one part of him is still and another is moving. Right?”

“Right.”

“Suppose the person making this claim got even more clever and argued that spinning tops as wholes are both still and moving when they spin with their points fixed in the same place. He might say the same of anything else that rotates around a fixed spot. We wouldn’t accept that these things are still and moving at the same time in the same respect. [436e] Instead, we’d say they have both an upright axis and a circular motion. As far as the upright axis goes, they stand still, since it doesn’t lean in any direction. As far as their rotation goes, they move in a circle. But when the axis tilts right or left or forward or backward while they spin, they aren’t standing still in any respect.”

“And we’d be right,” he said.

“So no such argument will startle us or persuade us that the same thing could ever, at the same time and in the same respect and in relation [437a] to the same thing, undergo, be, or do opposites.”

“It won’t persuade me,” he said.

“Still,” I said, “we don’t want to spend too long going through all such objections and proving them false. Let’s take this principle as given and go forward. We’ll agree that if it ever turns out otherwise, every conclusion we draw from it will be undone.”

“Yes, that’s what we must do,” he said. [437b]

“Would you count saying yes and saying no, wanting to take something and refusing it, drawing something toward yourself and pushing it away, as pairs of opposites? It makes no difference here whether we call them actions or experiences.”

“Yes,” he said, “they’re opposites.”

“Now what about thirst, hunger, and desires generally, as well as wanting and wishing? Wouldn’t you put all these [437c] among the types we just mentioned? Won’t you say that the soul of someone who desires always reaches for the thing it desires, or draws toward itself what it wants to have? And when it wants something provided for it, doesn’t it give its own assent, as though answering a question, because it longs for that thing to happen?”

“Yes.”

“And won’t we put not wishing, not wanting, and not desiring under pushing away and driving off, all the opposites of those actions?” [437d]

“Of course.”

“If that’s so, we’ll say there’s a class of desires, and that what we call thirst and hunger are among the clearest examples of it?”

“We will,” he said.

“One is desire for drink, the other for food?”

“Yes.”

“Now insofar as thirst is thirst, is it a desire in the soul for anything beyond what we’ve said? Is thirst, for instance, thirst for a hot drink or a cold one, for a large drink or a small one, or, in a word, for a drink of some particular kind? Or if heat is added [437e] to the thirst, will that add a desire for something cold, and if cold is added, a desire for something hot? If the thirst is strong because something else makes it so, will it produce a desire for a lot, and if it’s weak, a desire for a little? But thirst itself will never be a desire for anything except what it is naturally for: drink itself. And hunger, in turn, is for food.”

“That’s right,” he said. “Each desire in itself is only for what it naturally seeks. Its desire for a particular kind of thing comes from something added to it.”

[438a] “Let’s not let someone confuse us before we think this through. They might say nobody wants a drink, only a good drink, and nobody wants food, only good food. After all, everyone wants good things, so if thirst is a desire, it must be a desire for a good drink, or for a good whatever else it seeks. They’d say the same about all other desires.”

“The person saying that might sound convincing,” he said.

“But whenever things are related to something,” I said, “things of a particular kind are related to something of a particular kind, [438b] I think. Each thing taken by itself is related only to its object taken by itself.”

“I don’t understand,” he said.

“Don’t you understand that being bigger means being bigger than something?” I asked.

“Certainly.”

“Than something smaller?”

“Yes.”

“And being much bigger means being bigger than something much smaller. Right?”

“Yes.”

“And what was bigger is bigger than what was smaller, while what will be bigger is bigger than what will be smaller?”

“Of course,” he said. [438c]

“And more is related to less, double to half, and so on. Heavier relates to lighter, faster to slower, hotter to colder, and everything similar works the same way, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“What about kinds of knowledge? Isn’t it the same? Knowledge itself is knowledge of a subject itself, or whatever it is that we must say knowledge is of. But a particular kind of knowledge is knowledge of a particular [438d] kind of subject. Here’s what I mean. When there came to be knowledge of making houses, didn’t it differ from other kinds of knowledge and get called building?”

“Of course.”

“Wasn’t that because it was a kind different from all the others?”

“Yes.”

“So it became a particular kind because it was knowledge of a particular kind of thing? And the same goes for the other skills and kinds of knowledge?”

“It does.”

“Then you can see what I meant: things that are related to something are, taken alone, related to their objects taken alone. When they have a particular character, they’re related to objects with a particular character. [438e] I don’t mean that knowledge takes on the qualities of its subject, as if knowledge of healthy and unhealthy things were itself healthy and unhealthy, or knowledge of good and bad things were itself good and bad. Rather, knowledge came to be knowledge not of a subject taken by itself, but of a particular kind of subject: healthy and unhealthy things. So the knowledge itself became a particular kind. That’s why we no longer simply call it knowledge; with its particular subject added, we call it medicine.”

“I understand,” he said, “and I think that’s right.”

[439a] “Then wouldn’t you put thirst among those things that are related to an object? Thirst is, of course, thirst for—”

“Yes,” he said, “for drink.”

“So thirst for a particular kind of drink is itself a particular kind of thirst. But thirst itself is not for a lot or a little, for a good drink or a bad one, or, in short, for a drink of any particular kind. Thirst itself is naturally for drink itself. Right?”

“Absolutely.”

“So the soul of a thirsty person, insofar as it’s thirsty, wants nothing [439b] but to drink. It reaches for drink and moves toward it.”

“Obviously.”

“Then if anything pulls the soul back when it’s thirsty, there must be something in it other than the thirst that drives it toward drink like an animal. For, as we said, the same thing cannot do opposite things at the same time, with the same part of itself, in relation to the same object.”

“No, it can’t.”

“It would be wrong, I think, to say that an archer’s hands both push the bow away and pull it toward him at once. One hand pushes it away, and the other pulls it toward him.” [439c]

“Exactly,” he said.

“Shall we say that some thirsty people sometimes don’t want to drink?”

“Yes,” he said, “many people, often.”

“What should we say about them?” I asked. “Isn’t there something in their souls urging them to drink and another thing preventing them? The one preventing them is different from, and stronger than, the one urging them.”

“That seems right to me,” he said.

“Doesn’t the restraint, when it comes, come from reasoning, [439d] while the forces pushing and pulling come from feelings and bodily conditions?”

“So it seems.”

“Then we have good reason,” I said, “to regard these as two different things. We call the part of the soul with which it reasons the reasoning part. We call the part with which it loves, hungers, thirsts, and gets worked up over other desires the unreasoning, desiring part. It’s attached to gratification and pleasure.” [439e]

“Yes,” he said, “it makes sense to think of them that way.”

“Let’s set these down as two kinds within the soul. But what about the spirited part, with which we get angry? Is it a third kind, or does it share the nature of one of the other two?”

“Perhaps it’s like the desiring part,” he said.

“But I once heard a story that I believe,” I said. “Leontius, the son of Aglaion, was walking up from Piraeus outside the north wall. He noticed bodies lying near the executioner. He wanted to look at them, but at the same time he was disgusted and tried to turn away. For a while he struggled and covered his eyes.

[440a] But his desire got the better of him. He forced his eyes wide open, ran up to the bodies, and said, ‘There you are, you wretches! Have your fill of that lovely sight!’”

“I’ve heard that story too,” he said.

“It shows,” I said, “that anger sometimes fights against desire, as one thing against another.”

“It does,” he said.

“And don’t we notice this in many other cases?” I asked. “When desires [440b] force someone to act against his reasoning, he scolds himself and gets angry with the part inside him that’s forcing him. It’s like a fight between two sides, with his spirit taking reason’s side. But I don’t think you could say you’ve ever noticed your spirit siding with desire when reason decides not to resist it. I don’t think you’ve seen that happen in yourself or anyone else.”

“No, by Zeus,” he said. [440c]

“And when someone thinks he has done wrong? The more decent he is, the less able he is to get angry with a person whom he believes is treating him justly. That holds even if he goes hungry or cold or suffers anything of the sort at that person’s hands. As I say, his spirit refuses to rise against him. Right?”

“True,” he said.

“But when he thinks he’s being wronged, doesn’t his spirit boil with anger and fight for what seems just? Despite hunger, cold, and every such hardship, it holds out and wins. It never gives up its brave efforts until it succeeds or dies, [440d] or until its own reason calls it back and calms it, as a shepherd calls back a dog.”

“Yes, that’s just what it seems like,” he said. “And in our city we made the auxiliaries like dogs, obedient to the rulers as though the rulers were the shepherds of the city.”

“You understand my point well,” I said. “But have you also noticed this?” [440e]

“What?”

“That the spirited part now looks like the opposite of what we thought a moment ago. Then we thought it was something desiring. Now we say it’s far from that. In the soul’s civil war, it’s much more likely to take up arms on the side of reason.”

“Absolutely,” he said.

“So is it different from reason too, or is it a kind of reason? If it’s the latter, the soul has only two kinds, reasoning and desiring, rather than three. But perhaps the soul has a third part, spirit, just as the city was held together by three

[441a] classes: the money-making class, the auxiliaries, and the decision-makers. Spirit is reason’s natural ally, unless bad upbringing corrupts it.”

“It has to be a third part,” he said.

“Yes,” I said, “provided it proves to be distinct from the reasoning part, just as it proved to be distinct from the desiring part.”

“That’s easy to see,” he said. “You can see it in children. They’re full of spirit from birth, but some, it seems to me, never develop reason, and most develop it only [441b] late in life.”

“Yes, by Zeus, well said,” I answered. “You can also see that it’s so in animals. And the passage from Homer we mentioned earlier supports this:

‘He struck his chest and scolded his heart with words.’

Here Homer clearly presents [441c] the part that has worked out what’s better and worse as rebuking a different part, the one that’s angry without reasoning.”

“You’re quite right,” he said.

“Well,” I said, “we’ve made it through this with difficulty, and we’ve agreed fairly well that the city and each person’s soul contain the same kinds of parts, equal in number.”

“That’s so.”

“Then it follows that a person is wise in the same way, and by the same part, as the city was wise.”

“Of course.” [441d]

“And a person is brave in the same way and by the same part as the city is brave. The same will be true of both for all the other virtues.”

“It must be.”

“And I think, Glaucon, we’ll say that a person is just in the same way that the city was just.”

“That too must be so.”

“We haven’t forgotten that the city was just because each of its three classes did its own work.”

“I don’t think we have,” he said.

“Then we must remember that each of us will also be just and do our own work when [441e] each of our inner parts does its own work.”

“Yes,” he said, “we must remember that.”

“Isn’t it right for the reasoning part to rule, since it is wise and looks after the whole soul? And for the spirited part to obey it and support it?”

“Certainly.”

“Then won’t the blend of music and physical training we spoke of bring these two into harmony? It will strengthen and

[442a] nourish the reasoning part with good words and studies. It will relax and soothe the spirited part, making it gentle through melody and rhythm.”

“Exactly,” he said.

“Once these two have been raised in this way, have truly learned their own jobs, and been trained, they’ll take charge of the desiring part. That’s the largest part of each person’s soul and is naturally the most insatiable for money. They’ll watch it so that, as it fills up on what people call bodily pleasures and grows large and strong, [442b] it doesn’t stop doing its own work and try instead to enslave and rule parts it has no right to rule. That would turn the whole of everyone’s life upside down.”

“Exactly,” he said.

“And wouldn’t these two parts also best protect the whole soul and body from enemies outside? One would plan, and the other would fight in the front line, following its ruler and carrying out its decisions with courage.”

“That’s right.”

“And I think we call a person brave on account of this part [442c] when his spirited part keeps hold, through pain and pleasure, of reason’s instructions about what is and isn’t to be feared.”

“That’s right,” he said.

“And we call him wise because of that small part that rules within him and gives these instructions. That part also has knowledge of what benefits each of the three parts and all three together.”

“Exactly.”

“And isn’t he self-controlled because these parts are friendly and agree? That is, the ruling part and the two ruled parts all agree [442d] that reason should rule, and the other two don’t rebel against it.”

“That, in a city or an individual, is exactly what self-control is,” he said.

“And a person will be just in the way we’ve so often described.”

“He must be.”

“Now, has anything happened to blur our view of justice and make it seem different from what we found in the city?” I asked.

“I don’t think so,” he said.

“If any doubt remains in our minds,” I said, “we can settle it completely [442e] by testing it against ordinary cases.”

“What sort of cases?”

“Suppose we had to decide whether that city and a man raised and brought up in the same way as it would steal gold or silver entrusted to him for safekeeping. Who do you think would believe

### Book IV, 443–445

[443a] that such a man would do it, rather than someone who isn’t like him?”

“No one would,” he said.

“So he would also keep clear of robbing temples, stealing, and betraying friends in private or cities in public?”

“Yes, he would.”

“And he would never break faith, whether under oath or under any other agreement.”

“How could he?”

“Adultery, neglecting parents, and failing to honor the gods would be more likely in anyone else than in such a person.”

“In anyone else,” he said. [443b]

“And isn’t the reason for all this that each part within him does its own work, both in ruling and in being ruled?”

“That and nothing else.”

“Are you still looking for justice to be something other than this power that produces people and cities like these?”

“By Zeus, I’m not,” he said.

“Then the dream we spoke of has come completely true. We suspected that, as soon as we began founding the city, some god had led us to a starting point and an outline [443c] of justice.”

“Absolutely.”

“So, Glaucon, the rule that a person suited to shoemaking should make shoes and do nothing else, that a person suited to carpentry should work as a carpenter, and so on, was a kind of image of justice. That’s why it helped us.”

“So it seems.”

“But real justice seems to be something like this. It doesn’t concern doing your own work in outward actions. It concerns what happens [443d] inside you, with yourself and what is truly yours. A just person doesn’t let the parts within him do one another’s jobs or interfere with one another. Instead, he puts his own inner affairs in good order. He rules himself, brings order to himself, and becomes his own friend. He brings the three parts into harmony, just like the three main notes of a musical scale: the lowest, the highest, and the middle. If there are any parts between them, he binds them all together. He becomes [443e] a single person out of many, self-controlled and in tune. Only then does he act, whether the matter is making money, caring for his body, public affairs, or private agreements. In all of these, he calls an action just and good if it preserves and helps produce this inner condition. He calls the knowledge that guides such action wisdom. He calls an action unjust if it keeps breaking down this condition, [444a] and he calls the belief that guides such action ignorance.”

“What you say is entirely true, Socrates,” he said.

“Well,” I said, “if we claim to have found what a just person and a just city are, and what justice is within them, I don’t think anyone could fairly accuse us of lying.”

“No, by Zeus,” he said.

“Shall we claim it, then?”

“We shall.”

“Let’s do that,” I said. “Next, I think, we must examine injustice.”

“Clearly.” [444b]

“Then injustice must be a kind of conflict among these three parts. One part meddles in another’s work and does what doesn’t belong to it. A part that should naturally serve rebels against the whole soul and tries to rule, though another part is naturally fit to rule and not to serve it. Things like that, and the disorder and confusion they cause, are what we’ll call injustice, lack of self-control, cowardice, ignorance, and, in short, every kind of vice.”

“That’s exactly what they are,” he said. [444c]

“Then if we know what justice and injustice are,” I said, “we can also clearly see what it is to act justly or unjustly and to do wrong.”

“How?”

“Because they’re no different from healthy and unhealthy things, except that those affect the body and these affect the soul,” I said.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Healthy things produce health, and unhealthy things produce disease.”

“Yes.”

“So just actions produce justice, [444d] and unjust actions produce injustice?”

“They must.”

“To produce health is to arrange the parts of the body so that they rule and are ruled by one another in the way nature intends. To produce disease is to make them rule and be ruled contrary to nature.”

“That’s right.”

“And likewise,” I said, “to produce justice is to arrange the parts of the soul so that they rule and are ruled by one another in the way nature intends. To produce injustice is to make them rule and be ruled contrary to nature?”

“Exactly,” he said.

“So virtue, it seems, is a kind of health, [444e] beauty, and good condition of the soul. Vice is disease, ugliness, and weakness of the soul.”

“That’s so.”

“And don’t good ways of living lead to virtue, while shameful ones lead to vice?”

“They must.”

“It seems that the question left for us is this:

[445a] Is it profitable to act justly, live well, and be just, whether or not anyone knows you’re just? Or is it profitable to do wrong and be unjust, so long as you aren’t punished or made better by punishment?”

“But Socrates,” he said, “the question now seems ridiculous to me. If the body’s natural condition is ruined, we think life isn’t worth living, even with every kind of food and drink, all wealth, and all power. So are we supposed to think life is worth living when the nature of the very thing by which we live is disturbed and [445b] ruined? Is it worth living if a person does whatever he wants except the one thing that would free him from vice and injustice and give him justice and virtue? After all, we’ve shown what each of these things is like.”

“Yes, it’s ridiculous,” I said. “Still, since we’ve come this far, we shouldn’t give up before seeing as clearly as possible that things really are this way.”

“By Zeus,” he said, “that’s the last thing we should give up on.” [445c]

“Come here, then,” I said, “and you can see how many forms vice has, or at least the ones I think are worth looking at.”

“I’m with you,” he said. “Just tell me.”

“Well,” I said, “now that our discussion has brought us up to this vantage point, it seems to me that virtue has one form, while vice has countless forms. Four of the forms of vice are worth mentioning.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“There seem to be as many types of soul as there are distinct kinds of constitution,” I said.

“How many is that?” [445d]

“Five kinds of constitution,” I said, “and five kinds of soul.”

“Tell me what they are,” he said.

“One kind of constitution,” I said, “is the one we’ve described. It could be given either of two names. If one outstanding man holds power, we could call it kingship. If several do, we could call it aristocracy.”

“True,” he said.

“But I count that as one kind,” I said. “Whether the rulers are many or one, they wouldn’t change any of the city’s important laws, provided they had the upbringing and education we described.”

“They probably wouldn’t,” he said.

### Book V, 449–456

[449a] “So I call a city and constitution like this good and right, and I say the same of a man like this. If this one is right, the others are bad and mistaken, both in the government of cities and in the character formed in individual souls. They fall into four kinds of failure.”

“What kinds?” he asked.

I was about to list them in order, as each seemed [449b] to develop from the one before it. But Polemarchus, who was sitting a little farther from Adeimantus, reached out and caught his cloak high up near the shoulder. He pulled him closer, leaned forward, and whispered something. We heard only this: “Are we going to let him off, or what?”

“Certainly not,” Adeimantus said, now speaking loudly.

“What is it you won't let go?” I asked.

“You,” he said. [449c]

“Why me?” I asked.

“We think you're taking the easy way out,” he said. “You're leaving out a whole part of the argument, and not a small one, so you won't have to explain it. You thought you could slip by with the casual remark that, as everyone knows, friends will share their women and children.”

“But isn't that right, Adeimantus?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “But as with everything else, we need an explanation of what ‘right’ means here. How will they share? There are many possibilities. [449d] Don't leave out the one you mean. We've been waiting for you to say something about having children: how they'll be conceived, how they'll be raised after birth, and the whole arrangement you describe for sharing women and children. We think whether this is done rightly or wrongly makes a very great difference to the whole constitution. Now you're moving to another kind of constitution before explaining these matters enough. So we've decided—as you heard—[450a] not to let you go until you explain all this, as you explained the rest.”

“Count my vote with theirs,” Glaucon said.

“You may take it as a unanimous decision, Socrates,” Thrasymachus said.

“Look what you've done by stopping me,” I said. “You've reopened a huge argument about the constitution, as if we were starting over. I was glad to think I'd finished it and would have been happy if someone accepted what I'd said then. By calling for this discussion [450b] you don't realize what a swarm of arguments you're stirring up. I saw that coming and skipped it earlier so it wouldn't cause so much trouble.”

“What?” said Thrasymachus. “Do you think these people came here to smelt gold, rather than listen to arguments?”

“Yes,” I said, “but arguments of a reasonable length.”

“For sensible people, Socrates,” said Glaucon, “a whole lifetime is a reasonable length for hearing arguments like these. Don't worry about us. Don't tire of answering our questions. Tell us what you think the guardians' sharing of women and children will mean, and how children will be raised [450c] while still young, in the time between birth and education. That seems to be the most difficult period. Try to explain how it ought to work.”

“It isn't easy, my friend,” I said. “It raises even more doubts than the matters we've already discussed. People may doubt that these proposals are possible. And even if they could be put into practice, people would also doubt that they would be best. [450d] That's why I'm reluctant to take this up. I'm afraid the argument will sound like wishful thinking, my dear friend.”

“Don't hesitate,” he said. “Your audience isn't foolish, skeptical, or hostile.”

“My good friend,” I said, “are you saying that to encourage me?”

“I am,” he said.

“Then you're doing exactly the opposite,” I said. “If I were sure I knew what I was talking about, that comfort would help. It's safe and encouraging to speak what you know is true among sensible friends about subjects that matter greatly to you. [450e] But it's frightening and dangerous to make arguments while still unsure and searching, as [451a] I'm doing now. I'm not afraid of being laughed at—that would be childish. I'm afraid that if I miss the truth, I'll fall and pull my friends down with me over matters where mistakes matter most. I bow to Adrasteia, Glaucon, for what I'm about to say. I hope it's a lesser offense to kill someone unintentionally than to deceive people about what is good, fine, and just in our laws. That risk would be better taken among enemies than [451b] among friends. So much for your encouragement!”

Glaucon laughed. “Socrates,” he said, “if your argument does us any harm, we release you from responsibility, as we would from a charge of murder. You'll be innocent, not a deceiver of us. So take courage and speak.”

“But someone who has been acquitted of murder is innocent there too, according to the law,” I said. “If that's true there, it should be true here.”

“On that basis, go ahead,” he said.

“Then I must go back now,” I said, “and say what perhaps should have come next before. [451c] But maybe it's right to finish the women's drama after completing the men's drama, especially since you've called on me to do it. In my opinion, people with the nature and upbringing we've described have no other right way to possess and employ women and children than to follow the course we set at the start. We tried in our argument to make the men guardians of a herd.”

“Yes.” [451d]

“Then let's carry through a similar approach to their breeding and upbringing and see whether it suits us.”

“How?” he asked.

“Like this. Do we think the female watchdogs should guard the same things as the males, hunt alongside them, and do everything else together? Or should the females stay inside the house, unable to do the work because they bear and feed puppies, while the males work and take all responsibility for the flocks?” [451e]

“They should do everything together,” he said. “But we use the females as the weaker animals and the males as the stronger.”

“Can you use any animal for the same work,” I asked, “without giving it the same feeding and training?”

“No.”

“So if women are to do the same work as men, we must teach them the same things.”

[452a] “Yes.”

“And the men were given training in music and physical exercise.”

“Yes.”

“So women must have these two kinds of training, as well as training for war, and must be employed in the same way.”

“That follows from what you say,” he said.

“Perhaps,” I said, “if we do what we're proposing, much of it will look ridiculous because it goes against custom.”

“It certainly will,” he said.

“What looks most ridiculous to you?” I asked. “Clearly it's women exercising naked in the training grounds with [452b] the men. And not just young women, but older ones too, like old men at the gym who love exercising even when they're wrinkled and no longer pleasant to look at.”

“By Zeus,” he said, “that would look ridiculous, at least by present standards.”

“But since we've begun this discussion,” I said, “we mustn't fear the jokes witty people will make about such a change, whether in physical [452c] training, music, or, most of all, the handling of weapons and the riding of horses.”

“You're right,” he said.

“Now that we've started, we must tackle the hardest part of this law. We must ask these people to be serious rather than make jokes, and remind them that it wasn't long ago that Greeks thought it shameful and ridiculous to see naked men, as most non-Greeks still do. When the Cretans first began exercising naked, followed by the Spartans, [452d] the clever people of that day were free to mock all of it. Don't you think so?”

“Yes.”

“But when experience showed that undressing was better than covering up for these activities, reason revealed what was best and the apparent absurdity disappeared. That showed that a person is foolish to find anything funny except what is bad. Anyone who tries to make people laugh at something other than the sight of foolishness [452e] and badness is also taking something other than goodness as the standard for what is beautiful and worth taking seriously.”

“Absolutely,” he said.

“Then shouldn't we first agree to ask whether these proposals are possible? Let's allow anyone, whether joking or serious, to dispute whether [453a] female human nature can share all the work of males, none of it, or some work but not the rest. And which kind of work does warfare belong to? Isn't that the best way to begin, and most likely to lead us to the best conclusion?”

“Very much so,” he said.

“Then would you like us to argue against ourselves on behalf of the others,” I asked, “so their side isn't attacked with no one there to defend it?” [453b]

“There's nothing to stop us,” he said.

“Let's say on their behalf: ‘Socrates and Glaucon, you don't need others to challenge you. When you first established your city, you yourselves agreed that each person should do the one job naturally suited to them.’”

“We agreed to that, I think. How could we not?”

“‘Isn't a woman by nature very different from a man?’”

“Of course she is.”

“‘Then shouldn't each be assigned a different job [453c] suited to their different nature?’”

“Yes.”

“‘Then aren't you now contradicting yourselves when you say men and women should do the same jobs, although their natures differ so much? What can you say in your defense, my remarkable friend?’”

“It's not easy to answer on the spot,” he said. “But I ask you—I'm asking you now—to explain the argument for our side, whatever it is.”

“These are the problems, Glaucon,” I said, “and there are many more like them. I saw them coming long ago, [453d] and that's why I was afraid to take up the law about the possession and upbringing of women and children.”

“By Zeus,” he said, “it certainly doesn't seem easy.”

“No,” I said. “But whether someone falls into a small pool or into the middle of the greatest sea, they still have to swim.”

“Certainly.”

“Then we too must swim and try to save ourselves from this argument. Perhaps a dolphin will carry us, or some other unlikely rescue will come along.” [453e]

“So it seems,” he said.

“Let's see if we can find a way out,” I said. “We agree that different natures should have different occupations, and that a woman's nature differs from a man's. Yet we now say those different natures should have the same occupations. Is that the charge against us?”

“Exactly.”

[454a] “What great power the art of contradiction has, Glaucon!” I said.

“Why?”

“Because many people seem to fall into it without knowing it,” I said. “They think they're having a real discussion when they're merely quarreling. They cannot examine what's said by separating it into its kinds. Instead, they chase a contradiction in the words themselves. They argue with each other rather than talk things through.”

“That happens to many people,” he said. “But is that what we're doing now?” [454b]

“Yes, entirely,” I said. “It looks as if we've stumbled into verbal quarreling ourselves.”

“How?”

“We insist boldly and combatively on the phrase ‘different natures must have different occupations.’ But we never looked at what kind of sameness or difference in nature we meant, or what it was relevant to, when we assigned different jobs to different natures and the same jobs to the same nature.”

“No,” he said, “we didn't examine that.” [454c]

“So we could ask ourselves whether bald people have the same nature as people with hair or the opposite nature. Once we agree they're opposites, we could forbid people with hair to make shoes if bald people make them, and forbid bald people if people with hair make them.”

“That would be ridiculous,” he said.

“Isn't it ridiculous,” I said, “because when we laid down the rule, we didn't mean nature's sameness or difference in every respect? We only meant kinds of similarity and difference [454d] relevant to the jobs themselves. For instance, we said a man and a woman with minds suited to medicine have the same nature in that respect. Don't you think so?”

“Yes.”

“But someone suited to medicine and someone suited to carpentry have different natures?”

“Surely.”

“Then if the male and female sexes prove to differ in their fitness for any craft or other occupation, we'll assign that work accordingly. But if they differ only in this—that females give birth [454e] and males impregnate them—we won't yet have shown that a woman differs from a man in the way relevant to our argument. We'll still think our guardians and their women should have the same occupations.”

“And rightly so,” he said.

“Next, we'll ask our opponent [455a] to teach us exactly what craft or work connected with governing a city women and men have different natures for.”

“That would be fair.”

“Someone else might say what you said a moment ago: it's not easy to give an adequate answer right away, but after looking into it, it's not difficult.”

“Yes, someone might say that.”

“Then shall we ask this opponent to follow along [455b] while we try to show that no occupation involved in running a city belongs uniquely to women?”

“Certainly.”

“‘Come on, then,’ we'll say to him, ‘answer this. When you called one person naturally suited to a subject and another unsuited, did you mean that one learns it easily and the other with difficulty? That after a little teaching, one can discover a great deal about what was taught, while the other can't even retain what they learned after much teaching and practice? That one's body adequately serves their mind, while [455c] the other's body hinders it? Were these the criteria you used to distinguish someone naturally suited to each task from someone unsuited, or were there others?’”

“No one will name others,” he said.

“Do you know any human activity where men as a class don't have all these advantages over women as a class? Must we spend time discussing weaving and the making of cakes and cooked food? Those are the things women are thought good at, [455d] and it would be especially laughable if they were beaten at them.”

“You're right,” he said. “One sex generally outdoes the other in just about everything. Still, many women are better than many men at many things. But in general it's as you say.”

“So, my friend, there is no job in governing a city that belongs to a woman because she's a woman, or to a man because he's a man. Natural abilities are distributed among both sexes. By nature a woman can share in every occupation, [455e] and a man can too, though women are weaker than men in all of them.”

“Yes.”

“Then shall we assign every task to men and none to women?”

“How could we?”

“Rather, as we'll say, some women are naturally suited to medicine and others aren't. Some are musical and others aren't.”

“Of course.”

[456a] “And aren't some suited to physical training and war, while others have no taste for exercise or for war?”

“I think so.”

“And some love wisdom, while others hate it? Some are spirited, others not?”

“Yes, that too.”

“Then some women are suited to being guardians, and others aren't. Isn't that just the nature we selected in the men who would be guardians?”

“It is.”

“So women and men have the same sort of nature when it comes to guarding a city, except that one sex is weaker and the other stronger.”

“So it appears.” [456b]

“Then women of that kind must be chosen to live with men of that kind and guard alongside them. They're capable of doing so and share their nature.”

“Certainly.”

“And shouldn't we assign the same work to the same natures?”

“Yes.”

“So we've come around to where we began. We agree it isn't against nature to give the guardians' women training in music and physical exercise.”

“Not at all.”

“Then we haven't laid down impossible laws or mere wishes, [456c] since our law fits nature. Rather, the present practice contrary to it seems to be more against nature.”

“So it seems.”

“Wasn't our question whether our proposals were possible and best?”

“Yes.”

“And we've agreed they are possible?”

“Yes.”

“Next we must agree whether they're best?”

“Clearly.”

“To make a woman a guardian, then, surely we won't use one education for men and another for women, [456d] especially when it is the same nature we're educating?”

“No, we won't.”

“What's your opinion about this?”

“About what?”

“Do you think one man is better than another, or do you consider them all alike?”

“Certainly not all alike.”

“In the city we're founding, which men do you think we've made better: the guardians who receive the education we've described, or the shoemakers trained in shoemaking?”

“That's a ridiculous question,” he said.

“I see,” I said. “Aren't the guardians the best [456e] of all the citizens?”

“By far.”

“And won't these women be the best of all the women?”

“By far, they will,” he said.

“Is there anything better for a city than to have the best possible women and men?”

“No.”

“And will the training in music and physical exercise, as

### Book V, 457–464

[457a] we have described them, produce this result?”

“How could they not?”

“So the law we set down is not only possible but best for the city.”

“Yes.”

“Then the guardians' women must take off their clothes for exercise. They'll wear excellence instead of clothing. They must join in war and in the rest of the work of guarding the city, and do no other work. In these duties, we should give the women lighter tasks than the men because their sex is weaker. [457b] But a man who laughs at women exercising naked for the best purpose is picking an unripe fruit from his cleverness about what is ridiculous. Apparently, he doesn't know what he's laughing at or what he's doing. For the finest saying is, and always will be, that what is useful is beautiful, and what is harmful is ugly.”

“Absolutely,” he said.

“So, in discussing the law about women, we might say we've escaped one wave without being completely overwhelmed. We established that our male and female guardians must do all their work together. [457c] And the argument itself agrees, at least to some extent, that this is possible and useful.”

“It's no small wave you've escaped,” he said.

“You'll say it isn't large,” I said, “when you see the next one.”

“Tell me about it so I can see,” he said.

“I think this next law follows from that one and the other laws we established earlier,” I said.

“What law?”

“All these women must be shared among all these men. None must live privately with any one man. [457d] The children must be shared too. No parent must know their own child, and no child their parent.”

“That's much harder to believe than the other law,” he said, “both as to whether it's possible and whether it's useful.”

“I don't think anyone would dispute its usefulness,” I said. “If it can be done, sharing women and children would be an enormous good. But I think there would be a great deal of dispute about whether it can be done.” [457e]

“People could easily dispute both,” he said.

“So I've got two arguments to fight,” I said. “I thought I could escape one of them if you agreed it was useful. Then only the question of whether it was possible would remain.”

“You didn't slip away unnoticed,” he said. “Give an account of both.”

“I must accept the penalty,” I said. “But grant me this much: let me enjoy a little holiday. Idle people often treat themselves to daydreams when they're walking alone. [458a] Before they find a way to get what they want, they put that question aside so they won't have to work out whether it's possible. They assume they have it already, plan everything else, and happily rehearse what they'll do once they get it. That makes an already idle mind even idler. I'm growing soft myself now. [458b] I want to put off the question of whether these proposals are possible and look into it later. For now I'll assume they are possible. If you'll permit me, I'll examine how the rulers would arrange things if they could. I'll also show that the arrangement, if carried out, would benefit the city and the guardians more than anything else. I'll try to examine these points with you first and the other question later, if you'll allow it.”

“I'll allow it,” he said. “Go on.”

“Well,” I said, “if the rulers are worthy [458c] of the name, and their assistants are too, I think the assistants will be willing to do as they're told. The rulers will give orders, sometimes obeying the laws themselves, and sometimes following their example in matters we leave to them.”

“That's likely,” he said.

“Then you, as their lawgiver,” I said, “will select women as you've selected men, and give them partners whose natures are as similar as possible. They will have common homes and common dining halls, and no one will own anything of that sort privately. [458d] They'll live together. As they mix in the training grounds and in all the rest of their upbringing, I think their inborn urges will necessarily draw them into sexual relations with each other. Doesn't that seem inevitable to you?”

“Not by the rules of geometry,” he said, “but by the force of desire, which is likely to be stronger at persuading and drawing most people.”

“Yes,” I said. “But after that, Glaucon, the rulers will not permit them to have sex without rules, or do anything else at random. That would not be right [458e] in a happy city.”

“It wouldn't be just,” he said.

“Clearly, then, we must make marriages as sacred as we can. The most useful marriages would be sacred ones.”

“Certainly.”

[459a] “How will they be most useful? Tell me, Glaucon. I see quite a few hunting dogs and fine-bred birds at your home. By Zeus, have you paid any attention to their mating and breeding?”

“What about it?” he asked.

“First, even though they're all well-bred, aren't some better than the others?”

“Yes.”

“Do you breed equally from all of them, or do you make every effort to breed from the best?”

“From the best.” [459b]

“And from the youngest, the oldest, or those in their prime?”

“Those in their prime.”

“And if you don't breed them this way, you expect the birds and dogs to get much worse?”

“Yes,” he said.

“What about horses and other animals?” I asked. “Is it different with them?”

“That would be strange,” he said.

“Good heavens, my dear friend,” I said, “our rulers will need to be exceptionally skilled, if the same holds true of the human race.” [459c]

“It does,” he said. “But what are you getting at?”

“They'll have to use a lot of remedies,” I said. “We think an ordinary doctor will do when a body needs no medicine and the patient is willing to follow a healthy diet. But when medicine is needed, we know it calls for a bolder doctor.”

“True. But why do you say that?”

“Because,” I said, “our rulers will probably have to use a good deal of falsehood and deception for the benefit [459d] of the people they rule. We said, I believe, that all such things were useful as a kind of medicine.”

“And rightly so,” he said.

“Then that principle seems especially relevant to marriage and having children.”

“How?”

“On the basis of what we've agreed,” I said, “the best men must mate with the best women as often as possible, and the worst men with the worst women as seldom as possible. The children of the first group must be raised, [459e] and those of the second must not, if our herd is to be as good as possible. And all this must be kept secret from everyone except the rulers, if the group of guardians is to remain as free of conflict as possible.”

“Quite right,” he said.

“So we must establish festivals at which we bring brides and bridegrooms together, with sacrifices too. Our poets must compose hymns [460a] appropriate to the marriages being celebrated. We'll leave the number of marriages to the rulers. They must keep the population as steady as possible, taking account of wars, disease, and everything of that sort. As far as possible, our city must grow neither too large nor too small.”

“Right,” he said.

“And we must arrange some clever lotteries, I think. Then each man who doesn't do well can blame chance for his pairing, rather than the rulers.”

“Certainly,” he said. [460b]

“And young men who perform well in war or elsewhere should receive honors and other prizes, including more frequent opportunities to sleep with the women. That also gives us a reason to have as many children as possible fathered by such men.”

“Right.”

“Then the officials appointed for this task, whether they're men, women, or both—for surely women and men will both hold office—must take charge of every child that's born.”

“Yes.” [460c]

“They'll take the children of the better parents, I think, to a nursery where nurses live separately in a part of the city. But they'll hide away the children of the worse parents, and any children of the others born with a disability, in a secret and unseen place, as is fitting.”

“Yes,” he said, “if the guardians' stock is to stay pure.”

“They'll also look after feeding the infants. When the mothers' breasts are full, they'll bring them to the nursery and make every effort to ensure that no mother knows her own child. [460d] They'll find other women with milk if the mothers can't provide enough, and make sure that no mother nurses for too long. They'll give the night watches and the rest of the work to wet nurses and caregivers.”

“You're making childbirth very easy for the guardians' women,” he said.

“As it should be,” I said. “Let's turn to the next question we set ourselves. We said children should be born to parents in their prime.”

“True.” [460e]

“Do you agree that a suitable span for a woman's prime is twenty years and for a man's thirty?”

“What years do you mean?” he asked.

“A woman should bear children for the city from the age of twenty until forty,” I said. “A man should father children for the city after his fastest running years are behind him, from then until the age of fifty-five.”

[461a] “Those are the years when both are at their best in body and judgment,” he said.

“Then if anyone older or younger than these ages takes part in breeding for the community, we'll call it an offense against both religion and justice. Such a person is fathering a child for the city who, if born without anyone knowing, will come into the world without the sacrifices or prayers offered at every marriage by priestesses, priests, and the whole city. They pray that the children born of good parents will be better, and those born of useful parents [461b] more useful still. Instead, the child will have been conceived in secrecy and without restraint.”

“Right,” he said.

“The same law applies,” I said, “if a man still of breeding age has sex with a woman of the right age without a ruler bringing them together. We'll say he's giving the city an illegitimate, unapproved, and unhallowed child.”

“Quite right,” he said.

“But once the women and men have passed the age for having children, I suppose we'll leave them free to have sex [461c] with anyone they wish, except a man may not do so with a daughter, a mother, a daughter's daughter, or a female ancestor above his mother. A woman may not do so with a son, a father, or their descendants and ancestors. Even then we'll instruct them all, above all, not to bring any pregnancy to birth, if they can help it. If a child is born despite their efforts, they must understand that it cannot be raised.”

“That sounds reasonable,” he said. “But how will fathers [461d] and daughters, and the other relatives you just mentioned, recognize each other?”

“They won't,” I said. “Starting from the day a man becomes a bridegroom, he'll call every male child born between the seventh and tenth months afterward his son and every female child his daughter. They'll call him father. Likewise, he'll call their children grandchildren, and they'll call the older generation grandfathers and grandmothers. All those born during the period when their mothers and fathers were producing children [461e] will call each other brothers and sisters, so they won't have sex with each other, as we said. But the law will allow brothers and sisters to live together as partners if the lottery chooses them and the Pythian priestess approves.”

“Quite right,” he said.

“So that, Glaucon, is the way the guardians of your city will share women and children. Next we must use argument to establish that this arrangement fits the rest of our constitution and is by far the best. Shall we proceed that way?”

[462a] “By Zeus, yes,” he said.

“Then shouldn't we begin by asking ourselves what the greatest good for a city is? That's what a lawgiver should aim at in making laws. We should also ask what its greatest evil is. Then we can consider whether the arrangement we've just described leads toward the good and away from the evil.”

“That's exactly right,” he said.

“Can anything be a greater evil for a city than what pulls it apart and makes it many cities instead of one? Can anything be a greater good than what binds it together and makes it one?” [462b]

“No.”

“Doesn't shared pleasure and pain bind it together, when all the citizens feel joy and sorrow in much the same way over the same things being gained and lost?”

“Certainly,” he said.

“And doesn't keeping these feelings private pull it apart, when some people are overcome by grief and others by joy over the very same events in the city and among its people?” [462c]

“Of course.”

“Doesn't that happen when the people of a city don't say ‘mine’ and ‘not mine’ about the same things at the same time? And the same goes for what belongs to others.”

“Exactly.”

“So the best-run city is the one where the largest number of people agree about what they call ‘mine’ and ‘not mine’?”

“By far.”

“And isn't it most like a single human being? When one of us hurts a finger, for instance, the whole body is organized with the soul under one governing power. It all senses the hurt [462d] and shares in the pain of the one injured part. That's why we say the person has a sore finger. The same applies to every other part of the person, whether a part suffers pain or gets relief and feels pleasure.”

“Yes,” he said. “And to answer your question, the best-governed city is the one most like that.”

“So when anything good or bad happens to one citizen, that city will above all say that the experience is its own. The whole city will share either the pleasure or the pain.” [462e]

“A well-governed city must do so,” he said.

“It's time for us to go back to our own city,” I said, “and see whether the points we've agreed on apply most of all to it, or more to some other city.”

“Yes, we must,” he said.

[463a] “Well, aren't there rulers and ordinary people in other cities, just as there are in ours?”

“Yes.”

“And all of them will call each other citizens?”

“Of course.”

“But apart from ‘citizens,’ what do ordinary people in other cities call their rulers?”

“In most cities, ‘masters.’ In democracies, they call them by that very name, ‘rulers.’”

“What about ordinary people in our city? Besides ‘citizens,’ what do they call their rulers?” [463b]

“Protectors and defenders,” he said.

“And what do the rulers call the ordinary people?”

“Those who pay their wages and provide their food.”

“And what do rulers in other cities call the ordinary people?”

“Servants,” he said.

“What do rulers there call one another?”

“Fellow rulers,” he said.

“And ours?”

“Fellow guardians.”

“Can you tell me whether a ruler in another city might think of one fellow ruler as family and another as a stranger, and address them accordingly?”

“Many do.”

“And doesn't such a ruler regard and describe one of them as belonging to him, and the other as not belonging to him?” [463c]

“Yes.”

“What about your guardians? Could any of them regard a fellow guardian as a stranger, or address one that way?”

“Not at all,” he said. “Whoever a guardian meets, he'll think of that person as a brother, sister, father, mother, son, daughter, or one of their descendants or ancestors.”

“That's an excellent answer,” I said. “But tell me this too: will you give them only family names, [463d] or will you require them to act in every way those names call for? With fathers, for example, custom requires respect, care, and obedience to parents. They'll be taught that doing otherwise isn't good in the sight of gods or human beings, since it would be neither holy nor just. Will all the citizens keep telling children these things about the people identified as their fathers and their other relatives? Or will they teach them something different?” [463e]

“These things,” he said. “It would be absurd if they used family names without acting on them.”

“So in this city, more than in any other, everyone will say together, when one person does well or badly, the words we used a moment ago: ‘What is mine is doing well,’ or ‘What is mine is doing badly.’”

“That's entirely true,” he said.

[464a] “And didn't we say that sharing this belief and these words brings pleasure and pain shared by all?”

“We were right to say it.”

“So our citizens will share most fully in what each calls ‘mine.’ And by sharing this, they'll have the fullest possible sharing of pain and pleasure.”

“Yes, by far.”

“Does this come about, along with the rest of our arrangements, because the guardians share women and children?”

“More than anything else,” he said. [464b]

“But we agreed that this was the greatest good for a city. We compared a well-run city to a body in the way it feels pleasure and pain when one part is affected.”

“And we were right to agree,” he said.

“So we've found that sharing children and women among the city's defenders is the source of its greatest good.”

“Yes, indeed,” he said.

“And this agrees with our earlier conclusions. We said they must have no private houses, land, [464c] or other property. They must get their food from the other citizens as pay for guarding them, and they must all use it in common, if they're to be true guardians.”

“Right,” he said.

“So isn't this what I'm saying? What we said earlier, together with what we're saying now, makes them even more truly guardians. It stops them from splitting the city apart by calling different things ‘mine.’ Otherwise, one would take everything he could get for his own household, apart from the others, [464d] while another did the same for a different household. Each would have his own wife and children, giving rise to private pleasures and pains because they were his alone. Instead, all our guardians will agree on what's theirs. They'll aim at the same thing and share pain and pleasure as much as possible.”

“Exactly,” he said.

“And won't lawsuits and accusations against each other almost disappear? They own nothing privately but their bodies, while everything else is shared. [464e] That leaves them free of the conflicts that people have over money, children, and relatives.”

“They're bound to be free of those,” he said.

“And there's no good reason for lawsuits among them over violence or assault, either. We'll say it's fine and right for people of the same age to defend themselves against each other, making it necessary for them to keep their bodies fit.”

“Right,” he said.

### Book V, 465–472

[465a] “This law is right for another reason too,” I said. “If one person gets angry with another, satisfying that anger in this way will make him less likely to start a more serious fight.”

“Certainly.”

“And every older person will have the authority to direct and punish anyone younger.”

“Obviously.”

“And a younger person won't try to force an older person to do anything, or strike one, unless the rulers order it. That seems likely. I don't think he'll show disrespect in any other way either. Two strong guards will stop him: fear and respect. Respect will keep him from laying hands on someone he regards as a [465b] parent. Fear will remind him that if he harms someone, others will come to that person's aid: some as sons, some as brothers, and some as fathers.”

“That follows,” he said.

“So the laws will keep the men at peace with one another in every respect?”

“At considerable peace.”

“And if these men don't quarrel among themselves, there's no real danger that the rest of the city will split against them or against one another.”

“No, there isn't.”

“I hesitate [465c] even to mention the smallest troubles they would avoid, since they are so unworthy of discussion: poor people flattering the rich; the need and hardship people face while raising children and earning money to support their servants; borrowing some money, denying they owe other amounts, and somehow getting still more, then putting it in the hands of their wives and servants to manage. You know, my friend, all the troubles people go through over such matters. They're obvious, undignified, and hardly worth talking about. [465d]”

“Obvious even to a blind person,” he said.

“They'll be free of all these troubles. They'll live a life happier than the one people praise Olympic victors for living.”

“How?”

“Olympic victors are considered happy because they have a small part of what our guardians will have. The guardians' victory is greater, and the support they receive from public funds is more complete. Their victory preserves the whole city. Both they and their children get food and everything else they need to live. They receive honors [465e] from their city while alive, and after death they receive a fitting burial.”

“Those are fine rewards indeed,” he said.

“Do you remember,” I said, “that earlier someone—I forget who—criticized us for not making the guardians happy?

[466a] He said they could have everything the citizens owned, but would own nothing. We replied that we would look at that question later if it came up. For now, we were making guardians into guardians and making the city as happy as we could. We weren't focusing on a single group in the city and making just that group happy. Remember?”

“I remember,” he said.

“So now that the auxiliaries' life appears far better and finer than the life of Olympic victors, does it resemble the life of shoemakers [466b] or other craftspeople, or that of farmers?”

“I don't think so,” he said.

“Still, I should repeat what I said then. Suppose a guardian tries to become happy in a way that means he is no longer a guardian. Suppose the moderate, secure life we say is best won't satisfy him. Instead, a foolish, childish idea of happiness takes hold of him and drives him [466c] to use his power to claim everything in the city as his own. Then he'll understand that Hesiod was truly wise when he said that half is, in a way, more than the whole.”

“If he takes my advice,” he said, “he'll stick with this life.”

“Then you agree,” I said, “to the partnership between women and men that we've described? They will share education, children, and the work of guarding the other citizens. Whether they stay in the city or go to war, women must guard and [466d] hunt alongside men, like female dogs alongside males. They must share everything as far as possible. Doing this will be best, and it won't go against the natural relationship between female and male, which allows them to share these activities.”

“I agree,” he said.

“What remains,” I said, “is to decide whether people can actually have this partnership, as other animals can, and if so, how.”

“You've just anticipated the question I was about to ask,” he said. [466e]

“As for warfare,” I said, “I think it's clear how they'll fight.”

“How?” he asked.

“They'll go to war together. They'll also bring along the children old enough to manage it, so that, like the children of other craftspeople, they can watch the work they'll have to do when they grow up.

[467a] Besides watching, they'll help and assist in everything connected with war and look after their fathers and mothers. Haven't you noticed what happens in the crafts? Potters' children, for instance, spend a long time helping and watching before they begin making pots themselves.”

“Of course.”

“Should those people take greater care to teach their children through experience and observation than the guardians take to teach theirs?”

“That would be absurd,” he said.

“Besides, every animal fights especially hard [467b] when its offspring are present.”

“That's true. But there's a serious risk, Socrates. If the guardians suffer a defeat, as often happens in war, and lose their children as well as themselves, the rest of the city may be unable to recover.”

“You're right,” I said. “But do you think our first duty is to prepare for a life that never involves any risk?”

“Not at all.”

“Then, if we must take a risk, shouldn't it be for something that will make them better if they succeed?”

“Clearly. [467c]”

“Do you think that watching warfare makes so little difference to children who will become fighters that it isn't worth the risk?”

“No. It makes a difference for the reason you gave.”

“Then we should begin by letting the children watch the fighting, while devising ways to keep them safe. That would be good, wouldn't it?”

“Yes.”

“First,” I said, “their fathers will be as capable as people can be of judging [467d] which campaigns are dangerous and which aren't. They won't be ignorant.”

“That's likely,” he said.

“They'll take the children on some campaigns and keep them away from others.”

“Right.”

“And the people they put in charge of the children won't be the least capable ones. They'll be people whose age and experience qualify them to lead and teach.”

“That makes sense.”

“But we'll say that many people have faced unexpected events.”

“Certainly.”

“So, my friend, we must give children wings from the start, so they can fly away if they need to. [467e]”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“We must put them on horseback while they're still very young. Once they've learned to ride, we'll take them to watch on horseback. Their horses should not be spirited or eager to fight, but as fast and easy to control as possible. This will give the children the best view of their future work. And if necessary, they'll be safest escaping by following their older leaders.”

“I think you're right,” he said.

[468a] “Now, what about conduct in war?” I asked. “How should the soldiers treat one another and their enemies? Does my view seem right to you?”

“Tell me what it is,” he said.

“If one of them deserts his post, throws away his weapons, or does something of that kind out of cowardice, shouldn't he be made a craftsman or a farmer?”

“Certainly.”

“And if one is captured alive by the enemy, shouldn't we give him to his captors as a gift, to do as they please with their catch? [468b]”

“Yes, indeed.”

“What about a soldier who fights exceptionally well and earns a good reputation? On the campaign, shouldn't each of the young men and children fighting alongside him take a turn crowning him? Or don't you think so?”

“I do.”

“And shake his hand?”

“That too.”

“But perhaps you won't agree with my next suggestion,” I said.

“What's that?”

“That each of them should kiss him and be kissed by him.”

“I agree most of all with that,” he said. “I'll even add this to the law: [468c] for as long as they're on that campaign, no one may refuse a kiss from anyone the brave soldier wants to kiss. If he happens to be in love with someone, male or female, it will make him all the keener to earn honors for bravery.”

“Good,” I said. “We've already said that a good guardian will have more opportunities to marry than others and will be chosen for this more often, so that he can have as many children as possible.”

“Yes, we have,” he said.

“And Homer, too, gives us reason to honor young people who show such courage. Homer said that Ajax, after distinguishing himself in war, was honored ‘with the long cuts of the back.’ He considered that a fitting honor for a strong young man. It increases his strength [468d] while rewarding him.”

“Exactly right,” he said.

“Then we'll follow Homer in this, at least,” I said. “At sacrifices and all similar occasions, we'll honor brave men and women according to their achievements. We'll give them songs of praise and the honors we've just mentioned, as well as seats of honor, cuts of meat, [468e] and extra cups of drink. In this way, while we honor them, we'll also help them build their strength.”

“That's an excellent suggestion,” he said.

“Now, if someone dies on a campaign after winning a good reputation, shouldn't we first say that he belongs to the golden race?”

“Absolutely.”

“And shouldn't we accept what Hesiod says happens when people of that race die? He says:

[469a] ‘They become pure spirits who live on earth,
good protectors from harm, guardians of mortal people.’”

“Yes, we should.”

“We'll ask the god how we should bury these divine, godlike people and what distinction to give them. Then we'll bury them in the way he directs.”

“Of course.”

“And from that point on we'll tend and revere their tombs as those of spirits. [469b] We'll do the same for anyone who dies of old age or another cause, if that person was judged exceptionally good during life.”

“That would certainly be right,” he said.

“Now, how will our soldiers treat their enemies?”

“In what respect?”

“First, enslavement. Do you think it's right for Greeks to enslave Greek cities? Or should we do all we can to prevent others from doing so, and make it customary to spare the Greek people, because of the danger that non-Greeks will enslave them? [469c]”

“It's far better to spare them in every way,” he said.

“So our people should own no Greek slaves themselves, and should advise other Greeks to follow that rule?”

“Certainly,” he said. “That way they'd turn their attention toward the non-Greeks, and leave one another alone.”

“Next,” I said, “after a victory, is it right to strip the dead of anything besides their weapons? Doesn't it give cowards an excuse not to confront living fighters? They can pretend to be doing something necessary while they bend over a dead body. Many armies have already been ruined by looting like that. [469d]”

“They have indeed.”

“Isn't it mean and greedy to rob a dead body? And isn't it petty and foolish to regard the dead person's body as the enemy? The enemy has flown away and left behind the thing he used to fight with. How is that different [469e] from dogs that get angry with the stones thrown at them but don't go after the person who threw them?”

“Not different at all,” he said.

“Then we must stop stripping the dead and obstructing the recovery of their bodies.”

“We certainly must, by Zeus,” he said.

“Nor should we bring weapons into temples as offerings, especially weapons taken from Greeks, if we care at all [470a] about goodwill between Greeks. In fact, we should be afraid that bringing such things into a sanctuary from our own people would pollute it, unless the god says otherwise.”

“Exactly right,” he said.

“What about destroying Greek farmland and burning houses? How should our soldiers treat enemy property?”

“I'd like to hear what you think,” he said.

“I think they should do neither,” I said. “They should take only that year's crop. Shall I explain why? [470b]”

“Please do.”

“It seems to me that just as there are two names, ‘war’ and ‘civil conflict,’ there are two different things, arising from two different kinds of disagreement. One happens between people who belong together and are related; the other happens between strangers and outsiders. Hostility between people who belong together is called civil conflict. Hostility between outsiders is called war.”

“That sounds reasonable,” he said. [470c]

“Then see if this sounds reasonable too. I say that the Greek people are part of one family and related to one another, while non-Greeks are foreign to them and not related.”

“Good,” he said.

“When Greeks and non-Greeks fight one another, we'll say they're at war and are enemies by nature; their hostility should be called war. But when Greeks do that to other Greeks, we'll say they're friends by nature, and that Greece is sick and divided by civil conflict [470d] in such a situation. That's what we should call their hostility.”

“I agree with treating it that way,” he said.

“Consider what happens in the kind of civil conflict we recognize today. When a city is divided and each side destroys the other's farmland and burns its houses, everyone sees the conflict as criminal. Neither side seems to love its city, or they would never dare to ravage the land that feeds them, their mother. But it's reasonable for the victors to take the defeated side's crops [470e] while expecting a future reconciliation, not endless fighting.”

“That attitude is far less savage than the other,” he said.

“Now, isn't the city you're founding going to be Greek?” I asked.

“It must be,” he said.

“And won't its citizens be good and civilized?”

“Very much so.”

“Won't they love their fellow Greeks? Won't they consider Greece their own land and share the same holy places as other Greeks?”

“Of course they will.”

[471a] “Then they'll see a disagreement with Greeks as a conflict within their own family, and won't even call it war?”

“No, they won't.”

“And they'll fight with the expectation that they'll make peace?”

“Certainly.”

“So they'll correct their opponents with goodwill. They won't punish them to enslave or destroy them. They'll act as people correcting others, not as enemies.”

“Yes,” he said.

“As Greeks, then, they won't ravage Greece or burn homes. They won't declare everyone in any given city their enemy—men, women, and children alike. They'll consider only a few people their enemies, the ones responsible for the dispute. [471b] Because most people there are their friends, they won't want to ravage the land or tear down houses. They'll limit the fighting until those responsible are forced to answer for it by the innocent people who are suffering.”

“I agree,” he said, “that our citizens should treat Greek opponents this way. They should treat non-Greeks as Greeks today treat one another.”

“Then let's add this law for the guardians too: they must not ravage land [471c] or burn houses.”

“Let's add it,” he said. “This law and the earlier ones are good.”

“But Socrates, if someone lets you keep talking about such things, I think you'll never get back to the question you set aside before saying all this. Can this political system actually come into being? And how could it? I grant that if it did come into being, everything would go well for the city. I'll even add benefits you've left out. They would fight their enemies extremely well [471d] because they'd be the last people to abandon one another. They would know and address one another as brothers, fathers, and sons. And if the women went on campaigns too, either in the same ranks or posted behind them, they could frighten the enemy and provide help whenever needed. I know they'd be unbeatable with that whole arrangement. I can also see how many benefits they would enjoy at home that you haven't mentioned. [471e] I agree that all of this, and countless other good things, would follow if this political system came into being. So stop listing benefits. Let's try now to convince ourselves that it can happen and explain how. Leave the rest aside.”

[472a] “You've suddenly attacked my argument,” I said, “and have no sympathy for me while I'm hesitating. Perhaps you don't realize that I've barely escaped the first two waves, and now you're bringing the largest and most difficult wave of all down on me. Once you see and hear what it is, you'll understand why I hesitated and was afraid to state such a surprising claim, much less examine it.”

“The more you talk like that,” he said, “the less likely we are to let you off without explaining how this political system could come into being. Speak, and don't waste time. [472b]”

“First,” I said, “we must remember how we got here: we were trying to discover what justice and injustice are.”

“We must. But what has that got to do with it?” he asked.

“Nothing yet. But if we discover what justice is, will we insist that a just person differ from justice itself in no way at all, and be just in every respect exactly as justice is? Or will it satisfy us if that person comes as close to it as possible and has a greater share of it than anyone else? [472c]”

“The second would satisfy us,” he said.

“So we looked for justice itself, for what it is, and for the perfectly just person, if there could be one, and what he would be like. We looked for injustice and the most unjust person too. These were examples. By looking at how happy or unhappy each seemed to be, we'd have to agree that our own share of happiness would match theirs according to how closely we resembled them. [472d] We weren't trying to prove that such people could actually exist.”

“That's true,” he said.

“Suppose a good painter paints a picture of what the most beautiful person would look like and gets every feature right, but can't prove that such a person could exist. Would that make the painter any less good?”

“No, by Zeus,” he said.

“Well, didn't we make an example [472e] in words of a good city?”

“We did.”

“Would our account be any worse if we couldn't show that a city could be governed exactly as we described?”

“Certainly not,” he said.

“That's the truth of it,” I said. “But if, for your sake, I must also try to show how and under what conditions it could come closest to being possible, then please grant me the same points again for that demonstration.”

“What points?”

### Book V, 473–480

[473a] “Can anything ever be done exactly as it is described? Or is it in the nature of action to come less close to truth than words do, even if someone disagrees? Do you agree or not?”

“I agree,” he said.

“Then don't make me prove that everything we've described in words must happen in action exactly as described. If we can find a way for a city to be governed as nearly as possible in the way we've said, let's say we've found how what you demand could happen. [473b] Wouldn't that satisfy you? It would satisfy me.”

“It would satisfy me too,” he said.

“Next, it seems, we must try to find out what's going wrong in cities now that prevents them from being governed this way. Then we must identify the smallest change that could bring a city to this form of government: preferably a single change; if not, two; or, failing that, as few changes as possible, with as little impact as possible. [473c]”

“Absolutely,” he said.

“I think we can show that one change would bring it about,” I said. “But it's neither a small change nor an easy one. It is possible, though.”

“What is it?” he asked.

“Now I've come,” I said, “to what we compared to the largest wave. I'll say it, even if a wave of laughter and disapproval is going to flood over me. Listen to what I mean.”

“Go on,” he said.

“Unless philosophers rule as kings in [473d] cities, or those now called kings and powerful rulers take up philosophy genuinely and well, so that political power and philosophy come together, there will be no end to troubles for cities, my dear Glaucon, or, I think, for the human race. This also requires barring the many people who now pursue one or the other separately. Until then, the political system we've described [473e] will never have a chance to grow and see the light of day. I've been reluctant to say this for some time because I could see how surprising it would sound. It's hard to see that neither individuals nor communities can be happy in any other way.”

“Socrates,” he said, “you've thrown out such an extraordinary statement and argument that you should expect a great crowd of capable people to rush at you. Imagine them throwing off their cloaks, grabbing whatever weapons are at hand, and charging to do you some spectacular harm. [474a] If you don't defend yourself with an argument and escape, they'll laugh you to pieces as punishment.”

“And isn't that your fault?” I asked.

“It is, and I was right to do it,” he said. “But I won't abandon you. I'll defend you as best I can, with my goodwill and encouragement. Perhaps I'll also answer your questions more helpfully than someone else would. [474b] With such a helper, try to show the doubters that things are as you say.”

“I must try,” I said, “since you offer such strong support. If we're going to escape the people you describe, I think we have to define for them whom we mean by ‘philosophers’ when we dare to say philosophers should rule. Once that's clear, we can defend our position by showing [474c] that some people are naturally suited to practice philosophy and lead the city, while the rest should leave philosophy alone and follow the leader.”

“It's time to define them,” he said.

“Then follow me this way, if we can give a good enough explanation.”

“Lead on,” he said.

“Will I need to remind you,” I said, “or do you remember that if we rightly say someone loves a thing, he must love the whole of it, not one part but not another? [474d]”

“You'll have to remind me,” he said. “I don't quite understand.”

“Another man might say that, Glaucon,” I said, “but not a lover. You shouldn't forget that every boy in his prime somehow catches the interest of a man who loves boys. Each seems worth paying attention to and being fond of. Isn't this how you lovers treat handsome boys? You'll praise a boy with a flat nose for being charming, call another's hooked nose majestic, and say that a nose between the two is perfectly proportioned. Dark-skinned boys look manly to you, and fair-skinned boys look like children of the gods. And who but a lover invented the pet name ‘honey-pale’ to excuse a boy's paleness, so long as he's in the prime of youth? [474e] In short, you'll find every excuse and use every expression to avoid turning away any boy at the height of his youth. [475a]”

“If you want to use me as your example when speaking of how lovers behave,” he said, “I'll agree for the sake of the argument.”

“Don't you see wine lovers acting the same way?” I asked. “They welcome every kind of wine on any pretext.”

“Of course.”

“And you've seen, I think, what people who love honor do. If they can't be generals, they'll serve as officers over a small unit. And if they can't be honored by the important and respected, they'll be glad to receive honor from less important people. That's because they want honor of any kind. [475b]”

“Exactly.”

“Now tell me whether you agree: if we say someone desires a thing, do we mean he desires everything of that kind, or some of it but not the rest?”

“Everything,” he said.

“Then we'll say a philosopher desires wisdom in its entirety, not one part but not another?”

“That's true.”

“So we won't call someone who dislikes learning a lover of learning or a philosopher. That's especially true of a young person who can't yet judge what is useful and what isn't. If a person dislikes food, we don't say he's hungry, or that he desires food, or that he loves eating. We say he's a fussy eater. [475c]”

“And we'd be right.”

“But someone who is willing to taste every kind of learning, gladly goes to learn, and can never get enough of it—that person we'd be right to call a philosopher, wouldn't we? [475d]”

Then Glaucon said, “You'll have many strange people in that category. All the people who love watching performances seem to me to enjoy learning what they see. And those who love listening are particularly odd candidates for philosophers. They would never willingly come to a discussion like ours. Yet they run from place to place at the festivals of Dionysus as if they'd rented out their ears to hear every chorus. They miss none of the performances, whether in cities or villages. Are we going to call all these people philosophers, along with people eager to learn similar things and enthusiasts for minor crafts? [475e]”

“Not at all,” I said. “They're only like philosophers.”

“Then who are the real ones?” he asked.

“Those who love to look at the truth,” I said.

“That sounds right,” he said. “But what do you mean?”

“It wouldn't be easy to explain to someone else,” I said. “But I think you'll agree to this.”

“To what?”

“Since the beautiful is the opposite of the ugly, they are two distinct things.”

[476a] “Of course.”

“And since they're two, each is also one thing?”

“Yes.”

“The same holds for the just and the unjust, the good and the bad, and all the Forms. Each Form is itself one thing. But because it is involved with actions, bodies, and the other Forms, it appears in many places and seems to be many things.”

“That's right,” he said.

“This is the distinction I make,” I said. “On one side are the people you just mentioned, who love watching, admire the arts, and are active in practical affairs. On the other are the people we're discussing, the only ones properly called philosophers. [476b]”

“How do you mean?” he asked.

“The people who love hearing and watching welcome beautiful sounds, colors, shapes, and everything made from them. But their minds can't see or welcome the nature of beauty itself.”

“That's true,” he said.

“And those who can approach beauty itself and see it on its own must be rare, mustn't they? [476c]”

“Very rare.”

“Suppose someone recognizes beautiful things but doesn't recognize beauty itself, and can't follow a guide who would lead him to understand it. Is he living in a dream or awake? Think about it. Doesn't dreaming mean mistaking the likeness of something for the thing it resembles, whether you're asleep or awake?”

“I would say such a person is dreaming,” he said.

“Now take the opposite sort of person. He recognizes that beauty itself exists and can see both it and the things that share in it. He doesn't mistake those things for beauty itself or beauty itself for those things. Would you say he lives awake or in a dream? [476d]”

“Definitely awake,” he said.

“Then we'd be right to call the thinking of the person who sees it knowledge, and the other's thinking opinion, since he merely holds an opinion?”

“Certainly.”

“What if the person we say holds an opinion but doesn't know gets angry and disputes what we've said? Can we soothe him and gently persuade him without telling him he's not thinking clearly? [476e]”

“We ought to,” he said.

“Let's see what we'll tell him. We could ask him a question and say we're not jealous if he knows something; we'd be glad to meet someone who does. But tell us this: does a person who knows know something, or nothing? Answer for him, please.”

“I'll answer that he knows something,” he said.

“Something that is, or something that is not?”

[477a] “Something that is. How could anyone know something that is not?”

“So can we take this as settled, however many ways we might examine it? What completely is can be completely known; what is not in any way cannot be known at all.”

“We certainly can.”

“Well, if something both is and is not, wouldn't it fall between what purely is and what in no way is?”

“Between them.”

“Knowledge, then, concerns what is, while ignorance must concern what is not. For what lies between the two, we must look for something between ignorance and knowledge, [477b] if there is such a thing.”

“Certainly.”

“Do we say there is such a thing as opinion?”

“Of course.”

“Is it the same capacity as knowledge, or a different one?”

“A different one.”

“Then opinion has its own object, and knowledge has another, since each has its own capacity.”

“Yes.”

“And knowledge naturally concerns what is, knowing how what is actually is. But I think we first need to make another distinction.”

“What distinction? [477c]”

“We'll say that capacities are a kind of thing that exists. They're what let us do whatever we're capable of doing, and let everything else do what it's capable of doing. Sight and hearing, for example, are capacities. Do you see what kind of thing I mean?”

“I do,” he said.

“Then listen to how I understand them. I can't see a capacity's color, shape, or anything like that. Those are the features I can look at to distinguish many other things from one another. For a capacity, [477d] I look only at what it applies to and what it does. That's how I identify each capacity. If two capacities apply to the same thing and do the same work, I call them the same. If they apply to different things and do different work, I call them different. What do you do?”

“The same,” he said.

“Let's go back, then, my friend,” I said. “Would you say knowledge is a capacity, or would you put it in some other class?”

“In that class,” he said, “as the strongest of all capacities. [477e]”

“And shall we put opinion among the capacities, or in some other class?”

“Among the capacities,” he said. “The power we use to form opinions is nothing other than opinion.”

“But a moment ago you agreed that knowledge and opinion aren't the same.”

“Of course,” he said. “How could anyone with sense equate what cannot be wrong with what can?”

“Good,” I said. “It's clear, then, that [478a] we agree opinion differs from knowledge.”

“It does.”

“Then each naturally applies to a different thing and can do something different?”

“It must.”

“Knowledge, I take it, applies to what is, so that it can know what it is like?”

“Yes.”

“And opinion, we say, forms opinions?”

“Yes.”

“About the very thing that knowledge knows? Would what is known and what is the object of opinion be the same thing? Or is that impossible?”

“It's impossible on the basis of what we've agreed,” he said. “If different capacities naturally apply to different things, and knowledge and opinion are both capacities but differ from one another, as we say, then what is known can't be the same as what is the object of opinion. [478b]”

“If what is can be known, the object of opinion must be something other than what is?”

“Yes.”

“Then does opinion concern what is not? Or is it impossible even to form an opinion about what is not? Think about it. Doesn't a person who has an opinion direct it toward something? Or can a person hold an opinion about nothing?”

“That's impossible.”

“A person with an opinion has an opinion about some one thing, then?”

“Yes.”

“But what is not would be most accurately called not a thing at all, but nothing. [478c]”

“Yes.”

“And we assigned ignorance to what is not, and knowledge to what is?”

“Right,” he said.

“Then opinion is about neither what is nor what is not?”

“No.”

“So opinion would be neither ignorance nor knowledge?”

“It seems not.”

“Does it lie beyond both? Is it clearer than knowledge or less clear than ignorance?”

“Neither.”

“Then does opinion seem darker to you than knowledge, but clearer than ignorance?” I asked.

“Much clearer,” he said. [478d]

“And it lies between them?”

“Yes.”

“So opinion falls between the two.”

“Exactly.”

“Didn't we say earlier that if something appeared to both be and not be, it would lie between what purely is and what is not at all? Neither knowledge nor ignorance would apply to it; rather, the thing between ignorance and knowledge would.”

“Right.”

“And what we call opinion has now turned out to be between those two?”

“Yes, it has. [478e]”

“So it seems we still have to find what shares in both being and not being, without properly being called either of them in its pure form. If we find it, we can rightly call it the object of opinion. In that way, we'd assign the extremes to the extremes, and what lies between to what lies between. Wouldn't we?”

“We would.”

“Given that,” I said, “let that fine fellow answer me:

[479a] the man who doesn't believe there is beauty itself, a Form of beauty that always stays the same, but who believes there are many beautiful things. I mean the man who loves to watch and can't bear it when someone says there is one beautiful itself, one just itself, and likewise for the others. We'll ask him: ‘My friend, among all these many beautiful things, is there one that won't also appear ugly? Among the just things, one that won't appear unjust? Among the holy things, one that won't appear unholy?’ [479b]”

“No,” he said. “They must appear beautiful in one respect and ugly in another, and the same goes for the rest of your examples.”

“And the many things called double: won't each also appear to be half as much?”

“Yes, it will.”

“And things called big and small, or light and heavy: will they be called what we say any more than they'll be called the opposite?”

“No,” he said. “Each will always admit both descriptions.”

“So does each of these many things really have the property someone says it has, any more than it doesn't?”

“They're like the ambiguous jokes people tell at parties,” he said, “and the children's riddle about a eunuch throwing something at a bat: what did he throw, and what was it sitting on? [479c] These things, too, go both ways. You can't settle clearly whether any one of them is or isn't, or both, or neither.”

“What can you do with them, then?” I asked. “Could you put them anywhere better than between being and not being? They won't appear darker than what is not, as if they had less being. Nor will they appear clearer than what is, as if they had more. [479d]”

“That's entirely true,” he said.

“So it seems we've found that ordinary people's many beliefs about beauty and the other things keep rolling around somewhere between what isn't and what purely is.”

“We have.”

“And we agreed beforehand that if something like that appeared, we must call it an object of opinion, not of knowledge. The capacity in between grasps the wandering thing in between.”

“We did. [479e]”

“So we'll say that people who see many beautiful things but don't see beauty itself, and can't follow a guide who leads them to it, and who see many just things but not justice itself—and similarly with everything else—have opinions about all these things, but know nothing of what they hold opinions about.”

“We must,” he said.

“And what about people who see each thing itself as it always remains the same? Won't we say they know, rather than merely hold opinions?”

“We must say that too.”

“And won't we say that these people welcome and love what knowledge concerns,

[480a] while the others love what opinion concerns? Don't you remember our saying that the others love looking at beautiful sounds, colors, and the like, but can't even bear the thought that beauty itself exists?”

“I remember.”

“Then would we be wrong to call them lovers of opinion rather than lovers of wisdom? Will they be very angry if we say that?”

“Not if they listen to me,” he said. “It isn't right to be angry at the truth.”

“And we should call those who welcome each thing that truly is lovers of wisdom, not lovers of opinion?”

“Absolutely.”

### Book VI, 484–492

[484a] “So, Glaucon,” I said, “after a long discussion, we have barely managed to show who the philosophers are and who the others are.”

“Perhaps,” he said, “it isn't easy to do in a short discussion.”

“It doesn't seem so,” I said. “Still, I think we could show it better if that were our only subject. But we have many other things to cover if we are going to see how a just life differs [484b] from an unjust one.”

“What comes next for us, then?” he asked.

“What else but the next question?” I said. “Philosophers can grasp what always stays the same. Those who cannot, but wander among the many things that change in every way, are not philosophers. Which group should lead a city?”

“How should we put the answer fairly?” he asked.

“We should appoint as [484c] guardians the ones who show they can protect a city's laws and customs,” I said.

“Right,” he said.

“And this,” I said: “Is it clear whether a guard watching over anything should be blind or sharp-sighted?”

“Of course it's clear,” he said.

“Then do those who lack knowledge of what each thing really is seem any different from blind people? They have no clear model in their souls. They cannot look toward the truest reality as a painter looks toward a model, constantly refer back to it, [484d] and examine it as precisely as possible. So they cannot establish rules here about what is beautiful, just, and good, if rules need establishing, or protect the rules already in place.”

“By Zeus, they aren't much different,” he said.

“Should we appoint them guardians instead of people who know what each thing is, and who are no less experienced than the others and lack nothing else in virtue?”

“It would be strange to choose anyone else,” he said, “provided they lack nothing else. This knowledge is probably their greatest advantage.”

[485a] “Then let's ask how the same people can have both that knowledge and those other qualities.”

“Yes, let's.”

“As we said at the start of this discussion, first we must understand their nature. I think that if we agree on it adequately, we'll also agree that the same people can have these qualities and that no one else should lead cities.”

“How?”

“Let's agree on this about philosophical natures: [485b] they always love the kind of learning that shows them the reality that always exists, without being tossed about by coming into being and passing away.”

“Agreed.”

“And,” I said, “they love all of it. They willingly leave out no part, small or large, more honored or less honored. That's like what we said earlier about ambitious people and lovers.”

“You're right,” he said.

“Now consider whether people who are to be as we described must also have [485c] this quality in their nature.”

“Which one?”

“Truthfulness. They must refuse to accept lies willingly, hate them, and love the truth.”

“That seems likely,” he said.

“It's more than likely, my friend. Anyone naturally in love with something must love everything related and close to what they love.”

“Right,” he said.

“Can you find anything closer to wisdom than truth?”

“How could I?” he said.

“Then can the same nature love both wisdom and [485d] lies?”

“Not at all.”

“Someone who really loves learning, then, must reach for every kind of truth as much as possible from youth onward.”

“Absolutely.”

“But when a person's desires lean strongly in one direction, we know they are weaker in the others. It's like a stream diverted into one channel.”

“Yes.”

“When a person's desires flow toward learning and everything like it, I think they will care about the soul's own pleasure. They will give up bodily pleasures, if they are a [485e] genuine philosopher rather than a fake one.”

“They must.”

“Such a person will be self-controlled and no lover of money. The reasons people work hard to get money and spend so much of it matter more to someone else than to this person.”

“That's so.”

[486a] “And there's something else to look for when deciding whether someone has a philosophical nature.”

“What?”

“Make sure there is nothing petty or ungenerous in it. Small-mindedness is the exact opposite of a soul that will always reach for everything, divine and human.”

“Very true,” he said.

“When a mind has a broad view and can look at all time and all reality, do you think it can regard human life as a great thing?”

“It can't,” he said. [486b]

“And such a person won't regard death as something terrible?”

“Not at all.”

“So a cowardly, ungenerous nature, it seems, cannot share in true philosophy.”

“I don't think it can.”

“Then can someone who is orderly, not greedy, not small-minded, not boastful, and not cowardly be hard to get along with or unjust?”

“No.”

“So when you examine a young person for a philosophical soul, you will check right away whether they are just and gentle, or unsociable and savage.”

“Certainly.” [486c]

“And I think there's something else you won't overlook.”

“What?”

“Whether they learn easily or with difficulty. Could you expect anyone to love doing something that hurts them and that they barely make progress in?”

“No.”

“And if someone can't retain anything they learn because they're full of forgetfulness, can they avoid being empty of knowledge?”

“How could they?”

“If all their efforts achieve nothing, won't they end up hating themselves and that activity?”

“Of course.” [486d]

“Then let's never count a forgetful soul among those fit for philosophy. We must look for a good memory.”

“Absolutely.”

“And we would say an uncultured, clumsy nature tends toward excess, wouldn't we?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think truth is related to excess or to a sense of measure?”

“To a sense of measure.”

“So, along with the other qualities, let's seek a mind naturally measured and graceful. Its nature will readily lead it toward the Form of what each thing is.”

“Of course.” [486e]

“Do you think any of these qualities we have gone through are unnecessary, or unrelated to one another, for a soul that will have a full and complete grasp of reality?”

[487a] “They are all absolutely necessary,” he said.

“Can you find fault with a pursuit that no one can practice properly without being naturally able to remember and learn easily, broad-minded and graceful, and a friend and relative of truth, justice, courage, and self-control?”

“Not even Momus, the god of faultfinding, could find fault with that,” he said.

“And once education and age have brought such people to maturity,” I said, “wouldn't you entrust the city to them alone?” [487b]

Then Adeimantus said, “Socrates, no one could contradict what you've just said. But people listening to arguments like yours have a certain experience. They think their lack of practice in questions and answers lets the argument nudge them a little off course with each question. By the end, those little steps add up to a big mistake, the opposite of where they began. It's like a game in which skilled players finally trap the unskilled, leaving them no move [487c] to make. They too feel trapped at the end, with nothing to say. This is a different sort of game, played with words rather than counters. But the truth is no more on your side because of that. I'm talking about the present case. Someone might say that they cannot answer each of your questions with a counterargument. But in practice they see what happens to people who take up philosophy: if, instead of touching it when young as part of their education [487d] and then leaving it, they stay with it longer, most become downright odd, if not thoroughly bad. Even those who seem best end up, because of the practice you praise, useless to their cities.”

After hearing this, I said, “Do you think the people who say that are lying?”

“I don't know,” he said, “but I'd like to hear what you think.”

“Then you'll hear that I think they're telling the truth.” [487e]

“How can it be right,” he asked, “to say that cities won't be free of troubles until philosophers rule them, if we agree that philosophers are useless to those cities?”

“That question,” I said, “needs an answer in the form of a comparison.”

“And I suppose,” he said, “you aren't used to using comparisons.”

“All right,” I said. “You make fun of me after getting me into an argument that's so [488a] hard to prove! Listen to my comparison and see how much trouble I have making one. The best philosophers' situation in relation to cities is so difficult to describe that no single example matches it. To make a case for them, I have to put together several things in a comparison, like painters who combine a goat and a stag or other creatures in a picture. Imagine this happening on one ship, or on many. The shipowner is taller and [488b] stronger than everyone aboard, but he is rather deaf, his sight is just as poor, and his knowledge of sailing is no better. The sailors fight one another over who will steer. Each thinks he ought to steer, though he has never learned the skill and cannot name a teacher or a time when he studied it. They say it cannot be taught at all. They're even ready to cut to pieces anyone who says it can. They constantly crowd around [488c] the shipowner, begging and doing everything possible to get him to hand over the rudder. Sometimes another group wins him over instead. Then they kill those rivals or throw them off the ship. They drug the noble shipowner with mandrake, get him drunk, or disable him some other way. They take control of the ship and use its supplies. They drink and feast as they sail, as you would expect. On top of this, [488d] they praise anyone good at helping them gain control by persuading or forcing the shipowner. They call him a sailor, a pilot, and an expert on ships. They call anyone who cannot do that useless. They don't even understand that a true pilot must pay attention to the year and seasons, the sky, the stars, the winds, and everything else belonging to the skill, if he is really going to command a ship. They think there is no way to acquire either the skill or the practice of steering [488e] when people want you to, or when they don't, while also acquiring the art of navigation.

“When this is how ships are run, don't you think the sailors aboard would call the person who really knows how to pilot one a stargazer, [489a] a chatterbox, and useless to them?”

“They certainly would,” said Adeimantus.

“I don't think,” I said, “you need the comparison explained in detail to see that it resembles the attitude of cities toward true philosophers. You understand what I mean.”

“I certainly do,” he said.

“First, then, tell this comparison to anyone surprised that philosophers aren't honored in cities. Try to convince him it would be much more surprising [489b] if they were honored.”

“I will,” he said.

“And tell him he's right that the best philosophers are useless to most people. But tell him to blame those who don't use them for their uselessness, not the good philosophers themselves. It isn't natural for a pilot to beg sailors to let him command, or for wise people to go begging at rich people's doors. Whoever made that clever remark was lying. The truth is that anyone who is sick, rich or poor, must [489c] go to the doctor's door. And anyone who needs to be governed must go to someone who can govern. A ruler who truly does people good does not need to beg those people to accept his rule. You would be right to compare today's political leaders to the sailors we described. And you would be right to compare the people they call useless stargazers to true pilots.”

“Exactly,” he said.

“So in these conditions the best pursuit won't easily gain respect from people pursuing its opposite. [489d] But the greatest and strongest slander against philosophy comes from people who claim to practice it. You said that its critic calls most who turn to it thoroughly bad, and the best useless. I agreed that you were telling the truth. Didn't I?”

“Yes.”

“Haven't we explained why the good ones are useless?”

“We certainly have.”

“Shall we next explain why most become bad, and try to show, if we can, that philosophy isn't responsible for that either?” [489e]

“Yes.”

“Let's return to the point where we described the nature a person must have to become good and honorable. Remember, truth led that person first. They had to pursue it [490a] in every way. Otherwise they would be a fraud with no share in true philosophy.”

“Yes, that's what we said.”

“Isn't that one point completely at odds with what people now think about philosophers?”

“It certainly is,” he said.

“Then wouldn't it be a fair defense to say that a genuine lover of learning is naturally driven toward what really is? Such a person won't stop at the many things that only appear to be real. They will keep going. Their love won't grow dull or stop before they grasp what each thing itself is, with the part of the soul [490b] suited to grasp it. And that part is related to what is. When they draw near and join with what truly is, they give birth to understanding and truth. Then they know, truly live, and are nourished. Only then are they free of their labor pains, not before.”

“That is as fair a defense as possible,” he said.

“Will such a person have any love for lies, or exactly the opposite, a hatred of them?” [490c]

“A hatred,” he said.

“When truth leads, I don't think we can say a crowd of evils will follow it.”

“Of course not.”

“Instead, a sound and just character will follow, and self-control along with it.”

“Right,” he said.

“And why do we need to line up all the other qualities of a philosophical nature again? You remember that courage, breadth of mind, ease in learning, and memory went with these. You objected that everyone would have to [490d] agree with our argument, but would say, if they set it aside and looked at the actual people under discussion, that some were useless and most were bad in every way. We are now looking for the cause of that bad reputation, asking why most are bad. That's why we have gone back to the nature of true philosophers and had to define it.” [490e]

“Yes, that's right,” he said.

“Now,” I said, “we must look at how this nature gets ruined in most cases, while a tiny number escape. These are the ones called not bad but useless. After that, we must look at the natures that imitate it and enter its pursuit. What sort of souls are these that take up a pursuit [491a] beyond them and greater than they deserve? Their many failures have given philosophy, everywhere and among everyone, the reputation you described.”

“What kinds of ruin do you mean?” he asked.

“I'll try to explain them if I can,” I said. “I think everyone will agree that a nature with all the qualities we just required for a fully developed philosopher arises only rarely among human beings, and in only a few people. Don't you?” [491b]

“Very much so.”

“Now see how many serious dangers face these few.”

“What are they?”

“The most surprising thing to hear is that each quality we praised in that nature can ruin the soul that has it and pull it away from philosophy. I mean courage, self-control, and everything else we discussed.”

“That's strange to hear,” he said. [491c]

“Besides these,” I said, “all the things called good can corrupt and draw it away: beauty, wealth, physical strength, a powerful family in the city, and everything connected with these. You get the general idea.”

“I do,” he said, “but I'd like a clearer explanation.”

“Take the whole point in the right way,” I said, “and it will become clear. What I said about these qualities won't seem strange.”

“How do you want me to do that?” he asked. [491d]

“We know that if any seed or growing thing, plant or animal, doesn't get the food, season, and place it needs, then the stronger it is, the more it lacks what it needs. Bad conditions are more opposed to a good nature than to a poor one.”

“Of course.”

“So it makes sense that the best nature fares worse than an inferior nature when raised in conditions that don't suit it.”

“It does.” [491e]

“Then, Adeimantus,” I said, “shall we say that the most gifted souls become especially bad when badly brought up? Do you think great crimes and unchecked wickedness come from a weak nature, rather than a powerful one ruined by its upbringing? A weak nature will never cause anything great, good or bad.”

“No,” he said, “it's as you say.”

[492a] “So the nature we assigned to the philosopher must, I think, grow toward every virtue if it gets a suitable education. But if it is sown, planted, and raised in unsuitable ground, it will grow in the opposite direction in every way, unless some god comes to its rescue. Or do you agree with most people that certain young people are corrupted by sophists, and that some private sophists do the corrupting in a way worth talking about? Isn't it the people making that claim who are the greatest [492b] sophists? They give a thorough education to young and old, men and women, and turn them into whatever they want.”

“When does that happen?” he asked.

“When large numbers sit together in an assembly, a court, a theater, an army camp, or any other gathering of a crowd,” I said. “With a great uproar they condemn some things said or done and praise others, going to extremes in both cases. They shout and clap, while [492c] the stones and the place around them echo and double the noise of praise and blame. In such a place, what sort of heart do you think a young person has, as the saying goes? What private education [could] stand up to it? Won't it be swept away by the flood of praise and blame and carried along with the current? The young person will call the same things beautiful and shameful as they do, follow the same habits, and become like them.” [492d]

“He has little choice, Socrates,” he said.

“And we haven't yet mentioned the strongest pressure,” I said.

“What is it?” he asked.

“What these educators and sophists do when words fail to persuade. Don't you know they punish anyone who doesn't obey with loss of rights, fines, and death?”

“I know it very well,” he said.

“Then what other sophist, or what argument from a private person, do you think can oppose them and win?” [492e]

“None, I think,” he said.

“No,” I said, “and it's foolish even to try. No human character educated by them has become, or is becoming, or ever will become different and grow toward virtue. We can set aside the divine exception, as the saying goes, my friend. You should know that if anyone is preserved and”

### Book VI, 493–500

[493a] “becomes what they ought to be in political systems like these, you would not be wrong to say that a god saved them.”

“I don't see it any other way either,” he said.

“And there's something else you should think about,” I said.

“What?”

“Each of the private teachers who take payment, whom these people call sophists and consider rivals, teaches nothing but the beliefs held by the crowd when it gathers together. He calls that wisdom. Imagine a person raising a large, strong animal who learns its moods and appetites. He learns where to approach and touch it, when it is fiercest or tamest and what brings on each mood. [493b] He learns what sounds it makes in each situation, and what sounds from other people soothe or enrage it. After spending time with it and learning all this, he calls it wisdom, organizes it into a skill, and starts teaching it. But he doesn't really know whether the animal's beliefs and desires are beautiful or shameful, [493c] good or bad, just or unjust. He uses all these names according to the great beast's opinions. What pleases it he calls good; what annoys it he calls bad. He has no other account of these things. He calls what is necessary just and beautiful. But he has never seen how different necessity is from goodness, and he cannot show that difference to anyone else. By Zeus, wouldn't you find a teacher like that absurd?”

“I would,” he said.

[493d] “Now, is someone any different who thinks wisdom means understanding the moods and pleasures of a crowd of all kinds of people, whether in painting, music, or politics? If a person presents a poem, another work, or a public service to such people and gives the crowd authority over themselves beyond what is necessary, then the so-called necessity of Diomedes forces that person to do whatever the crowd praises. But have you ever heard anyone among them give an account that isn't laughable of why these things really are good and beautiful?” [493e]

“I don't think I ever will,” he said.

“Keep all this in mind, and remember this: can a crowd ever accept beauty itself rather than the many beautiful things, or any single thing itself [494a] rather than the many things of that kind? Do you think it can?”

“Not at all,” he said.

“So a crowd cannot be philosophical,” I said.

“It cannot.”

“And that means it will blame people who practice philosophy.”

“It must.”

“As will those private individuals who mix with the crowd and want to please it.”

“Clearly.”

“Given all this, what way do you see for a person with a philosophical nature to survive, stay with that pursuit, and reach its goal? Think about what we said [494b] earlier. We agreed that ease in learning, memory, courage, and breadth of mind belong to that nature.”

“Yes.”

“Won't such a person stand out above all other children from the start, especially if the body matches the soul?”

“Of course,” he said.

“When the person grows older, I expect family and fellow citizens will want to use them for their own purposes.”

“Of course.” [494c]

“They'll humble themselves, ask favors, and offer honors. They'll try in advance to secure the person's future power by flattery.”

“That is what tends to happen,” he said.

“What do you think such a person will do in these circumstances?” I asked. “Especially if they come from a great city and are rich and wellborn there, and handsome and tall as well? Won't they be filled with impossibly high hopes, thinking they can manage the affairs of both Greeks and foreigners? Won't they get carried away, full of empty pride and posturing rather than good sense?” [494d]

“Certainly,” he said.

“If someone quietly approaches a person in that state and tells them the truth—that they lack understanding and need it, and that they can gain it only by working hard for it—do you think they'll readily listen amid all those harmful influences?”

“Far from it,” he said.

“But suppose,” I said, “that their good nature and an affinity for these arguments make them somehow sense the truth, turn around, and feel drawn to philosophy. What do we think the people who fear losing the person's help and company will do? Won't they say and do everything they can to keep the person from being persuaded? And won't they act against the persuader as well, plotting in private and bringing public charges to stop him?” [495a]

“They're sure to,” he said.

“Can someone in this position still become a philosopher?”

“Hardly.”

“Then you see why we weren't wrong,” I said, “to claim that, with a bad upbringing, even the qualities of a philosophical nature can in a way make someone fall away from the pursuit. The same goes for so-called good things, such as wealth and all the other advantages.”

“Yes, we were right,” he said.

“That, my friend,” I said, “is how a nature best suited to the best pursuit can be ruined [495b] so thoroughly. Such natures are rare to begin with, as we have said. People of this kind are the source of the greatest harm to cities and individuals, and also of the greatest good if they happen to turn that way. A small nature never does anything great to anyone, whether an individual or a city.”

“Very true,” he said.

“These people, then, fall away from the pursuit they are most suited to. They leave philosophy alone and unfinished, and live lives that don't fit them and aren't genuine. [495c] Then others who aren't worthy of it come in, like strangers claiming an orphan with no family. They bring it shame and give it the bad name you mentioned: according to its critics, some who associate with philosophy are worth nothing, while most deserve blame for many bad things.”

“Yes, that's what people say,” he said.

“And understandably so,” I said. “Other small-minded people see that this position has been left empty, but is full of impressive names and appearances. They are glad to jump out of their trades into philosophy, [495d] like prisoners escaping into temples for refuge. The ones who do so are often the cleverest at their own little craft. Philosophy still has greater standing than the other trades, even when it is treated this way. Many people want that status. Their natures are incomplete. Their trades and manual work have damaged their souls and cramped and broken them, just as physical work has damaged their bodies. Isn't that inevitable?” [495e]

“It certainly is,” he said.

“Don't they look just like a little bald metalworker who has made some money, has just been released from prison, has bathed at the public baths, and wears a new cloak? He has dressed himself as a bridegroom and is about to marry his master's daughter because her family has become poor and has no one to protect her.”

[496a] “They look much the same,” he said.

“What kind of children are such people likely to produce? Illegitimate and poor-quality ones, surely?”

“Of course.”

“And when people unworthy of education come close to philosophy and associate with it without deserving to, what kinds of thoughts and beliefs will they produce? Won't these rightly be called sophistries? None will be genuine or [worthy] of true understanding.”

“Absolutely,” he said.

“Only a very small number remain, Adeimantus,” I said, “who associate [496b] with philosophy as they should. One may be a noble, well-raised character kept in exile. Without people around to corrupt them, they remain true to their nature and to philosophy. Another may be a great soul born in a small city who looks down on its politics and ignores them. A few gifted people might also come from another trade to philosophy, rightly thinking little of their old work. Our friend Theages may be held back as if by a bridle. [496c] Everything else in his life would draw him away from philosophy, but his poor health keeps him out of politics and holds him there. My own case, the divine sign, hardly deserves mention: it has happened to few if any before me. Those few who have come to philosophy taste how sweet and happy it is. They also see clearly enough the madness of the crowd, and see that almost no one does anything sound in the affairs of cities. There is no ally with whom they can safely go to the defense of justice. [496d] It is as if a person had fallen among wild beasts. They won't join in doing wrong, but they cannot, alone, resist all the savage animals. They would die before doing any good for their city or their friends, helping neither themselves nor anyone else. Seeing all this, they stay quiet and mind their own business. Like someone standing under a little wall in a storm to get out of the windblown dust and rain, they watch everyone else fill their lives with lawlessness. They are content if they can live their own life free of injustice and unholy acts [496e] and leave it with good hope, in a gracious and peaceful frame of mind.”

[497a] “Even so,” he said, “that would be no small achievement before they left this life.”

“But not the greatest,” I said, “since they did not find a suitable political system. In a suitable one they would develop further themselves, and save the public good along with their own.”

“So I think we've explained fairly well why philosophy has a bad name and why it doesn't deserve one, unless you still have something to say.”

“I have nothing more on that point,” he said. “But which present political system do you say suits philosophy?” [497b]

“Not one of them,” I said. “That's exactly my complaint: no present city is organized in a way worthy of a philosophical nature. This is why that nature is twisted and changed. A foreign seed planted in different soil tends to lose its character and take on that of its new location. In the same way, this nature now fails to keep its own strength and takes on an alien character. But if it finds the best political system, [497c] as it is itself the best nature, it will show that it really was divine, while other natures and pursuits were merely human. Obviously, you're about to ask which political system that is.”

“You've guessed wrong,” he said. “I was going to ask whether it's the one we've described while founding our city, or another.”

“In other respects, that one,” I said. “But we did say even then that the city would always need someone who understands the political system as you, its lawgiver, understood it when you laid down the laws.” [497d]

“Yes, we said that,” he replied.

“But we didn't make it clear enough,” I said, “because I was afraid of the objections you raised. You have shown that explaining it will take a long and difficult argument. The remaining part isn't exactly easy to go through either.”

“What part?”

“How a city must handle philosophy without being destroyed. All great things are risky, and the saying that beautiful things really are difficult is true.” [497e]

“Still,” he said, “finish the argument by making that clear.”

“If anything stops me,” I said, “it won't be a lack of willingness, but perhaps a lack of ability. You'll see my willingness for yourself, here and now. Notice how eager I am to take a risk: I'm going to say a city must take up this pursuit in the opposite way from the way it does now.”

“How?”

“Today,” I said, “even the people who do take it up are young men, [498a] just out of childhood. In the time between managing a household and earning money, they approach its hardest part, then leave it behind. Yet they're considered the most devoted philosophers. By the hardest part, I mean discussion and argument. Later, they think it a great achievement to listen when invited to hear others practice philosophy; they see it as something to do on the side. And when they reach old age, all but a few are extinguished more thoroughly than Heraclitus' sun, since they never light up again.” [498b]

“How should it be done?” he asked.

“Entirely the other way around. Children and young people should study and practice philosophy in ways suited to their age. While their bodies grow to maturity, they should take especially good care of them, to make them fit to serve philosophy. As they get older and their souls begin to reach maturity, they should work their souls harder. Once their physical strength fades and they are free from political and military duties, [498c] they should be allowed to roam freely in the field of philosophy. Apart from minor tasks, they should do nothing else, if they are to live happily and, after death, have a fate that fits the life they have lived.”

“You certainly sound eager about this, Socrates,” he said. “But I think most of your listeners will be even more eager to oppose it. They won't be convinced at all, starting with Thrasymachus.”

“Don't try to set Thrasymachus against me,” I said. “We have just become friends, though we weren't enemies before. [498d] We won't stop trying until we persuade him and the others, or at least do something useful for the next life, when they are born again and come across arguments like these.”

“That's a very short time you're talking about,” he said.

“It's nothing compared with all time,” I said. “Still, it's no wonder the crowd isn't persuaded. They've never seen what we're now talking about actually happen. They've seen words deliberately made to resemble one another, rather than fitting together naturally as ours do now. [498e] But they've never seen a person who matches and resembles virtue as fully as possible in both action and speech, holding power [499a] in a city that matches that person. They've never seen even one, much less several. Or do you think they have?”

“Not at all.”

“Nor, my friend, have they heard enough beautiful, free discussions. Those discussions work hard in every way to find the truth for the sake of knowing it. They keep far away from clever, combative talk that aims at nothing but reputation and a quarrel, whether in court or in private conversation.”

“They haven't heard those either,” he said.

“For these reasons,” I said, “we saw what was ahead and were afraid when we said what we did. But the truth forced us to say [499b] that no city, political system, or person will ever become fully good until some chance compels these few decent philosophers, now called useless, to take care of a city, whether they want to or not, and compels the city to listen. Or a true love of true philosophy must, through some divine inspiration, come to the sons of present rulers or kings, or to those rulers themselves. I see no reason to say either of these things, or both, is impossible. If we did, people would rightly laugh at us for talking as if we were merely making wishes. Don't you agree?” [499c]

“I do.”

“So if in the endless past the best philosophers have been compelled to take charge of a city, or if that's happening now somewhere in a foreign land far outside our view, or if it happens in the future, we are ready to defend this claim: the political system we've described has existed, exists, and will exist when this Muse takes control of a city. [499d] It isn't impossible, and we aren't describing impossible things. We agree, though, that they're difficult.”

“I think so too,” he said.

“But you'll say that most people don't think so,” I said.

“Perhaps,” he said.

[499e] “My friend,” I said, “don't blame the crowd quite so much. They'll change their minds if, instead of picking a fight with them, you speak gently and clear away the slander against the love of learning. Show them which people you mean by philosophers. [500a] Explain their nature and their pursuit as we just did, so they won't think you mean the people they have in mind. [Even if they do look at them in this way, won't you say they'll take a different view and answer differently?] Do you think someone gentle and without envy gets angry at a gentle person, or envies someone who doesn't envy others? I'll tell you first that I think a difficult nature like that occurs among a few individuals, not in the crowd.”

“I agree,” he said. [500b]

“Then agree to this too: the crowd's hostility to philosophy comes from outsiders who have burst in where they don't belong. They insult each other, love feuding, and always talk about people. Nothing could be less fitting for philosophy.”

“That's certainly true,” he said.

“Adeimantus,” I said, “someone whose mind is truly fixed on what is real has no time to look down at [500c] human affairs, fight with people, and fill up with envy and hostility. Instead, philosophers look at things that are ordered and always remain the same. They see that these things neither wrong one another nor suffer wrong at one another's hands, but all follow an order and reason. They imitate them and become as like them as possible. Do you think anyone can admire what they spend time with without imitating it?”

“It's impossible,” he said.

[500d] “By spending time with what is divine and orderly, then, a philosopher becomes orderly and divine, as far as a human being can. Of course, people can be slandered in all sorts of ways.”

“Certainly.”

“So if the philosopher has to put what they see there into practice among human beings, shaping the characters of individuals and of the public, and not just their own character, do you think they'll be bad at making self-control, justice, and all the virtues people need to live together?”

“Not at all,” he said.

“But if the crowd realizes we're telling the truth about the philosopher, will they still be angry with philosophers? Will they refuse to believe us when we say a city can be happy only if artists who use the divine pattern draw its design?” [500e]

“They won't be angry if they realize it,” he said.

“But then—”

### Book VI, 501–508

[501a] “What sort of painting do you mean?”

“They would take the city and people’s characters as their canvas,” I said. “First they would wipe it clean. That is far from easy. But you know how they would differ from everyone else right away: they would refuse to touch a person or a city, or write laws for them, until they had received a clean canvas or made it clean themselves.”

“And rightly so,” he said.

“After that, don’t you think they would sketch the outline of the constitution?”

“Of course.” [501b]

“Then, as they worked on it, I think they would keep looking back and forth. They would look at what is just, beautiful, and moderate by nature, and everything like that. Then they would look at what they were putting into human beings. They would mix and blend ways of living to produce a human image, taking their cue from what Homer called the godlike and god-resembling quality that arises in human beings.”

“Right,” he said.

“I think they would erase one feature and paint in another, [501c] until they had made human character as pleasing to the gods as it can be.”

“That would certainly make a very fine painting,” he said.

“Now,” I said, “can we persuade those people you said were advancing against us so fiercely? Can we show them that the painter of constitutions is the sort of person we were praising to them then, the one who made them angry when we entrusted the cities to him? Will they calm down a little more when they hear this?”

“Much more, if they have any sense,” he said. [501d]

“How could they still dispute it? Would they deny that philosophers love what is real and true?”

“That would be absurd,” he said.

“Or would they deny that the nature we described is suited to what is best?”

“They couldn’t deny that either.”

“What then? Would they say that, with the right training, such a nature cannot become perfectly good and philosophical, if anyone can? Would they say instead that the people we ruled out can do it better?” [501e]

“Certainly not.”

“So will they still be angry when we say that cities and citizens will have no end to their troubles until the philosophical kind has control of a city, and that the constitution we have described in words will never become a reality before then?”

“Perhaps less angry,” he said.

“Would you like us to say,” I replied, “not just that they are less angry, but that [502a] they have become completely gentle and convinced? Then, if nothing else, they may agree out of embarrassment.”

“Certainly,” he said.

“Let us take them as convinced, then,” I said. “But will anyone dispute that children of kings or other rulers might be born with philosophical natures?”

“No one,” he said.

“And can anyone say that, if they are born that way, they absolutely must be corrupted? We too admit that it is hard for one to survive uncorrupted. [502b] But who would claim that across all time, among all these people, not one could ever survive?”

“How could anyone?”

“Yet one is enough,” I said, “if he has a city that obeys him. He can carry out everything people now refuse to believe possible.”

“One would be enough,” he said.

“If a ruler establishes the laws and practices we have discussed,” I said, “it is surely not impossible for citizens to be willing to follow them.”

“Not at all.”

“And would it be such a marvel, such an impossibility, for others to hold the opinions we do?” [502c]

“I don’t think so,” he said.

“And we have already made the case well enough, I think, that these laws would be best if they could be put into effect.”

“We have.”

“So we now seem to have reached this result about our laws: what we propose would be best if it happened. It is hard to bring about, but not impossible.”

“That is the result,” he said.

“Now that we have finally settled that difficult point, we must discuss the rest. How will we produce the people who will preserve our constitution? Through which studies [502d] and practices, and at what ages should each person start each of them?”

“We must discuss that,” he said.

“It was no clever move on my part,” I said, “to skip over the troublesome question of women as partners, the bearing of children, and the appointment of rulers earlier. I knew that the full truth would be unpopular and difficult to achieve. But now I have to go through these things anyway. [502e] We have finished with women and children, but we must take up the question of rulers again from the beginning. [503a] If you remember, we said they must show that they love their city when they are tested with pleasures and pains. They must never be seen abandoning that conviction during hard work, fear, or any other change. Anyone unable to keep it should be rejected. The one who comes through every test untainted, like gold tested in fire, should be made a ruler and given honors and prizes both in life and after death. That was roughly what we said, while our discussion sidestepped and hid [503b] the issue before us now because it was afraid to raise it.”

“That is exactly right,” he said. “I remember.”

“I hesitated, my friend,” I said, “to say what I have now dared to say. But let me make this bold claim: we must appoint philosophers as the most thorough guardians.”

“Let it be said,” he replied.

“Now understand why there will probably be few of them. The parts of the nature we described seldom grow together in one person. Most often they are found apart. [503c] Do you see what I mean?”

“No. What do you mean?” he said.

“You know that people who learn easily, have good memories, are quick-witted and sharp, and have all the related qualities, are not usually also high-spirited and broad-minded people who are willing to live in an orderly, calm, and steady way. Instead, their sharpness carries them wherever chance takes them, and all their steadiness disappears.”

“That is true,” he said.

“On the other hand, people with steady characters who do not change easily are more dependable. They are slow to give way to fear [503d] in war, but they react to learning in the same way. Their minds move slowly, and they have trouble learning, as though they were numb. They become sleepy and yawn whenever they must work hard at something of that kind.”

“That happens,” he said.

“But we insist that a person must possess both sets of qualities fully and properly. Otherwise we must give that person neither the most exacting education nor honors nor power.”

“Right,” he said.

“Don’t you think that combination will be rare?”

“How could it not be?” [503e]

“So we must test them with the hardships, fears, and pleasures we discussed then. We must now add what we left out: they must be trained in many fields of study. We must watch whether their nature can bear even the greatest studies, or whether they will [504a] lose courage, just as some people do in other tests.”

“Yes, it makes sense to test them that way,” he said. “But what are these greatest studies you mean?”

“You remember,” I said, “that we divided the soul into three kinds and drew conclusions about what justice, moderation, courage, and wisdom each are.”

“If I didn’t remember,” he said, “I wouldn’t deserve to hear what comes next.”

“Do you also remember what we said before that?”

“What was that?” [504b]

“We said that to see these things as clearly as possible would take a longer route. They would become plain to someone who completed it. But we could give an account based on what we had already said. You said that would be enough. So that is how we discussed those subjects, without the precision I thought they needed. Whether it satisfied you is for you to say.”

“It seemed adequate to me,” he said, “and to the others too.” [504c]

“But, my friend,” I said, “a measure that falls even a little short of what is real is not adequate for these matters. Nothing incomplete is a measure of anything. Yet sometimes people think they have done enough and need look no further.”

“Yes,” he said. “A great many people fall into that habit through laziness.”

“And a guardian of a city and its laws is the last person who should have it,” I said.

“Of course,” he replied.

“So that person must take the longer route, my friend,” I said, “and work no less hard at study [504d] than at physical training. Otherwise, as we just said, that person will never reach the goal of the greatest and most fitting study.”

“Are these not the greatest subjects, then?” he said. “Is there something greater than justice and the other things we discussed?”

“There is something greater,” I said. “And even with those subjects, we must not look at a mere outline, as we have so far. We must not stop short of the finished picture. Wouldn’t it be ridiculous to make every effort over things of little value [504e] to get them as exact and pure as possible, but then fail to demand the greatest precision for the greatest things?”

“Yes, certainly. That is worth thinking about,” he said. “But do you really think anyone will let you go without asking what you mean by the greatest study, and what it studies?”

“Not likely,” I said. “Go ahead and ask. You have heard me speak of it often enough. Either you don’t understand now, or you mean [505a] to make trouble for me by interrupting. I suspect the latter. You have often heard that the Form of the Good is the greatest subject of study. It is by using the Good that just things and all the rest become useful and beneficial. You can probably tell that this is what I am about to say, and that we do not know it well enough. Without knowing it, even the fullest knowledge of everything else will do us no good. It would be like owning something [505b] without its being good. Do you think it would help us to own everything if none of it were good? Or to understand everything else but the Good, and understand nothing beautiful and good?”

“No, by Zeus, I don’t,” he said.

“And you know that most people think the Good is pleasure, while the more sophisticated think it is understanding.”

“Of course.”

“But, my friend, those who take that view cannot tell us what kind of understanding they mean. In the end they are forced to say, ‘understanding of the Good.’”

“Yes, that is quite ridiculous,” he said. [505c]

“How could it not be?” I said. “They blame us for not knowing the Good, but then talk to us as though we knew it. They call it understanding of the Good, as if we understood what they meant once they said the word ‘Good.’”

“Exactly,” he said.

“And what about those who define the Good as pleasure? Are they any less confused than the others? Aren’t they forced to agree that some pleasures are bad?”

“They certainly are.”

“Then I think they are agreeing that the same things are both good and bad. Isn’t that so?” [505d]

“Of course.”

“So it is clear that there are many serious disputes about the Good.”

“How could there not be?”

“Consider this too. Many people would choose things that merely seem just and beautiful, even if they are not. They would act that way, own such things, and appear to be such people. But when it comes to good things, no one is satisfied with what merely seems good. They want what really is good. Everyone rejects mere appearance in this case.”

“Certainly,” he said.

“Every soul pursues this and does everything [505e] for its sake. Each senses that there is such a thing, but cannot work out what it is or hold a firm belief about it as it can about other things. Because of this, it misses whatever benefit it might get from those other things. Is this so great and important a matter something we should leave in the dark [506a] even for the best people in our city, the ones to whom we entrust everything?”

“Certainly not,” he said.

“For my part,” I said, “I think that just and beautiful things will have little protection if their guardian does not understand how they are good. I suspect no one can know them adequately before knowing that.”

“That sounds right,” he said.

“So our constitution will be perfectly ordered if it is watched over [506b] by a guardian who knows these things.”

“It must be,” he said. “But you, Socrates, what do you say the Good is? Knowledge, pleasure, or something other than those?”

“There you are,” I said. “It has been obvious for a while that other people’s views about it would not satisfy you.”

“It does not seem fair to me, Socrates,” he said, “for someone who has spent so much time on these questions to be able to report other people’s opinions but not his own.” [506c]

“What?” I said. “Do you think it is fair for someone to speak as though he knows about something he does not know?”

“Not as though he knows,” he said. “But he should be willing to say what he thinks, as something he thinks.”

“What? Haven’t you noticed how ugly opinions without knowledge are? Even the best of them are blind. Are people who have a true opinion without understanding any different from blind people walking down the right road?”

“No different,” he said.

“So do you want to look at ugly, blind, crooked things, [506d] when you could hear clear and beautiful things from others?”

“For Zeus’s sake, Socrates,” Glaucon said, “don’t stop as though you were at the finish line! We will be satisfied if you discuss the Good as you discussed justice, moderation, and the rest.”

“I would be very satisfied too, my friend,” I said. “But I am afraid I cannot do it. If I try too hard, I will only make a fool of myself and get laughed at. My friends, let us leave aside for now what the Good itself [506e] actually is. Reaching even what I now think about it seems beyond our present effort. But I am willing to talk about what appears to be the Good’s offspring, and most like it, if you wish. Otherwise, I will leave it alone.”

“Tell us,” he said. “You can pay us the account of the father another time.”

[507a] “I wish I could pay that account, and that you could receive it,” I said, “instead of receiving only interest, as you will now. So take this interest, this offspring of the Good itself. But be careful: I might unintentionally cheat you and pay you with a false account of the interest.”

“We’ll be as careful as we can,” he said. “Just tell us.”

“First I must get your agreement,” I said, “and remind you of what we said earlier, both here and many other times.” [507b]

“What was that?” he asked.

“We say that there are many beautiful things and many good things, and many things of each other kind. We define them that way in speech.”

“Yes.”

“And we also speak of the beautiful itself and the Good itself. For each group of many things we spoke of then, we set down one Form for each kind, treating it as one, and call it what each thing is.”

“We do.”

“And we say that the many things can be seen but not understood by thought, while the Forms can be understood by thought but not seen.”

“Absolutely.” [507c]

“Which part of ourselves do we use to see things that can be seen?”

“Sight,” he said.

“And we hear sounds with hearing, and perceive every other sensible thing with the other senses?”

“Of course.”

“Have you noticed,” I said, “how much more carefully the maker of the senses made our power to see and to be seen?”

“Not really,” he said.

“Then think of it this way. Do hearing and sound need another kind of thing so that one can hear and the other be heard? If this third thing [507d] is absent, can hearing not hear and sound not be heard?”

“They need nothing else,” he said.

“And I think many other senses, if not all, need no such extra thing either. Can you name one that does?”

“No,” he said.

“But don’t you see that sight and visible things do need something else?”

“How so?”

“Suppose there is sight in the eyes and their owner tries to use it, and there is color in the objects. Unless a third kind of thing, naturally suited to this particular task, [507e] is present, you know sight will see nothing and the colors will remain invisible.”

“What thing do you mean?” he asked.

“What you call light,” I said.

“You are right,” he said.

“So the sense of sight and the power of things to be seen are joined by a bond much more valuable than the bonds of the other senses, if light really has value.”

[508a] “It certainly has a great deal of value,” he said.

“Then which of the gods in heaven do you say rules over it? Whose light lets our sight see as well as possible, and lets visible things be seen?”

“The same one you and everyone else would say,” he replied. “You obviously mean the sun.”

“Now is sight naturally related to this god in the following way?”

“How?”

“Sight itself is not the sun, nor is the organ in which it occurs, which we call the eye. [508b] Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“But I think the eye is the most sunlike of all the organs of sense.”

“By far.”

“And the power it has comes from the sun, as though it were supplied by a stream from it?”

“Yes.”

“And the sun, though not itself sight, causes sight and is seen by sight?”

“That is so,” he said.

“This, then,” I said, “is what I mean by the offspring of the Good. The Good brought the sun into being as something corresponding to itself. [508c] In the visible world, the sun has the same relation to sight and visible things as the Good has to understanding and the things understood in the world of thought.”

“How?” he said. “Explain some more.”

“You know what happens to eyes,” I said, “when someone turns them not toward things lit by daylight but toward things lit by the glimmer of night. They grow dim and seem almost blind, as though clear vision were gone.”

“Certainly,” he said. [508d]

“But when the same eyes turn to things lit by the sun, they see clearly. Sight plainly resides in those very eyes.”

“Of course.”

“Think of the soul in the same way. When it fixes its attention on what truth and reality light up, it understands and knows, and clearly has intelligence. But when it turns toward what is mixed with darkness, what comes into being and passes away, it forms opinions and sees dimly. Its opinions keep shifting back and forth, and it seems to have no intelligence.”

“It does,” he said. [508e]

“So say that the Form of the Good gives the objects of knowledge their truth and gives the knower the power to know. Think of it as the cause of knowledge and truth, while itself being something known. Knowledge and truth are both beautiful, but you will be right to think the Good is something different and even more beautiful than either. Knowledge

### Book VI, 509–511

[509a] and truth are like the sun in this respect: it is right to call light and sight sunlike, but wrong to call either one the sun. Likewise, it is right to call knowledge and truth like the Good, but wrong to call either one the Good. The Good must be valued even more highly.”

“That is an extraordinary beauty you are describing,” he said. “It gives us knowledge and truth, yet is itself more beautiful than either. Surely you don’t mean that it is pleasure.”

“Don’t say that,” I replied. “But look at its image in this further way.” [509b]

“How?”

“You would say, I think, that the sun gives visible things not only the power to be seen, but also their birth, growth, and nourishment, though the sun itself is not birth.”

“Of course.”

“Then say that the Good gives things we can know not only their being known, but also their being and reality. Yet the Good is not itself being. It is beyond being, surpassing it in dignity and power.” [509c]

Glaucon laughed and said, “Apollo! What an astonishing claim!”

“You are to blame,” I said, “for forcing me to say what I think about it.”

“And don’t stop,” he said. “At least continue the comparison with the sun, if you have left anything out.”

“I have left out a great deal,” I said.

“Then don’t leave out even a little,” he said.

“I expect I will leave out a lot,” I said. “Still, I will not deliberately omit anything I can tell you now.”

“Please don’t,” he said. [509d]

“Now consider this,” I said. “As we have been saying, there are two things, one ruling the kind and realm that can be understood by thought, the other ruling the visible kind and realm. I say ‘visible’ rather than ‘heavenly’ so you won’t think I am playing tricks with the words. Do you see these two kinds, the visible and the intelligible?”

“Yes.”

“Take a line divided into two unequal parts. Divide each part again in the same proportion, both the visible part and the intelligible part. The resulting parts differ in clarity and lack of clarity. In the visible part, [509e] one section consists of images. By images I mean first shadows, then reflections in water and in things with dense, smooth, shiny surfaces, and everything of that sort. Do you follow?”

[510a] “I do.”

“Now put in the other section the things those images resemble: the living creatures around us, all plants, and every kind of manufactured object.”

“I will,” he said.

“And would you agree,” I asked, “that this division also separates what has more truth from what has less? As the objects of opinion stand in relation to the objects of knowledge, so an image stands in relation to what it resembles.” [510b]

“I certainly agree,” he said.

“Now consider how to divide the intelligible part.”

“How?”

“In one section, the soul must investigate by starting from assumptions and using as images the things represented in the visible section. It moves not toward a first principle but toward a conclusion. In the other section, it starts from assumptions and moves toward a first principle that needs no assumption. It makes its way by the Forms themselves, not by using the images from the other section.”

“I haven’t quite understood what you mean,” he said. [510c]

“Let me try again,” I said. “What I have said first will make this easier to grasp. You know that people who study geometry, arithmetic, and similar subjects assume the odd and the even, the various shapes, the three kinds of angles, and other things of that sort relevant to each inquiry. They treat these as things they know and make them their starting assumptions. They think it unnecessary to give any account of them, either to themselves or to anyone else, [510d] as though they were obvious to everyone. Starting there, they go through the remaining steps and reach a conclusion that agrees with the aim of their investigation.”

“Yes, I know that,” he said.

“And you know that they also use visible shapes and discuss them, but they are not thinking about those particular shapes. They are thinking about the things these shapes resemble. They reason about the square itself and its diagonal, not the particular one they draw. The same goes for everything else. The shapes they mold or draw themselves have shadows and reflections in water, [510e] but they use those shapes in turn as images. They seek to see the things themselves, which no one can see except with thought.”

[511a] “That is true,” he said.

“This is what I meant by the intelligible kind. When the soul investigates it, it must use assumptions. It cannot move up to a first principle, because it cannot get beyond those assumptions. It uses as images things that are themselves represented by things in the section below. Those things, compared with their own images, were thought clearer and given greater value.” [511b]

“I understand,” he said. “You mean what is studied by geometry and related subjects.”

“Now understand what I mean by the other section of the intelligible. Reason itself grasps it through the power of discussion. It treats assumptions not as first principles, but as genuine assumptions, like steps and starting points. It uses them to reach the principle of everything, which rests on no assumption. When it has grasped that principle, it follows what comes from it back down to a conclusion. [511c] It makes no use at all of anything that can be sensed. It moves from Forms through Forms to Forms, and ends with Forms.”

“I understand,” he said, “though not completely, since you seem to be describing a great undertaking. But you want to distinguish what the practice of discussion studies, reality and the intelligible, as clearer than what the so-called sciences study. In those sciences, assumptions serve as first principles. The people studying their objects have to use thought rather than their senses. But because they start from assumptions instead of going up to a first principle, you think they do not have full understanding of those objects, [511d] even though those objects can be understood when seen in light of the first principle. You seem to call the state of mind of geometers and others like them ‘thought,’ not ‘understanding,’ because thought falls between opinion and understanding.”

“You have grasped it very well,” I said. “Now match these four sections with four states of mind. Give understanding to the highest section, thought to [511e] the second, belief to the third, and imagining to the last. Arrange them in proportion: the more truth their objects have, the clearer these states of mind are.”

“I understand,” he said, “and agree to arrange them as you say.”

### Book VII, 514–522

[514a] “Next,” I said, “picture our condition, as far as education or lack of it is concerned, through this experience. Imagine people living in an underground cave. Its entrance is open to the light and runs the whole length of the cave. They have been there since childhood, with their legs and necks chained. They must stay where they are and can look only [514b] straight ahead. The chains keep them from turning their heads. A fire burns behind them, above them and some distance away. Between the fire and the prisoners is a raised path. Imagine a low wall built alongside it, like the screen that puppet performers put between themselves and their audience, above which they show their puppets.”

“I see,” he said.

“Now imagine people carrying all sorts of objects along that wall, [514c] with the objects rising above it: statues

[515a] and figures of other animals made of stone, wood, and every kind of material. As you would expect, some of the people carrying them speak, and others are silent.”

“That is an odd picture,” he said, “and odd prisoners.”

“They are like us,” I said. “First, do you think such prisoners would ever have seen anything of themselves or one another except the shadows the fire throws on the cave wall opposite them?”

“How could they,” he said, “if they had been forced to keep their heads still [515b] all their lives?”

“And what about the objects carried past? Would they see anything else of those?”

“Of course not.”

“So if they could talk to each other, wouldn't they take the things they saw—the shadows—to be the real things?”

“They would have to.”

“And what if the prison also had an echo from the wall opposite them? Whenever one of the people passing by spoke, would the prisoners think the sound came from anything but the shadow going past?”

“By Zeus, I don't think they would,” he said. [515c]

“Then these people would take nothing to be real except the shadows of the objects made and carried past them,” I said.

“They certainly would,” he said.

“Now consider,” I said, “what their release from the chains and their cure from ignorance would be like if something of this kind happened naturally to them. Suppose one prisoner was freed and suddenly made to stand up, turn his neck, walk, and look toward the light. Doing all that would hurt him. The glare would keep him from seeing the objects whose [515d] shadows he used to see. What do you think he would say if someone told him that what he saw before was nonsense, but now he was closer to what is real, facing things that are more real, and seeing more correctly? Suppose that person pointed to each passing object and made him answer questions about what it was. Wouldn't he be at a loss and think the things he saw before were truer than the ones he was now being shown?”

“Much truer,” he said. [515e]

“And if he was made to look directly at the light, wouldn't his eyes hurt? Wouldn't he turn away and run back to the things he could see, thinking those really were clearer than the things being shown to him?”

“Yes,” he said.

“And if someone dragged him away from there by force,” I said, “up a rough, steep path, and would not let go until he had pulled him out into the sunlight, wouldn't the man be in pain

[516a] and resent being dragged? When he reached the light, wouldn't his eyes be so full of brightness that he could not see even one of the things we now call real?”

“No, not right away,” he said.

“He would need time to get used to it, I think, if he was to see things up there. At first he could most easily see shadows. Next he could see reflections of people and other things in water, and after that the things themselves. Then it would be easier for him to look at the things in the sky and the sky itself at night, looking toward the light of [516b] the stars and moon, than to look at the sun and its light by day.”

“Of course.”

“At last, I think, he could look at the sun itself, not its reflections in water or images of it in some other setting. He could see it in its own place and observe what it is like.”

“He would have to,” he said.

“After that he could work out that the sun gives us the seasons and years, governs everything [516c] in the visible world, and is somehow the cause of everything he and the others used to see.”

“Clearly he would arrive at that thought after the others,” he said.

“What then? Remembering his first home, the wisdom practiced there, and his fellow prisoners, wouldn't he feel glad about his change and pity them?”

“Very much.”

“Suppose the prisoners used to give honors, praise, and prizes to whoever could spot the passing shadows most quickly, best remember which usually came before and after [516d] which and which came together, and best predict from this what would come next. Do you think he would want those rewards or envy the people honored and powerful among them? Or would he feel as the man in Homer did, who would rather ‘work as a hired farmhand for another man, one with no land,’ and suffer anything at all than hold those opinions and live that way?” [516e]

“I think he would accept anything rather than live that way,” he said.

“Consider this too,” I said. “If that man went down again and sat in his old seat, wouldn't his eyes be filled with darkness when he came suddenly out of the sunlight?”

“They certainly would,” he said.

“And suppose he had to compete with the people who had always been prisoners in judging those shadows, while his sight was still dim,

[517a] before his eyes had adjusted. That adjustment would take quite some time. Wouldn't they laugh at him? Wouldn't they say that he had gone up and come back with his eyes ruined, and that it wasn't worth even trying to go up? And if they could get hold of the person trying to free them and lead them upward and kill him, wouldn't they kill him?”

“They certainly would,” he said.

“Now, my dear Glaucon,” I said, “we must apply this whole picture [517b] to what we said before. Compare the world we see with the home of the prisoners, and the light of the fire there with the power of the sun. If you take the climb upward and the sight of things above as the soul's journey up into the world of thought, you will understand what I believe. That is what you wanted to hear. Perhaps only a god knows whether it is true. At any rate, this is how it seems to me: in the world we can know, the Form of [517c] the Good is the last thing to be seen, and it is hard to see. Once seen, we must conclude that it is the cause of everything right and beautiful for everyone. In the visible world it gives rise to light and to the sun that rules light. In the world of thought it rules directly and gives us truth and understanding. Anyone who is to act wisely, whether privately or publicly, must see it.”

“I agree,” he said, “as far as I can.”

“Then agree with me on this too,” I said. “Don't be surprised that people who reach this point don't want to deal with ordinary human affairs. Their souls are always eager to spend their time above. [517d] That makes sense, if things really are as the picture suggests.”

“Yes, it makes sense,” he said.

“And would it be surprising,” I said, “if someone came back from looking at divine things to human troubles and behaved awkwardly and looked ridiculous? His eyes would still be dim. Before he was used to the darkness around him, he might be forced to argue in court or somewhere else about the shadows of justice or the images whose shadows they are. He would have to compete [517e] over how people who have never seen justice itself understand such things.”

“It would not be surprising in the least,” he said.

[518a] “But anyone with sense,” I said, “would remember that eyes can be disturbed in two ways and for two reasons: by moving from light into darkness, and by moving from darkness into light. He would think the same applies to the soul. When he saw a soul confused and unable to see clearly, he would not laugh without thinking. He would ask whether it had come from a brighter life and was darkened because it was not used to its new surroundings, or whether it was moving from deeper ignorance into a brighter life and was dazzled by the greater brightness. [518b] He would call the first soul fortunate because of its experience and its life, and pity the second. And if he wanted to laugh at the second, his laughter would be less ridiculous than laughter directed at the soul that had come down from the light above.”

“That's a very fair way of putting it,” he said.

“If this is true,” I said, “we must think about education in this way. It isn't what some people claim it is. They say they put knowledge into a soul that doesn't [518c] have it, as though they were putting sight into blind eyes.”

“They do say that,” he said.

“But our present argument shows that the power to learn is already in everyone's soul, along with the means each uses to learn. Think of an eye that cannot turn from darkness to light unless the whole body turns with it. In the same way, this power must turn with the whole soul away from the world of change, until it can bear to look at what is and at the brightest part of what is. We call that [518d] the Good, don't we?”

“Yes.”

“So education would be the skill of turning the soul around,” I said, “of finding the easiest and most effective way to turn it. It would not put sight into the soul. The soul already has sight, but is pointed the wrong way and isn't looking where it should. Education finds a way to correct that.”

“That seems right,” he said.

“The other so-called virtues of the soul may well be much like the qualities of the body. [518e] They aren't there at first, and are later produced by habits and practice. But the ability to understand seems more divine than anything else. It never loses its power. Depending on how it is turned, it becomes either useful and helpful

[519a] or useless and harmful. Haven't you noticed how keenly the small soul of someone called clever but wicked looks at the things it is turned toward? It sees them sharply, so its vision is not weak. But it has been forced to serve wickedness. The sharper its sight, the more harm it does.”

“Yes, I have,” he said.

“Yet if such a nature were trimmed from childhood,” I said, “and the weights tied to it by birth were cut away—lead weights, as it were, which become attached through eating, related pleasures, and greedy indulgence, and turn [519b] the soul's sight downward—then, freed from those weights and turned toward what is true, that same power in those same people would see truth as sharply as it now sees the things it is turned toward.”

“That is likely,” he said.

“And isn't this likely too,” I said, “indeed necessary from what we have said? Neither people without education or experience of truth [519c] nor those allowed to spend their whole lives in education could ever govern a city adequately. The first group has no single goal in life to guide everything they do, privately and publicly. The second group will refuse to take part willingly, because they think they have already moved to the islands of the blessed while they are still alive.”

“That's true,” he said.

“Then it is our job as founders,” I said, “to require the best natures to reach the study we earlier called the greatest: to see the Good [519d] and make that climb. Once they have climbed and seen enough, we must not let them do what they are now allowed to do.”

“What is that?”

“To stay up there,” I said, “and refuse to go back down to those prisoners and share their work and honors, whether those honors are worth little or much.”

“Then are we going to treat them unjustly,” he said, “and make them live worse lives when they could live better ones?” [519e]

“You have forgotten again, my friend,” I said, “that the law does not aim to give one group in the city an especially good life. It works to make a good life possible throughout the city. It brings the citizens together through persuasion and compulsion, making each group share with the others whatever benefit it can give the community.

[520a] The law itself produces people of this kind in the city, not to let them go wherever they choose but to use them to bind the city together.”

“That's true,” he said. “I had forgotten.”

“Now consider, Glaucon,” I said, “that we won't be wronging the philosophers raised among us. We will have a fair reason for requiring them to take care of the others and act as guardians. We will say: ‘In other [520b] cities, people like you quite reasonably do not share in the work of government. They grow up on their own, without their city's system intending it. What grows on its own owes no one the cost of raising it, and is right not to be eager to repay that cost. But we brought you into being, for yourselves and for the rest of the city, as leaders and kings, like those in a beehive. You have received a better and more complete education than those other philosophers, and you are better able [520c] to share in both kinds of life. So each of you must take your turn going back down to live with the others and get used to seeing things in the dark. Once you are used to it, you will see a thousand times better than the people there. You will recognize each image for what it is and what it represents, because you have seen the truth about beautiful, just, and good things. Then our city will be governed by people who are awake, not dreaming as most cities are now. They are governed by people fighting each other over shadows and quarreling about who gets to rule, [520d] as if ruling were some great prize. The truth is this: a city whose future rulers are least eager to rule must be governed best and have the least internal strife. A city with the opposite kind of rulers will be governed in the opposite way.’”

“Absolutely,” he said.

“Do you think those we have educated will disobey us when they hear this? Will they refuse to take their turns sharing the city's work, while spending most of their time with one another in the clear light?” [520e]

“Impossible,” he said. “We will be giving just orders to just people. But each of them will approach ruling as a duty, quite unlike those who rule in cities today.”

“That's how it is, my friend,” I said. “If you can find a life better than ruling for the people who are to rule,

[521a] you can have a well-governed city. Only in such a city will the rulers be truly rich—not in gold, but in what a happy person needs to be rich in: a good, sensible life. But if people who are poor and hungry for private rewards enter public life thinking they can grab what is good for themselves there, a well-governed city is impossible. When ruling becomes something to fight over, that kind of civil war destroys both them and the rest of the city.”

“That's absolutely true,” he said. [521b]

“Can you name any life besides that of true philosophy,” I said, “that looks down on political office?”

“By Zeus, I can't,” he said.

“But people who love ruling must not be the ones to take it up. Otherwise rival lovers of power will fight them.”

“Of course.”

“So whom else will you require to guard the city but those who best understand how a city can be governed well, and who have other honors and a better life than a political one?”

“No one else,” he said. [521c]

“Shall we now examine how such people will develop, and how someone can lead them into the light, as some people are said to have risen from Hades to the gods?”

“Of course I want to,” he said.

“This won't be like turning over a gaming piece,” I said. “It will be the turning around of a soul from a kind of night-bound day to the true day. It is the soul's climb toward what is, and we will call it true philosophy.”

“Certainly.”

“Then we must consider which studies have the power [521d] to do this.”

“Of course.”

“What study, Glaucon, could draw the soul away from the world of change toward what is? As I say this, something else occurs to me. Didn't we say these people had to be trained for war when they were young?”

“We did.”

“Then the study we are looking for must have this quality as well.”

“What quality?”

“It must not be useless to soldiers.”

“Yes, if that's possible,” he said.

“We previously educated them in physical training and music and poetry.” [521e]

“We did,” he said.

“Physical training deals with things that grow and decay. It looks after the body's growth and decline.”

“So it seems.”

“Then it cannot be the study we are looking for.”

[522a] “No.”

“Could it be the music and poetry we discussed earlier?”

“But that,” he said, “was the counterpart of physical training, if you remember. It educated the guardians through habits. Through harmony it gave them a sense of harmony, not knowledge; through rhythm, a sense of rhythm. It offered related habits in stories, whether the stories were mythical or more truthful. But there was nothing in it that led to the kind of study [522b] you are looking for now.”

“You remind me very precisely,” I said. “It really had nothing of the kind. But, Glaucon, what could there be? We found that all the practical trades were too lowly for this purpose—”

“Of course. What study remains apart from music and poetry, physical training, and the trades?”

“Well,” I said, “if we can find nothing outside those, let's choose something that applies to all of them.”

“Such as what?” [522c]

“Something common to all trades, all thinking, and all branches of knowledge, which everyone has to learn first.”

“What is that?” he said.

“The simple matter,” I said, “of telling one, two, and three apart. In short, I mean number and calculation. Doesn't every trade and every branch of knowledge have to use them?”

“Yes, indeed,” he said.

“And the art of war too?” I said.

“It certainly must,” he said. [522d]

“In the tragedies, Palamedes makes Agamemnon look like a thoroughly ridiculous general. Haven't you noticed his claim that he invented numbers, arranged the ranks of the army at Troy, and counted the ships and everything else? Apparently none of them had been counted before. And Agamemnon, it seems, didn't even know how many feet he had, if he couldn't count. What kind of general do you think he was?”

“A strange one, if that story was true,” he said. [522e]

“Then shall we say that the ability to calculate and count is another necessary subject for a soldier?”

“More than any other,” he said, “if he is to understand anything at all about arranging troops—or, for that matter, if he is even going to be human.”

“Do you notice what I notice about this study?” I asked.

“What?”

### Book VII, 523–530

[523a] “It seems to be one of the studies we are looking for, one that naturally leads to understanding. Yet nobody uses it properly, though it can certainly draw the soul toward what is real.”

“What do you mean?” he said.

“I'll try to explain what I think,” I said. “As I sort out for myself which things lead where we're talking about and which do not, look at them with me. Agree or disagree, so we can see more clearly whether my guess is right.”

“Show me,” he said.

“Here is what I mean,” I said. “Some things we sense [523b] do not call understanding to examine them, because the senses judge them well enough. Others insist that understanding look into them, because the senses produce no reliable result.”

“Clearly you mean distant objects,” he said, “and things painted to create an illusion.”

“That's not quite what I mean,” I said.

“Then what do you mean?” he asked.

“Things that don't call for thought,” I said, “are those whose perception doesn't also produce [523c] an opposite perception. Things that do produce one, I count as calling for thought, because the sense reports a thing and its opposite with equal force, whether it encounters the thing nearby or far away. Here is a clearer example. We say these are three fingers: the little finger, the next one, and the middle finger.”

“Yes,” he said.

“Keep in mind that I'm talking about seeing them close up. Now consider this about them.”

“What?”

“Each looks equally like a finger. [523d] It makes no difference in that respect whether it's in the middle or at the end, white or black, thick or thin, or anything else of that kind. In all these cases, most people's souls aren't forced to ask their understanding what a finger is. Sight has never reported to the soul that a finger is, at the same time, the opposite of a finger.”

“No, it hasn't,” he said.

“So it makes sense,” I said, “that this sort of thing would not [523e] call understanding into action or wake it up.”

“It does.”

“But what about their size? Does sight see whether they are large or small well enough? Does it make no difference to sight whether one is in the middle or at the end? Does touch judge their thickness and thinness, softness and hardness, equally well? Don't the other senses give inadequate reports about such things? Or

[524a] does each sense work this way? The sense responsible for hardness must also register softness. It tells the soul that it has sensed the same thing as both hard and soft.”

“Yes,” he said.

“So in cases like these,” I said, “the soul must be puzzled by what that sense means by ‘hard,’ if it calls the same thing soft as well. And it must ask what the senses mean by ‘light’ and ‘heavy’ if they report what is heavy as light and what is light as heavy.” [524b]

“Yes,” he said, “those reports are strange to the soul and need investigating.”

“So it makes sense,” I said, “that in these cases the soul first calls on calculation and understanding. It tries to find out whether each of the things reported to it is one or two.”

“Of course.”

“And if they appear to be two, each appears separate and one in itself?”

“Yes.”

“If each is one and the two together make two, the soul will think of them as separate. [524c] If they were not separate, it would think of them not as two but as one.”

“Right.”

“But we say sight saw both large and small, not separately but mixed up together. Isn't that so?”

“Yes.”

“To make this clear, understanding had to see large and small separately, not mixed together. It did the opposite of sight.”

“True.”

“And isn't this where we first come to ask, ‘What are large and small, anyway?’”

“Exactly.”

“And this is how we came to call one thing intelligible and the other visible.” [524d]

“Quite right,” he said.

“This is what I was trying to say just now. Some things call thought into action and others don't. I defined the first as things whose sensations include their own opposites at the same time, and the second as things that don't wake understanding up.”

“Now I understand,” he said, “and that seems right to me.”

“So which kind do you think number and the one belong to?”

“I don't see,” he said.

“Then reason it out from what we've said,” I replied. “If the one can be seen clearly in itself, or grasped by some other sense, it will not draw us toward what is real, as we said about the finger. [524e] But if it is always seen along with something that contradicts it, so that it appears no more one than its opposite, we will need something to judge between them. The soul will then have to puzzle over it and investigate. It will stir its own thinking and ask what the one itself is. In that way, the study of the one will be among the studies

[525a] that lead and turn the soul toward the sight of what is.”

“But that is especially true of the sight of the one,” he said. “We see the same thing at once as one and as unlimited in number.”

“And if that's true of the one,” I said, “isn't it also true of every number?”

“Of course.”

“And calculation and arithmetic are entirely concerned with numbers.”

“Yes.” [525b]

“So they clearly lead us toward truth.”

“They certainly do.”

“Then they seem to be among the studies we are looking for. A soldier needs to learn them in order to arrange troops. A philosopher needs them in order to reach what is real, rising out of the world of change. Otherwise that person will never be able to calculate.”

“That's right,” he said.

“And our guardian is both a soldier and a philosopher.”

“Of course.”

“So, Glaucon, it would be right to make this study a requirement by law and persuade the people who will hold the most important positions [525c] in the city to take up calculation. They must study it not as amateurs, but until they reach an understanding of the nature of numbers through thought itself. They should not practice it for buying and selling, like merchants or shopkeepers. They should do it for war, and to make it easier for the soul itself to turn from the world of change to truth and what is real.”

“Well said,” he replied.

“Now that we have mentioned the study of calculation,” I said, “I see how valuable it is. It is useful in many ways for what we want, if a person practices it for knowledge and not for trade.” [525d]

“How?” he asked.

“In the way we just described. It powerfully leads the soul upward. It forces the soul to discuss numbers themselves, and never accepts anyone offering it visible or tangible objects that have numbers and discussing those instead. You know how experts in this subject behave. If someone tries to divide [525e] the one itself in an argument, they laugh and reject the attempt. If you break it into fractions, they multiply those fractions, careful not to let the one turn out to be many parts instead of one.”

“That's exactly right,” he said.

[526a] “So, Glaucon, suppose someone asked them, ‘My good friends, what sort of numbers are you talking about? In these numbers, the one is just as you say: each unit is entirely equal to every other, differs not at all, and contains no parts.’ What do you think they would answer?”

“I think they would say they mean numbers that can only be thought about, not handled in any other way.”

“Do you see, my friend,” I said, “that this study really does seem necessary [526b] for us? It clearly forces the soul to use understanding itself to reach truth itself.”

“It certainly does,” he said.

“And have you noticed this? People who have a natural gift for calculation tend to learn almost every subject quickly. Those who are slow learners improve if they're taught and trained in it. Even if they gain nothing else, every one of them becomes quicker than they were before.”

“That's true,” he said. [526c]

“And I think you would have trouble finding many subjects, if any, that take more work to learn and practice.”

“You would,” he said.

“For all these reasons we must not leave this study out. Our most gifted people must be taught it.”

“I agree,” he said.

“Let that be our first study,” I said. “Now let's look at the one that comes next and see whether it suits our purpose.”

“Which one? Do you mean geometry?” he asked.

“Exactly,” I said. [526d]

“It obviously suits military purposes,” he said. “In choosing places to camp or occupy, bringing troops together or spreading them out, and arranging an army in all the other ways needed during battles and marches, a general's knowledge of geometry will make a difference.”

“But for that,” I said, “a small part of geometry and calculation would do. We must look at the greater, more advanced part and see whether it serves [526e] our aim: helping people see the Form of the Good more easily. We say that everything serves this aim if it forces the soul to turn toward that place where the happiest of all realities is, which it must see by every possible means.”

“That's right,” he said.

“So if geometry forces us to study what is real, it suits our purpose. If it studies the world of change, it doesn't.”

“We agree on that.”

[527a] “And no one with even a little experience of geometry,” I said, “will dispute this: the nature of that subject is the exact opposite of what the people working at it say about it.”

“How so?” he asked.

“They speak in a funny way, though they can hardly help it. They talk as if they are doing things for practical purposes. They say they're ‘squaring,’ ‘extending,’ and ‘adding,’ and use all sorts of terms like that. But the whole subject [527b] is pursued for the sake of knowledge.”

“Exactly,” he said.

“Then we also have to agree on this, don't we?”

“On what?”

“That it gives knowledge of what always is, not of something that comes into being at one time and passes away at another.”

“That's easy to agree to,” he said. “Geometry is knowledge of what always is.”

“Then, my good friend, it would draw the soul toward truth. It would develop a philosopher's mind so that it turned upward, rather than staying turned downward as ours now do when they shouldn't.”

“As much as anything could,” he said. [527c]

“Then we must do everything we can,” I said, “to make sure that the people of your beautiful city never neglect geometry. Even its secondary benefits are important.”

“Which ones?” he asked.

“The military uses you mentioned,” I said. “And we know it makes a huge difference to how well someone grasps every other subject, whether that person has studied geometry or not.”

“A huge difference, by Zeus,” he said.

“Shall we make this the second study for the young?”

“Let's,” he said. [527d]

“What about astronomy? Shall we make it the third?”

“I think so,” he said. “A better grasp of seasons, months, and years matters not only for farming and sailing, but just as much for commanding an army.”

“You amuse me,” I said. “You seem afraid that most people will think you're prescribing useless studies. But it is no small matter—and it is hard to believe—that these studies clean and rekindle an instrument in each person's soul. Other pursuits are destroying it and making it blind, yet saving it is worth more than saving ten thousand eyes. Only with that instrument do we see truth. [527e] People who agree with us on this will think you speak remarkably well. People who have never understood it will naturally think you're talking nonsense, because they see no other benefit from these studies worth mentioning. So decide right now which people you're talking to. Or are you talking chiefly for your own sake, rather than for either group? Still, you wouldn't begrudge anyone else the benefit they might get from what you say.”

[528a] “That's what I choose,” he said. “I speak, ask, and answer mainly for my own sake.”

“Then go back a step,” I said. “Just now we chose the wrong subject to follow geometry.”

“How did we?” he asked.

“After studying surfaces,” I said, “we went straight to solids in motion before studying solids themselves. But the right order after the second dimension is to take the third. That concerns the growth of cubes and things that have depth.” [528b]

“Yes,” he said, “but that subject does not seem to have been developed yet, Socrates.”

“There are two reasons,” I said. “No city values it, so people do little research into it, difficult as it is. And researchers need someone to direct them; without such a person they won't make discoveries. First, it's hard to find a director. Even if one were found, researchers in this field as things stand are too proud to listen. [528c] But if a whole city helped direct them and valued the subject, they would listen. If research went on steadily and energetically, its nature would become clear. Even now, although most people disrespect it and hinder its growth, and even though its researchers cannot explain its use, its appeal drives it to develop in spite of all this. It would not be surprising if it came to light.”

“It certainly has a special appeal,” he said. “But explain what you were saying more clearly. You called the study of surfaces geometry.” [528d]

“Yes,” I said.

“Then you put astronomy after it at first, but later you went back.”

“In my rush to get through everything quickly,” I said, “I'm actually slowing myself down. The study of the third dimension should have come next. But because its research is in such a sorry state, I skipped it and put astronomy—the study of solids in motion—after geometry.” [528e]

“That's right,” he said.

“Then let's make astronomy the fourth study,” I said, “assuming that the city takes up the study we are now leaving out.”

“That makes sense,” he said. “Socrates, you just criticized me for praising astronomy in a crude way. Now I'll praise it on your terms. Surely anyone can see that it forces the soul to look upward and leads it away from things down here and toward things up there.”

[529a] “Maybe everyone can see that but me,” I said. “I don't think it does.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“As practiced today by people who claim it leads to philosophy, it makes the soul look very much downward.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“I think you're being rather generous in your own idea of what studying the things above means,” I said. “You might think that if someone leaned his head back to study decorations on a ceiling, [529b] he was observing them with his understanding, not his eyes. Maybe you're right and I'm being foolish. But I cannot believe any subject makes the soul look upward except one concerned with what is real and invisible. If someone tries to learn about a visible thing by staring up with his mouth open or looking down with his eyes half shut, I say he will never learn it. There is no knowledge of such things. His soul will look down, not up, [529c] even if he studies while floating on his back on land or at sea.”

“I deserve that,” he said. “You were right to criticize me. But how did you mean astronomy should be studied differently from the way people study it now, if it is to help them reach the goal we are talking about?”

“Like this,” I said. “We should recognize that the patterns in the sky, because they are set in the visible world, are the most beautiful and exact visible things of their kind. But they fall far short [529d] of the true things: the motions by which true speed and true slowness move relative to each other according to true number and every true figure, and move the things they contain. These can be grasped by reasoning and thought, not by sight. Don't you agree?”

“Completely,” he said.

“Then we must use the patterns of the sky as models to help us study those true things. It would be like finding drawings carefully made and executed by Daedalus or another craftsman or painter. [529e] A person who knew geometry would think such drawings were very beautifully made, but would find it ridiculous to examine them seriously in hopes of finding in them the exact truth about equal or double lengths or any other proportion.”

[530a] “Of course it would be ridiculous,” he said.

“Don't you think a real astronomer will feel the same way when he looks at the motions of the stars?” I asked. “He will believe that the maker of the sky has arranged the sky and everything in it as beautifully as visible things can be arranged. But think of the proportions between night and day, between them and the month, between the month and the year, and between the other stars [530b] and both these measures and one another. Won't he think it strange if anyone believes these relationships always stay exactly the same and never vary in any way, even though these things have bodies and can be seen? Won't he think it strange to try in every way to find the exact truth about them?”

“Now that I hear you say it, I do,” he replied.

“Then we'll study astronomy by working on problems, just as we do in geometry,” I said. “We'll leave the things in the sky alone, if we want our study of astronomy to make the part of the soul that is naturally capable of understanding useful [530c] instead of useless.”

“You're demanding far more work than current astronomy involves,” he said.

“I think we'll make similar demands of the other studies,” I said, “if we're to be any use as lawmakers. Can you suggest another suitable subject?”

“Not just now,” he said.

“Motion has more than one form,” I said. “A wise person might be able to name them all, but two are obvious even to us.” [530d]

“What are they?”

“Alongside the one we've mentioned, there is its counterpart.”

“What's that?”

“It seems,” I said, “that just as eyes are fitted for astronomy, ears are fitted for harmonious motion. These two fields are like sisters, as the Pythagoreans say, and we agree with them, Glaucon. Don't we?”

“Yes,” he said. [530e]

“Since there's a great deal to do, we'll ask them what they say about these subjects, and whether there's anything else to add. But through it all we'll keep our own requirement in view.”

“What requirement?”

“That those we educate must never try to learn any part of these subjects without carrying it through to its end. Each study must always reach the goal toward which all studies should lead, as we were just saying about astronomy. Or don't you know that

### Book VII, 531–538

[531a] “And don’t they do something similar with musical harmony? They measure the audible combinations and notes against one another, and, like the astronomers, do endless work.”

“By the gods, yes,” he said, “and it’s ridiculous. They talk about some kind of tiny intervals and hold their ears close together, as if trying to catch a sound from next door. Some say they can still hear a sound in between and that this is the smallest interval to use as a measure. Others disagree and say the notes already sound the same. Both groups [531b] trust their ears instead of their minds.”

“You mean,” I said, “those fine fellows who give the strings a hard time, testing and twisting them around the tuning pegs. But I don’t want to stretch this comparison out with talk of strings being struck by picks, accused, denying the charge, and boasting. So I’ll stop the comparison. Those are not the people I mean. I mean the people we just said we would question about harmony. They do the same thing as the astronomers. [531c] They look for numerical relations in audible harmonies. But they don’t move up to questions about which numbers form harmonious relations, which don’t, and why.”

“That sounds like a remarkable undertaking,” he said.

“It is useful,” I said, “for the search for what is beautiful and good. Pursued for any other purpose, it is useless.”

“That seems right,” he said.

“And I think,” I said, “that if the study of all the subjects we have discussed [531d] gets as far as their connections and kinship, and works out how they belong together, the effort will help us reach our goal and won’t be wasted. Otherwise it will be wasted.”

“That’s my guess too,” he said. “But what you’re describing is an enormous job, Socrates.”

“Do you mean the prelude,” I asked, “or something else? Don’t we know that all this is only the prelude to the main song we must learn? You surely don’t think that experts in these subjects are dialecticians, [531e] do you?”

“No, by Zeus,” he said, “apart from a very few whom I’ve met.”

“Well then,” I said, “will people who cannot give and receive an account ever know any of the things we say they must know?”

“No, not that either,” he said.

[532a] “So, Glaucon,” I said, “isn’t this the main song that discussion itself brings to its close? It belongs to thought, but the power of sight could imitate it. We said sight tries to look at the living things themselves, then the stars themselves, and finally the sun itself. In the same way, when someone uses discussion and reason alone, without any of the senses, to reach what each thing really is, and doesn’t stop until [532b] the mind itself grasps what the Good itself is, that person arrives at the end of the realm of thought, just as the other arrived at the end of the visible realm.”

“Absolutely,” he said.

“So don’t you call this journey dialectic?”

“Of course.”

“And consider,” I said, “the release from chains, the turn from shadows toward the images and the light, and the climb out of the cave into the sunlight. Once there, the person still cannot look [532c] at the animals, the plants, or the sunlight, but can look at the divine reflections in water and at shadows of real things—not at shadows of images cast by a different kind of light that is like the sun only by comparison. All the study of the subjects we have discussed has this power. It leads the best part of the soul up to see the best thing among all that is, just as the clearest faculty in the body was led to see the brightest thing in the bodily, [532d] visible world.”

“I accept that,” he said. “Still, it seems very hard to accept, but hard in another way not to accept. In any case, we shouldn’t hear these points just once now; we’ll have to come back to them many times. Let’s take them as stated for the moment and move on to the main song itself. Let’s go through it as we went through the prelude. Tell me what kind of power dialectic has, [532e] what its divisions are, and what paths it takes. Those paths would apparently lead us to our destination. When we reach it, we can rest from the road, at the end of our journey.”

[533a] “My dear Glaucon,” I said, “you won’t be able to follow me any further, though I wouldn’t lack enthusiasm. You would no longer see an image of what we mean, but the truth itself, at least as it appears to me. Whether it really is the truth or not is more than I should insist on now. But we must insist that there is something of this kind to see. Right?”

“Of course.”

“And that the power of dialectic alone could reveal it to someone experienced in the studies we just went through, and no other method could?”

“Yes,” he said, “that too is worth insisting on. [533b]”

“At any rate,” I said, “no one will dispute this: no other method sets out systematically to grasp what each thing itself is. All the other arts deal with people’s opinions and desires, or with things being produced and assembled, or with caring for things that grow or are assembled. As for the remaining subjects, which we said do grasp something of what is—geometry and its related studies—we can see that they dream [533c] about what is, but cannot see it while awake. They use assumptions, leave them undisturbed, and cannot give an account of them. If someone starts with what they do not know, and builds both the conclusion and everything between on what they do not know, how could that connected argument ever become knowledge?”

“It couldn’t,” he said.

“Then dialectic alone follows this route,” I said. “It does away with assumptions to reach the first principle itself [533d] and establish a firm basis. The eye of the soul is really buried in a kind of foreign mud; dialectic gently pulls it out and leads it upward. It uses the studies we discussed as helpers in this turning. We have often called those studies knowledge out of habit. But they need a different name, something clearer than opinion but less clear than knowledge. Earlier we defined it as thought. Yet I don’t think a dispute [533e] about names matters when we have such important things to examine.”

“No, it doesn’t,” he said.

“As long as the name clearly expresses the state of the soul, that will be enough?”

“Yes.”

“Then, as before,” I said, “we can call the first part knowledge, the second thought, the third

[534a] belief, and the fourth imagining. We can group the last two together as opinion, and the first two as understanding. Opinion concerns what comes into being; understanding concerns what is. What understanding is to opinion, being is to becoming. And as understanding is to opinion, knowledge is to belief and thought is to imagining. But let’s leave aside, Glaucon, the exact relations between their objects and the twofold division of each realm, the realm of opinion and the realm of thought. Otherwise we’ll be caught up in far more discussion than we’ve had already. [534b]”

“As far as I can follow,” he said, “I agree with the rest.”

“Would you call someone a dialectician if they can give an account of what each thing is? And when a person cannot give such an account to themselves or anyone else, wouldn’t you say that, to that extent, they don’t understand it?”

“How could I say otherwise?” he said.

“The same goes for the Good. Suppose someone cannot separate the Form [534c] of the Good from everything else and define it in an argument. Suppose they cannot make their way through every challenge, as if through a battle, testing their case by what is rather than by opinion, and come through all these tests with their argument intact. You will say that this person knows neither the Good itself nor anything else good. If they somehow get hold of an image of it, they grasp it by opinion, not knowledge. They spend this life dreaming and asleep. Before waking up here, they will arrive in Hades [534d] and fall completely asleep.”

“By Zeus,” he said, “I will certainly say all of that.”

“Now imagine the children you are raising and educating in our discussion. If you ever raised them in reality, you wouldn’t, I think, let them rule the city and decide its most important matters while they were as unable to reason as lines drawn on a page.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” he said.

“So you will make a law that they must receive above all an education that enables them to ask and answer questions with the greatest understanding? [534e]”

“I will,” he said, “with your help.”

“Then,” I said, “doesn’t dialectic sit on top of our studies like the capstone? No other study can rightly be placed above it. Haven’t our studies

[535a] now reached their end?”

“I think so,” he said.

“What remains for you to decide,” I said, “is who will receive these studies and how.”

“Clearly,” he said.

“Do you remember our earlier choice of rulers, and what kind of people we chose?”

“Of course I do,” he said.

“For the most part,” I said, “choose people with those same qualities. We should prefer the steadiest and bravest, and, as far as possible, the best-looking. [535b] Besides being noble and strong in character, they must also have qualities suited to this education.”

“What qualities do you mean?”

“My friend,” I said, “they must be quick at their studies and learn without too much difficulty. Souls lose heart much more readily over demanding studies than over physical training. The effort of study falls on the soul alone; the body does not share it.”

“That’s true,” he said. [535c]

“We must also look for someone with a good memory, who doesn’t give up, and who is willing to work hard in every way. Otherwise, how could anyone be willing both to train the body and to complete so much learning and practice?”

“No one,” he said, “unless they have an exceptional natural ability.”

“In fact,” I said, “the present mistake, which has brought philosophy into disrepute, comes from just what we said before: people who take it up are not worthy of it. It should be taken up by genuine students, not false ones.”

“What do you mean?” he asked. [535d]

“First,” I said, “anyone who takes it up must not be halfhearted about hard work—eager for effort in one area but lazy in another. That happens when a person loves exercise and hunting and gladly works hard at anything physical, but doesn’t love learning, listening, or inquiry and hates effort in all those areas. Someone whose willingness to work is the reverse of that is just as lacking.”

“What you say is quite true,” he said.

“And when it comes to truth,” I said, “won’t we also call a soul defective [535e] if it hates deliberate lies, cannot bear to tell them, and is outraged when others do, yet readily accepts an unintentional falsehood? Such a person feels no shame when caught in ignorance, but is happy to wallow in it like a pig in mud.”

[536a] “Certainly,” he said.

“We must be just as careful to tell genuine character from counterfeit when we look at self-control, courage, generosity of spirit, and every other part of virtue. Unless an individual or a city knows how to examine all these qualities, they may unknowingly use defective and counterfeit people for any purpose—as friends in one case, as rulers in the other.”

“That is very true,” he said.

“We must guard against all such mistakes,” I said. “[536b] If we bring people who are sound in body and mind to so much study and training, and educate them, justice itself will have no complaint against us. We will preserve the city and its constitution. But if we bring people of another kind to this, we will bring about the exact opposite, and heap even more ridicule on philosophy.”

“That would certainly be shameful,” he said.

“Yes,” I said. “But I seem to have done something ridiculous myself just now.”

“What?” he asked. [536c]

“I forgot that we were playing a game,” I said, “and spoke too intensely. While I was speaking, I looked toward philosophy. I saw her being treated with undeserved contempt, and I think I got upset. I was almost angry at those responsible, and spoke more seriously than I meant to.”

“Not to my ears, by Zeus,” he said.

“But to mine as the speaker,” I said. “Let’s not forget one thing: in our earlier selection we chose older people, [536d] but that won’t do this time. We must not believe Solon’s saying that a person can learn many things as they grow old. They are even less able to learn than to run. All the great and many kinds of effort belong to the young.”

“That must be so,” he said.

“Then arithmetic, geometry, and all the other preparatory studies needed before dialectic must be offered to them as children. But we must not shape the teaching as a compulsory course.”

“Why not? [536e]”

“Because,” I said, “a free person should not learn any subject under compulsion. Physical exertion forced on the body makes it no worse. But nothing forced into the soul as learning stays there.”

“That’s true,” he said.

“So, my friend,” I said, “don’t use force to train children in their

[537a] studies. Let them learn through play. Then you will be better able to see what each one is naturally suited to.”

“That makes sense,” he said.

“And do you remember,” I said, “that we also said children should be taken to war on horseback as spectators? If it is safe, they should be brought close enough to get a taste of blood, like young dogs.”

“I remember,” he said.

“Then in all these efforts, studies, and dangers, we must select the ones who consistently show the greatest skill and put them on a list. [537b]”

“At what age?” he asked.

“When they finish the required physical training,” I said. “For that period, whether it lasts two years or three, they cannot do much else. Exhaustion and sleep are enemies of study. Besides, how each one performs in physical training is itself a major test.”

“Of course it is,” he said.

“After that period,” I said, “the chosen ones, now twenty years old, will receive greater honors than the others. [537c] They must bring together the subjects they learned in no particular order as children, to see how the subjects relate to each other and to the nature of what is.”

“That is the only kind of learning,” he said, “that lasts in those who acquire it.”

“And it is the best test,” I said, “of who has a natural talent for dialectic. Someone who can see things together is a dialectician; someone who cannot, isn’t.”

“I agree,” he said.

“So,” I said, “you will have to observe them and select those [537d] who are strongest in this ability and who remain steady in their studies, in war, and in their other lawful duties. When they pass the age of thirty, select again from this chosen group. Give them greater honors and test them with dialectic, to see who can leave behind the eyes and other senses and reach what truly is. And here, my friend, you must be very careful.”

“Why especially here?” he asked. [537e]

“Don’t you see,” I said, “how much harm comes from the way dialectic is practiced now?”

“What harm?” he asked.

“People who practice it become filled with contempt for the law,” I said.

“They certainly do,” he said.

“Do you think that is surprising,” I asked, “and can’t you forgive them?”

“Why should I?” he asked.

“Take this example,” I said. “Suppose a child brought into a family as someone else’s child grew up with great wealth, [538a] in a large and distinguished family, surrounded by many flatterers. When he became a man, he discovered that the people who claimed to be his parents were not his parents, but could not find the people who really gave birth to him. Can you guess how he would treat the flatterers and the people who took him in, both before and after he knew the truth? Or would you like to hear my guess?”

“I would,” he said.

“My guess,” I said, “is that before he knew the truth he would respect [538b] the man and woman he thought were his parents, and the other people he thought were his family, more than the flatterers. He would be less likely to neglect them if they needed anything, less likely to say or do anything unlawful against them, and less likely to disobey them in important matters than to disobey the flatterers.”

“That seems likely,” he said.

“But once he learned the truth, I expect he would relax his respect and concern for the people he had thought were his family, and give more of both to the flatterers. He would listen to them much more than before [538c] and begin to live as they do, associating with them openly. Unless he had an exceptionally decent nature, he would care nothing for the man he once called his father or for his supposed family.”

“Everything you say sounds like what would happen,” he said. “But how does this example apply to people who take up arguments?”

“In this way. From childhood we have beliefs about justice and what is honorable. We are raised with them as with parents; we obey and respect them.”

“Yes, we are. [538d]”

“But there are also opposite ways of behaving that offer pleasure. They flatter our souls and draw us toward them, though they cannot persuade anyone with even a little self-control. Such people respect and obey the beliefs handed down to them instead.”

“That’s so.”

“Now suppose someone like this is asked, ‘What is honorable?’ He answers with what he heard from the lawgiver, but an argument refutes his answer. After repeated challenges on many points, he comes to think that the thing in question is no more [538e] honorable than shameful. The same happens with justice, the Good, and the things he used to respect most. After that, how do you think he will treat those beliefs? Will he still respect and obey them?”

“He can’t respect or obey them as he did before,” he said.

“So when he no longer considers them worthy of respect or close to him as he once did, and has not found the truth, what kind of

### Book VII, 539–541

[539a] life is he likely to turn to except the one that flatters him?”

“No other kind,” he said.

“So I imagine he will seem to have gone from law-abiding to lawless.”

“He must.”

“Then isn’t it natural for people who take up arguments this way to suffer this? And, as I said just now, don’t they deserve a great deal of understanding?”

“And pity,” he said.

“Then if you don’t want to have to pity your thirty-year-olds, you must take every precaution when you introduce them to argument.”

“Certainly,” he said. [539b]

“Isn’t one important precaution to keep them from tasting it while they’re young? I’m sure you’ve noticed that when young men first get a taste for arguments, they treat them as a game. They use them constantly to contradict people. They imitate those who question others and start questioning people themselves. Like puppies, they delight in grabbing at whoever is nearby and tearing them apart with arguments.”

“They certainly do,” he said.

“After they have refuted many people and many have refuted [539c] them, they quickly come to believe strongly in nothing they believed before. The result is that they themselves, and philosophy as a whole, get a bad name among everyone else.”

“That’s quite true,” he said.

“An older person,” I said, “would not want to take part in that sort of frenzy. They would rather imitate someone who wants to discuss a question and find the truth than someone who plays at arguing and contradicting others for fun. They will be more moderate themselves [539d] and make the practice more respected, not less.”

“That’s right,” he said.

“And wasn’t everything we said earlier meant to safeguard this as well? Those allowed to take part in arguments must have orderly, steady characters. We cannot let just anybody with no proper aptitude come in, as they do now.”

“Exactly,” he said.

“Should they spend twice as many years steadily and intensely studying arguments, doing nothing else, as they earlier spent training their bodies in the corresponding way? [539e]”

“Do you mean six years,” he asked, “or four?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Make it five. After that, you will have to send them back down into the cave. You must require them to take command in war and hold the offices suited to young people, so they won’t lag behind anyone in experience. And in those roles [540a] you must test them again, to see whether they will hold firm when pulled in every direction or give way.”

“How long do you set aside for that?” he asked.

“Fifteen years,” I said. “When they reach fifty, those who have survived and distinguished themselves in every way, both in their actions and in their studies, must finally be brought to their goal. They must turn the light of their souls upward and look at the very thing that gives everything light. Once they have seen the Good itself, they must use it as their model. For the rest of their lives they will take turns bringing order to the city, to private citizens, [540b] and to themselves. They will spend most of their time on philosophy. But when their turn comes, each will bear the burden of public affairs and govern for the city’s sake. They will do this not because it is something splendid, but because it is necessary. In this way they will always train others to be like themselves and leave them behind as the city’s guardians. Then they will depart to live on the Isles of the Blessed. The city will set up monuments and offer sacrifices [540c] to them in public, if the Pythian priestess agrees, as to divine spirits. Otherwise it will honor them as blessed and godlike people.”

“Socrates,” he said, “you’ve made the rulers as beautiful as a sculptor makes statues.”

“And the women rulers too, Glaucon,” I said. “Don’t think anything I’ve said applies more to men than to women, if they have the necessary natural ability.”

“That’s right,” he said, “since, as we agreed, they will share everything equally with the men. [540d]”

“Well then,” I said, “do you agree that what we have said about the city and its constitution is not just wishful thinking? It is hard to achieve, but possible in some way, and only in the way we described. It will happen when true philosophers, one or more of them, come to power in a city. They will look down on today’s honors as degrading and worthless. They will value doing what is right [540e] and the honors it brings above all else, and justice as the greatest and most necessary thing. They will serve justice and help it grow as they set up their own city.”

“How?” he asked.

“They will send everyone in the city who happens to be older than ten years

[541a] out into the countryside. They will take their children away from the habits their parents now have and raise them according to their own ways and laws, the ones we described earlier. In this way the city and constitution we have discussed will be established most quickly and easily. The city itself will prosper and bring the greatest benefit to the people among whom it arises.”

“Yes, a great benefit,” he said. “And I think, Socrates, you’ve explained well how it might come about, if it ever does. [541b]”

“Have we now,” I said, “said enough about this city and the person who resembles it? It is surely clear what kind of person we say that must be.”

“It is clear,” he said. “And, in answer to your question, I think we’re finished.”

### Book VIII, 543–551

[543a] “All right, Glaucon. We have agreed that in a city governed as well as possible, wives and children will be shared, and all education will be shared too. The same is true of work in war and peace. Its kings will be the people who have proved best at philosophy and war.”

“We have agreed to that,” he said. [543b]

“And we agreed on this too: once the rulers take office, they will lead the soldiers to live in the housing we described, where no one has anything private and everything is shared. Besides their housing, we also agreed, if you remember, on what kind of property they will have.”

“I do remember,” he said. “We thought none of them should own the things other people own now. As competitors in war [543c] and guardians, they should receive from everyone else each year the food they need as pay for guarding them. They should take care of themselves and the rest of the city.”

“You’re right,” I said. “Now that we’ve finished that, let’s remember where we turned away from our earlier path, so we can get back to it.”

“That’s not hard,” he said. “You had almost finished talking about the city, as you have now. You were saying that you considered a city like the one you had described a good city, [543d] and a person like it a good person, though you apparently

[544a] had an even finer account of both the city and the person to give. You said the other cities were flawed if this one was right. As I recall, you said there were four kinds of constitution left that were worth discussing. We should see their faults and the people who resemble them. Then, when we have seen them all and agreed who is the best person and who the worst, we can examine whether the best is the happiest and the worst the most miserable, or whether it is otherwise. When I asked you what the four constitutions [544b] were, Polemarchus and Adeimantus broke in. You took up their question, and that’s how we got here.”

“You remember it exactly,” I said.

“Then, like a wrestler, offer me the same hold again. When I ask the same question, try to say what you were going to say then.”

“If I can,” I said.

“And I really do want to hear,” he said, “what you meant by the four constitutions. [544c]”

“You can hear it easily,” I said. “The kinds I mean have names. First is the one many people praise, the Cretan and Spartan constitution. Second, and second in people’s praise, is what is called oligarchy, a constitution full of serious evils. After it comes its opposite, democracy. And fourth comes that noble tyranny, different from all the others and the final disease of a city. Can you name any other type of constitution that is a clearly [544d] distinct kind? Rulers with unchecked power, kingdoms that can be bought, and similar governments fall somewhere between these kinds. You can find no fewer of them among non-Greeks than among Greeks.”

“People certainly report many strange ones,” he said.

“Do you realize,” I said, “that there must be as many types of human character as there are types of constitution? Or do you think constitutions grow out of an oak tree or a rock, instead of from the characters of people in cities? Those characters tip the balance and draw everything else along with them. [544e]”

“I certainly don’t think they come from anywhere else,” he said.

“Then if there are five kinds of cities, there will also be five arrangements of the soul in individuals.”

“Of course.”

“We have already described the person who resembles aristocracy. We rightly call that person good and just.”

[545a] “We have.”

“Should we now describe the worse ones? First the competitive person who loves honor and is shaped by the Spartan constitution, then the oligarchic and democratic people, and finally the tyrannical person? Once we’ve seen the most unjust person, we can set that person against the most just. Then our investigation of pure justice and pure injustice will be complete: how each affects the happiness or misery of the person who has it. We can then choose to pursue either injustice, as Thrasymachus advises, [545b] or justice, as the argument now emerging advises.”

“Yes,” he said. “That is exactly what we should do.”

“Then, just as we began by examining character in constitutions before examining it in individuals, because it was easier to see there, should we do that now too? Let’s look first at the constitution that loves honor. I know no other common name for it; we must call it a timocracy or a rule of honor. We’ll look at the corresponding [545c] person next. Then we’ll look at oligarchy and the oligarchic person, followed by democracy and the democratic person. Fourth, we’ll visit the city under a tyrant and inspect it, and then turn to the tyrannical soul. This should give us enough to judge the question we set out to answer.”

“That would be a reasonable way to observe and judge them,” he said.

“Come then,” I said, “let’s try to explain how timocracy might develop out of aristocracy. Isn’t one point simple? [545d] Every constitution changes because of divisions within the group that holds power. While that group agrees, however small it is, change is impossible.”

“That’s so.”

“How, then, Glaucon,” I asked, “will our city change? How will its helpers and rulers fall into conflict with one another and among themselves? Shall we, like Homer, pray to the Muses to tell us how [545e] conflict first arose? We can pretend they answer in lofty, tragic language, teasing and playing with us as with children while seeming to speak in earnest.”

“How would they answer?”

[546a] “Something like this. A city formed in this way is hard to disturb. But everything that comes into being eventually decays. So even this arrangement will not last forever; it will break down. Here is how. Not just plants in the ground, but animals on the earth have seasons when their souls and bodies reproduce well or poorly. These come when the cycles of their revolutions complete their circuits, short circuits for short-lived things and the opposite for the opposite kind. The rulers you have educated are wise, but they will no more be able [546b] to calculate the fertile and infertile periods of your race through reason and observation. They will miss them, and sometimes produce children at the wrong time. For a divine creature, a perfect number marks the cycle of birth. For a human creature, there is a number in which the first multiplications, of powers and of roots, take three intervals and four terms. By making like and unlike, increasing and decreasing quantities, they bring all into proportion and into ratios that can be expressed. [546c] Its base, four-thirds, when joined to five and increased three times, produces two harmonies. One has equal sides, a hundred times the base. The other has equal length in one respect but is oblong: a hundred numbers formed from the rational diagonals of five, each reduced by one, or from irrational diagonals reduced by two, and a hundred cubes of three. This entire geometric number controls better and worse births. [546d] When your guardians do not know this and arrange marriages between brides and grooms at the wrong times, the children will lack natural ability and good fortune. The older guardians will appoint the best of these children, but they will still be unworthy. When they take over their fathers’ responsibilities as guardians, they will first begin to neglect our instructions. They will value education in music and the arts less than they should, and then they will neglect physical training. So your young people will grow less educated. The rulers chosen from them will not be very good at guarding [546e] or at testing the kinds described by Hesiod and by you:

[547a] gold, silver, bronze, and iron. When iron mixes with silver and bronze with gold, difference and an uneven, discordant condition arise. Wherever they arise, they always breed war and hostility. We must say that conflict always comes from a generation of this kind.”

“And we’ll say the Muses gave the right answer,” he said.

“They must have,” I said, “since they are Muses. [547b]”

“What do the Muses say next?” he asked.

“When conflict arose,” I said, “the two groups pulled in opposite directions. The iron and bronze group pulled toward making money and owning land, houses, gold, and silver. The gold and silver group, whose souls were rich by nature and who were not in need, led them toward virtue and the old order. As they struggled and resisted one another, they agreed on a compromise: they divided the land and houses into private property. The people whom they had previously protected [547c] as free friends who provided for them they enslaved, making them laborers living on their land and servants in their houses. They themselves took charge of war and of guarding against them.”

“That seems to me how the change would come about,” he said.

“Wouldn’t that constitution lie somewhere between aristocracy and oligarchy?” I asked.

“Certainly.”

“That is how the transition takes place. Once it has taken place, what will the city be like? Since it lies between the other two, [547d] won’t it clearly imitate the earlier constitution in some respects and oligarchy in others, while having some features of its own?”

“Yes,” he said.

“It will resemble the earlier constitution in honoring its rulers, keeping its fighting force away from farming, manual trades, and other ways of making money, establishing common meals, and taking care over physical training and military contests. Isn’t that so?”

“Yes. [547e]”

“But it will be afraid to put wise people in charge. It no longer has people of that kind who are straightforward and firm; they are of mixed character. So it will favor spirited, simpler people who are naturally better suited to war than to peace. It will honor tricks and stratagems in war and will spend all its time fighting. Won’t most of these features be its own? [548a]”

“Yes.”

“And these people will desire money,” I said, “like those in oligarchies. They will secretly honor gold and silver with a fierce passion. They will have storerooms and private treasuries where they can hide it, and walled-off homes that are practically private nests. There they can spend a great deal on their wives and anyone else they please. [548b]”

“That’s very true,” he said.

“They will also be stingy with their own money, because they value it and cannot acquire it openly, but eager to spend other people’s money to satisfy their desires. They will enjoy their pleasures in secret, like children running away from their father, the law. Their education was based on force rather than persuasion. They neglected the true Muse of reasoned discussion and philosophy, and valued physical training above music and the arts. [548c]”

“You are describing a constitution that is truly mixed, with both bad and good in it,” he said.

“It is mixed,” I said. “But one feature stands out above all others because its spirited part is in control: its love of competition and honor.”

“Very much so,” he said.

“So that is how this constitution arises and what it is like,” I said. “This is just an outline, not a detailed account. An outline is enough to let us see the most just and the most unjust person. To describe every constitution and every character without leaving anything out would be an impossibly long job. [548d]”

“Quite right,” he said.

“What is the person who corresponds to this constitution like? How does he develop, and what kind of person does he become?”

“I think,” Adeimantus said, “that in his love of competition he would be rather like Glaucon here. [548e]”

“Perhaps in that respect,” I said. “But I don’t think Glaucon has the following traits.”

“What traits?”

“He would have to be more stubborn and somewhat less cultivated,” I said, “though fond of music and the arts. He would like to listen, but would be no good at speaking. [549a] Such a person would be harsh with slaves. Unlike a thoroughly educated person, he would not look down on slaves. But he would be gentle with free people and very obedient to rulers. He would love power and honor. He would claim the right to rule not because of his speeches or anything like that, but because of his deeds in war and matters connected with war. He would love exercise and hunting.”

“That is the character produced by that constitution,” he said.

“And wouldn’t such a person [549b] look down on money when young,” I said, “but welcome it more and more as he got older? He shares the money-loving nature, and his virtue is not pure because he lacks the best guardian.”

“What guardian?” Adeimantus asked.

“Reason blended with education in music and the arts,” I said. “When it takes root in a person, it is the only guardian that lives with him throughout his life and preserves his virtue.”

“Well said,” he replied.

“That, then,” I said, “is the young man who loves honor, a match for the city we described.”

“Exactly,” he said. [549c]

“And this is roughly how he develops,” I said. “Sometimes he is the young son of a good father who lives in a badly governed city. The father avoids honors, offices, lawsuits, and all such meddling. He is willing to accept a lower position to stay out of trouble.”

“How does the son become like that?” he asked.

“First,” I said, “he hears his mother complain that her husband is not one of the rulers, and that this lowers her standing [549d] among the other women. She sees that he cares little about money and does not fight and quarrel in court over private matters or in public life, but takes it all calmly. She notices that he always attends to his own mind, while neither making much of her nor treating her badly. Upset by all this, she tells their son that his father is unmanly and far too easygoing. She says all the other sorts of things that women tend to go on about in such cases. [549e]”

“Yes,” Adeimantus said, “plenty of things very typical of them.”

“And you know,” I said, “that servants in households like these, the ones who seem loyal, sometimes secretly say similar things to the sons. If they see someone who owes money and whom the father does not pursue, or someone doing him some other wrong, they urge the son to punish everyone like that when he grows up, [550a] and to be more of a man than his father. When he goes outside, he hears and sees similar things. People who mind their own business in the city are called fools and held in little regard, while those who meddle in other people’s affairs are honored and praised. So the young man hears and sees all of this. He also hears what his father says and watches his father’s habits close up, beside those of other people. Both sides pull at him. [550b] His father feeds and strengthens the reasoning part of his soul, while the others feed its desiring and spirited parts. Because he does not have a bad nature, but does keep bad company, these competing influences pull him toward the middle. He hands control within himself over to the middle, competitive, spirited part, and becomes a proud man who loves honor.”

“I think you’ve given a very complete account of how he develops,” he said. [550c]

“So now,” I said, “we have the second constitution and the second kind of person.”

“We do,” he said.

“Shall we next, as Aeschylus puts it, speak of ‘another man stationed against another city’? Or, to follow our plan, should we discuss the city first?”

“Certainly,” he said.

“I think oligarchy is the constitution that comes after this one.”

“What arrangement do you mean by oligarchy?” he asked.

“The constitution based on property qualifications,” I said, “where the rich rule and the poor have no part in ruling. [550d]”

“I understand,” he said.

“Shouldn’t we first explain how the change from rule by honor to oligarchy happens?”

“Yes.”

“And even a blind person could see how it happens,” I said.

“How?”

“The storehouse that each person fills with gold destroys that constitution,” I said. “First they find things to spend money on, and they change the laws to suit them. Neither they nor their wives obey the laws.”

“That seems likely,” he said. [550e]

“Next, I imagine, each person watches and copies the others, until most of them become like that.”

“That seems likely.”

“Then,” I said, “as they go further in making money, the more they value it, the less they value virtue. Isn’t wealth as opposed to virtue as two things on a balance, with each always pulling the other way?”

“It certainly is,” he said.

[551a] “So when a city honors wealth and rich people, it honors virtue and good people less.”

“Clearly.”

“People pursue what is honored and neglect what is not.”

“Yes.”

“In the end, instead of people who love competition and honor, they become people who love profit and money. They praise and admire the rich person and give him public office, but they look down on the poor person.”

“Exactly.”

“Then they make a law setting a property threshold for participation in oligarchic government. [551b] Where the oligarchy is stronger, they set it higher; where it is weaker, they set it lower. They announce that anyone whose property falls short of the set value cannot hold office. They enforce these measures by armed force, or establish this kind of constitution earlier by using threats. Isn’t that how it happens?”

“Yes.”

“That, in brief, is how it is established.”

“Yes,” he said. “But what is the character [551c] of the constitution, and what are the faults we said it has?”

“First,” I said, “there is the nature of the qualification itself. Imagine choosing ship captains by property value, and refusing a poor man the job even if he is a better captain.”

“They would have a bad voyage,” he said.

“Doesn’t the same apply to the leadership of anything else?”

“I think so.”

“Except a city?” I asked. “Or does it apply to a city too?”

“More than anything,” he said, “because governing a city is the hardest and greatest task. [551d]”

“So that is one serious fault oligarchy would have.”

“So it seems.”

“What about this one? Is it any less serious?”

“Which one?”

“Such a city must be not one city but two: a city of poor people and a city of rich people. They live in the same place and constantly plot against one another.”

“By Zeus, no less serious,” he said.

“And this is no good either. They may be unable to fight a war because, if they use the armed common people, they will fear them [551e] more than the enemy. If they don’t use them, they will show in battle how few they really are. And they will not want to contribute money, since they love it.”

“That’s no good.”

“And what about the thing we criticized earlier: people meddling in many jobs, farming

### Book VIII, 552–559

[552a] “And in a city like that, is it right for the same people to make money and fight its wars?”
“Not at all.”
“Now look at all its troubles. See whether this is the worst one it is the first to allow.”
“What is that?”
“A person can sell everything he owns, and someone else can buy it all. After selling it, he can go on living in the city without belonging to any part of it. He is neither a businessman nor a craftsman nor a cavalryman nor an infantryman. He is simply called poor and destitute. [552b]”
“It is the first to allow that,” he said.
“Nothing prevents this in oligarchies. If it did, some people would not be extremely rich while others were utterly poor.”
“Right.”
“Think about this too. When that man still had money and was spending it, was he any more useful to the city in the roles we just mentioned? Or did he only appear to be one of its rulers? Was he really neither a ruler nor a servant of the city, but merely a consumer of what others had made? [552c]”
“That is right,” he said. “He looked like a ruler, but was nothing but a consumer.”
“Then shall we say this? Just as a drone appears in a beehive and is a sickness of the swarm, this man appears in a household and is a sickness of the city.”
“Absolutely, Socrates,” he said.
“Adeimantus, hasn't the god made all the flying drones stingless, while some of these drones that walk on two feet are stingless and some have terrible stings? The stingless ones end up as beggars in old age. Those with stings [552d] become all the people we call criminals.”
“That is completely true,” he said.
“So it is clear that wherever you see beggars in a city, thieves, pickpockets, temple robbers, and people who commit every such crime are hiding there too.”
“Clearly,” he said.
“Do you see beggars in oligarchic cities?”
“Nearly everyone outside the ruling group is one,” he said. [552e]
“Then shouldn't we suppose that these cities also have many criminals with stings, whom the authorities forcibly keep under control by careful watch?”
“Yes, we should,” he said.
“And shall we say that such people appear there because of poor education, bad upbringing, and the organization of the state?”
“We shall.”
“That, then, is the sort of city an oligarchy is. It has that many evils, and perhaps more.”
“Pretty much,” he said.

[553a] “Then we have finished describing the constitution called oligarchy, in which property assessments determine who holds office. Next let us examine the man like it: how he develops and what he is like when he does.”
“Certainly,” he said.
“Does he change from the honor-loving man into the oligarchic man roughly like this?”
“How?”
“His son at first admires his father and follows in his footsteps. Then he suddenly sees his father [553b] run into the city like a ship hitting a reef, wrecking himself and his property. Perhaps he served as general or held another high office, then ended up in court, [harmed] by informers, and was executed, exiled, or stripped of his rights and lost everything he owned.”
“That could certainly happen,” he said.
“After seeing and suffering all this and losing his possessions, my friend, the son becomes frightened. I think he immediately knocks his love of honor and his spirited side headfirst off the throne [553c] within his soul. Poverty brings him low. He turns to making money and laboriously saves little by little until he has gathered some. Don't you think he then seats his appetitive, money-loving side on that throne and makes it a great king over himself, fitting it with a tiara, necklaces, and a sword?”
“I do,” he said. [553d]
“And he puts his reasoning and spirited sides on the ground beside it, one on each side, and makes them its slaves. He lets reason calculate and consider nothing except how to turn less money into more. He lets his spirit admire and honor nothing except wealth and the wealthy. It seeks no honor except in acquiring money, or in anything else that helps it do that.”
“No other change turns an honor-loving young man into a money-lover so quickly or so powerfully,” he said. [553e]
“Is this man oligarchic, then?”
“At least he changes from a man resembling the political order from which oligarchy developed.”
“Let us see if he resembles oligarchy itself.”

[554a] “Let's do that.”
“First, isn't he like it in valuing money above all else?”
“Of course.”
“And in being thrifty and hard-working? He satisfies only his necessary desires and allows himself no other expenses. Instead he makes the other desires obey him, since he thinks they are pointless.”
“Certainly.”
“He is rather shabby, makes a profit out of everything, and piles up his savings. That is the kind of man most people praise. [554b] Isn't he the one who resembles this political order?”
“I think so,” he said. “Money is what the city and the man honor most.”
“I don't think such a man has paid any attention to education.”
“I don't think so either,” he said. “Otherwise he would not have appointed a blind leader for his chorus and honored him above all.”
“Well said. But consider this. Shall we say that lack of education gives him drone-like desires, [554c] some like a beggar's and others like a criminal's, which his concern for the rest of his affairs forcibly restrains?”
“Yes indeed,” he said.
“Do you know where to look to see those criminal desires in action?”
“Where?” he said.
“At how such people act when they are guardians of orphans, and whenever they get another opportunity to do wrong with little restraint.”
“True.”
“Doesn't this show what happens in the other dealings where a man like this has a good reputation for justice? He forcibly holds down his other bad desires with a respectable [554d] part of himself. He doesn't reason them out of existence by persuading himself they aren't good, or tame them with argument. He holds them down through necessity and fear, because he trembles for the rest of his property.”
“Absolutely,” he said.
“And, by Zeus, my friend, you will find that most of them have desires akin to the drone's whenever they can spend someone else's money.”
“Very much so,” he said.
“So this man will not be free of conflict within himself. He is not one person but two. Usually, though, his better desires will master his worse ones. [554e]”
“That is so.”
“That is why, I think, he will behave more properly than many people. But the true virtue of a united, well-balanced soul will be far beyond his reach.”
“I think so.”
“And in a city, the thrifty man will be a poor individual competitor

[555a] for any victory or other honorable achievement. He will not spend money to win a good name or to compete in such contests. He is afraid to stir up his costly desires and enlist them in the struggle to win. He fights with only a few parts of himself, oligarchically, and usually loses. But he grows rich.”
“He certainly does,” he said.
“Do we still doubt that the thrifty money-maker ranks alongside the oligarchic city because he resembles it? [555b]”
“Not at all,” he said.
“Next, it seems, we must examine democracy: how it comes about and what it is like after it has arisen. Then we can understand the character of the man like it and bring him forward for judgment.”
“That would keep us on the same path,” he said.
“Doesn't the change from oligarchy to democracy happen in something like this way? People have an insatiable desire for the good they have set before themselves: to become as rich as possible.”
“How does that work? [555c]”
“I think the rulers there hold power because they own a great deal. They don't want to pass laws stopping irresponsible young people from spending and ruining their estates. The rulers can buy their property and lend them money against it, becoming still richer and more highly regarded.”
“Certainly.”
“By now this must be clear: citizens cannot both honor wealth and adequately acquire self-control. They must neglect one or the other. [555d]”
“That seems quite clear,” he said.
“By neglecting self-control and letting people live extravagantly, oligarchies have sometimes forced people of good birth into poverty.”
“Exactly.”
“These people, I think, now sit in the city armed and ready to sting. Some are in debt, some have lost their rights, and some are both. They hate and plot against the people who acquired their property and against the rest as well. They long for a revolution. [555e]”
“That is true.”
“Meanwhile the money-makers keep their heads down and pretend not to see them. They keep injecting their money into anyone else willing to take it, wounding him with loans. They collect interest, offspring many times greater than their original investment,

[556a] and fill the city with drones and beggars.”
“How could they not?” he said.
“They will not put out this growing fire in either of two ways: by stopping people from disposing of their own property however they like, or by using a different law that would cure these troubles.”
“What law would that be?”
“It is the next best after the first, and would compel citizens to take care about virtue. If most voluntary financial dealings were made at the lender's own risk, [556b] people would make money less shamelessly in the city. Fewer of the evils we just discussed would grow there.”
“Far fewer,” he said.
“As things stand, for all these reasons, the rulers treat their subjects in the city as I have described. And what about themselves and their families? Don't they raise their young people in luxury, with no work for body [556c] or mind, too soft to endure pleasures or pains, and idle?”
“Of course.”
“And they themselves neglect everything but making money and take no more care for virtue than the poor do?”
“No more at all.”
“With both rulers and subjects brought up this way, suppose they meet on the road, at some common gathering, at a festival or on a campaign. They might share a ship or fight in the same army, or watch one another in actual danger. In none of these situations do the poor feel inferior to the rich. Instead, a lean poor man, tanned by the sun, often stands in battle beside a rich man raised in the shade, carrying too much flesh that is no use to him. [556d] He sees the rich man gasping and at a loss. Don't you think he concludes that men like that owe their wealth to the poor men's own cowardice? When poor men meet in private, don't they tell one another, ‘Those men are ours to take. [556e] They're nothing’?”
“I know very well that they do,” he said.
“A sick body needs only a slight outside push to become ill, and sometimes falls into conflict with itself even without one. So too a city in that condition needs only a small pretext. If one side calls in allies from an oligarchic city or the other calls them from a democracy, the city grows sick and fights itself. Sometimes it falls into civil conflict even without outside help.”

[557a] “Very much so.”
“Democracy, I think, comes about when the poor win. They kill some of the other party and exile others. They give the remaining people an equal share in citizenship and office. Most offices are assigned by lot.”
“Yes,” he said. “That is how democracy is set up, whether by force of arms or because the other party withdraws in fear.”
“How do people live in this city? [557b] And what sort of political order does it have? Clearly the man like it will prove to be democratic.”
“Clearly,” he said.
“First, aren't its people free? Doesn't the city fill with freedom and freedom of speech, with everyone allowed to do as they like?”
“That's what people say,” he said.
“And where there is such freedom, each person can clearly arrange a private life that suits them.”
“Clearly. [557c]”
“So I think this political order would have the greatest variety of people.”
“How could it not?”
“It may be the most beautiful of political orders. Like a multicolored cloak covered with flowers of every color, it might look beautiful because it contains people of every character. Perhaps many people would even judge it the most beautiful, just as children and women admire colorful things.”
“They certainly would,” he said. [557d]
“And, my friend, it is a convenient place to look for a political order.”
“Why?”
“Because its freedom gives it every kind of political order. Anyone wishing to found a city, as we just did, may have to go to a democracy. There he can choose whichever pattern he likes, as though he were shopping in a store that sells political orders. Once he has chosen, he can build his city accordingly. [557e]”
“He would certainly have no shortage of examples,” he said.
“And in that city you need not rule, even if you are capable of it. You need not be ruled if you don't want to. You need not fight when others fight, or keep the peace when others do, if you do not want peace. And if a law stops you from ruling or sitting in judgment, you can still [558a] do either whenever you feel like it. Isn't that an astonishingly pleasant way to live, at least for the moment?”

“Perhaps it is, at least for the moment,” he said.
“And isn't its leniency toward some people convicted in court rather charming? Haven't you seen people in a city like that sentenced to death or exile who still stay and walk about in public? No one seems to care or notice, and the condemned man strolls around like a hero.”
“I've seen many,” he said. [558b]
“And think of its tolerance and complete refusal to fuss over details. It looks down on everything we solemnly said when we were founding our city. We said that no one, unless born with exceptional gifts, could ever become a good man without growing up among fine things from childhood and practicing them all. But democracy tramples over all this with magnificent disdain. It pays no attention to what someone has done before entering politics. It honors him [558c] if he simply says he is a friend of the people.”
“How noble of it,” he said.
“Democracy has these features and others like them. It seems to be a pleasant, ungoverned, varied political order, distributing a kind of equality to equals and unequals alike.”
“You have described familiar things,” he said.
“Now consider the individual man like it. Or should we first see how he develops, as we did for the political order?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Then isn't it something like this? I think that thrifty oligarchic man [558d] has a son whom he raises to share his own habits.”
“Of course.”
“The son also forcibly controls the pleasures within himself that cost money without earning any. We called those unnecessary pleasures.”
“Clearly,” he said.
“Then, to avoid talking vaguely, shall we first define necessary and unnecessary desires?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Aren't the desires we cannot get rid of rightly called necessary? And those whose satisfaction benefits us? Our nature compels us to have both kinds. [558e] Isn't that so?”
“Absolutely.”

[559a] “Then we are right to call them necessary.”
“We are.”
“What about desires that a person can get rid of by training from youth, desires whose presence does no good, or even does harm? Wouldn't we be right to call them all unnecessary?”
“Yes, we would.”
“Shall we choose an example of each kind, so we can get a general picture?”
“We should.”
“Isn't the desire to eat enough for health and fitness necessary, both for plain food and for food eaten with it? [559b]”
“I think so.”
“The desire for plain food is necessary in both respects. It benefits us, and a person cannot stay alive without it.”
“Yes.”
“And the desire for something to go with it is necessary insofar as it helps keep us fit.”
“Certainly.”
“But what of the desire for more than that, and for different or special dishes? Most people can get rid of it if they discipline and educate themselves from youth. It harms the body, and it harms the soul's intelligence and self-control. [559c] Wouldn't it rightly be called unnecessary?”
“Absolutely.”
“Shall we also call those desires wasteful, and the others productive, since they help us do our work?”
“Of course.”
“And shall we say the same about sexual desires and all the rest?”
“Yes.”
“Then the man we just called a drone was someone filled with these pleasures and desires and ruled by the unnecessary ones. The man ruled by necessary desires was thrifty and oligarchic. [559d] Is that right?”
“Of course.”
“Let's return, then, to how a democratic man develops from an oligarchic one. I think it usually happens this way.”
“How?”
“A young man brought up without education and with thrift, as we described, tastes the drones' honey. He joins those fierce and dangerous creatures, who can devise all kinds of pleasures in every possible form. That, you may suppose, [559e] is where the oligarchic order within him begins to turn into a democratic one.”
“It must be,” he said.
“Just as the city changed when an outside ally helped one side, each side helping its own kind, doesn't the young man change when outside desires of one kind come to the aid of kindred desires within him?”
“Absolutely.”
“And if, I think, some help comes to the oligarchic side within him, perhaps his father or other

### Book VIII, 560–567

[560a] relatives rebuke and advise him, then he is divided against himself. He resists and fights within himself.”
“Of course.”
“Sometimes, I think, the democratic side gives way to the oligarchic one. Some desires are destroyed and others driven out. A sense of shame enters the young man's soul, and order returns.”
“That does sometimes happen,” he said.
“But I think that other desires, related to the ones driven out, grow unnoticed. Because the father does not understand how to raise him, they become numerous and strong. [560b]”
“That often happens,” he said.
“They draw him back to the same company. Secret meetings produce a whole crowd of desires.”
“Of course.”
“At last, I think, they capture the fortress of the young man's soul. They find it empty of knowledge, good practices, and true arguments. Those are the best guards and guardians in the minds of people loved by the gods. [560c]”
“By far,” he said.
“False, boastful arguments and beliefs then rush in, I think, and occupy that same place in him.”
“Indeed they do,” he said.
“Doesn't he return openly to those Lotus-Eaters and settle among them? If help for the thrifty part of his soul arrives from his family, those boastful arguments shut the gates of his inner royal stronghold. They refuse to let the reinforcements in. They will not even admit the words of older people who come as envoys on their own. They win the battle themselves. [560d] They call respect for others foolishness and drive it out in disgrace as an exile. They call self-control cowardice, insult it, and throw it out. They insist that moderation and careful spending are crude and petty, and send them into exile with the help of many useless desires.”
“Exactly.”
“After they have emptied and purified [560e] the soul of the young man they have taken over and initiated into their great rites, they bring in insolence, disorder, extravagance, and shamelessness with pomp and a great procession. They crown them and praise them with flattering names. They call insolence good breeding, disorder freedom, extravagance [561a] magnificence, and shamelessness courage.”

“Isn't this roughly how a young man changes from being brought up among necessary desires to setting free the pleasures of unnecessary and useless desires?”
“That's a very clear picture,” he said.
“After that, I think, this man spends his money, effort, and time on unnecessary pleasures just as readily as on necessary ones. If he is lucky and is not carried too far away by this frenzy, and if, as he gets older, the uproar subsides, he lets some of the banished desires back in. He doesn't give himself completely to the newcomers. He brings his pleasures to something like equal standing. He hands control over himself to whichever pleasure comes along, as if its turn had been chosen by lot, until it is satisfied. Then he hands control to another, disdaining none of them and feeding them all equally. [561b]”
“Certainly.”
“If someone tells him that some pleasures arise from fine and good desires while others arise from bad ones, and that he should cultivate and honor the first and discipline and restrain the second, he won't accept that true argument or admit it to the fortress. He shakes his head at all this. He says all pleasures are alike and deserve equal honor. [561c]”
“Yes,” he said. “That is exactly how he behaves.”
“And so he lives from day to day, giving in to whichever desire happens to appear. One day he drinks heavily and enjoys flute music. Another day he drinks water and diets. [561d] Sometimes he exercises. Sometimes he idles and neglects everything. At other times he seems to spend his time on philosophy. He often takes part in politics, jumping up and saying and doing whatever comes into his head. If he admires soldiers, he heads in that direction. If he admires businessmen, he follows them instead. There is no order or necessity in his life. He calls it pleasant, free, and happy, and lives that way all his days.”
“You have described perfectly the life of a man devoted to equality,” he said.
[561e] “I think he has every kind of character in him, full of variety. He is a beautiful and colorful man, like that city. Many men and women would envy his life, since he carries within him examples of so many political systems and ways of living.”
“That is what he is,” he said.

[562a] “Then shall we assign this man to democracy and rightly call him democratic?”
“Let's do that,” he said.
“The most beautiful political order and the most beautiful man remain to be discussed: tyranny and the tyrant.”
“Exactly,” he said.
“Come, my friend, how does tyranny arise? It is fairly clear that it develops from democracy.”
“Clearly.”
“Then does democracy develop from oligarchy in roughly the same way that tyranny develops from democracy? [562b]”
“How?”
“They set up something as their good, and oligarchy was established for its sake. That good was [excessive] wealth, wasn't it?”
“Yes.”
“The insatiable desire for wealth, and the neglect of everything else in the pursuit of money, destroyed oligarchy.”
“True,” he said.
“Does an insatiable desire for the good democracy sets up also destroy democracy?”
“What good do you mean?”
“Freedom,” I said. “In a democracy you will hear people say that it is the city's greatest possession, and that it is the only place worth living for anyone naturally free. [562c]”
“Yes,” he said. “People say that a lot.”
“Then, as I was about to say, does an insatiable desire for freedom, and the neglect of everything else, change this political order too and make it need a tyrant?”
“How?” he said.
“Suppose a democratic city is thirsty for freedom and gets bad wine-pourers as its leaders. It drinks too much undiluted freedom and becomes intoxicated. Then, if its rulers are not very gentle and do not provide plenty of freedom, the city punishes them. It accuses them of being corrupt oligarchs. [562d]”
“That is what happens,” he said.
“It insults people who obey their rulers, calling them willing slaves and worthless. It praises and honors rulers who act like subjects and subjects who act like rulers, both in private and in public. Isn't it inevitable that freedom will go to every extreme in such a city?”
“How could it not?”
“And, my friend, this refusal to accept authority spreads into private homes. In the end even animals take on its spirit. [562e]”
“What do you mean?” he said.
“For instance, a father gets used to acting like his child and fearing his sons. A son acts like his father and feels neither respect nor fear for his parents, in order to be free. A resident foreigner becomes equal to a citizen, and a citizen to a resident foreigner. The same goes for a visitor

[563a] from abroad.”
“Yes, that happens,” he said.
“These things happen, along with smaller examples like these. Teachers in such a city fear and flatter their students, while students look down on teachers and tutors. Young people generally imitate their elders and compete with them in speech and action. Old people lower themselves to the level of the young and fill their talk with jokes and clever remarks. They imitate young people so that they won't seem unpleasant or bossy. [563b]”
“Exactly,” he said.
“And, my friend, the final stage of freedom for the masses in such a city comes when men and women who have been bought as slaves are just as free as the people who bought them. We almost forgot to mention the equality and freedom between women and men, and men and women. [563c]”
“Shall we say, as Aeschylus puts it, whatever has just come to our lips?” he said.
“Yes,” I said. “I will say just that. Someone who has never seen it would hardly believe how much freer domestic animals are there than in other cities. As the saying goes, the dogs become like their mistresses. Horses and donkeys get used to going about with great freedom and dignity. They run into anyone they meet on the road unless that person gets out of their way. Everything else is just as full of freedom. [563d]”
“You are describing my own dream to me,” he said. “That often happens to me on my way to the countryside.”
“Put it all together and see the main point. It makes the citizens' souls so sensitive that if anyone brings them even a trace of servitude, they get angry and refuse to bear it. You know that in the end they pay no attention to written or unwritten laws, so that no one can be their master in any way. [563e]”
“Yes, I know it well,” he said.
“This, my friend, is the fine and spirited beginning from which tyranny grows, as I see it.”
“Spirited indeed,” he said. “But what happens next?”
“The same disease that developed in oligarchy and destroyed it grows stronger here because of the freedom, and enslaves democracy. In fact, doing anything to excess often brings a great change in the opposite direction. That happens in seasons, in [564a] plants, and in bodies, and especially in political orders.

”
“That makes sense,” he said.
“Excessive freedom, it seems, turns into nothing other than excessive slavery, both for an individual and for a city.”
“That seems likely.”
“So it makes sense that tyranny arises from democracy and no other political order. From the greatest freedom comes, I think, the greatest and harshest slavery.”
“That is reasonable,” he said.
“But I don't think that's what you were asking. You wanted to know which disease grows in both oligarchy and democracy and enslaves them. [564b]”
“That's right,” he said.
“I meant the class of idle and wasteful men, with the boldest leading and the less bold following. We compared them to drones, some with stings and some without.”
“And rightly,” he said.
“When these two groups arise in any political order, they disturb it like phlegm and bile in a body. A good doctor and a city's lawgiver must be as watchful as a wise beekeeper. They should above all keep these groups from developing. If they do develop, they must cut them out as quickly as possible, along with their honeycombs. [564c]”
“Yes, by Zeus, absolutely,” he said.
“Then let's look at it this way, to see what we mean more clearly.”
“How?”
“Let us divide the democratic city into three parts in our argument, as it really is. One such class grows in it because people are free to do as they wish, no less than in oligarchy. [564d]”
“That is so.”
“But it is much fiercer here than there.”
“How?”
“In oligarchy it gets no respect and is barred from office. As a result it gets no practice and gains no strength. In democracy, with a few exceptions, it is the leading class. Its fiercest members speak and act, while the rest sit around the speakers' platforms buzzing and refuse to let anyone express a different view. Apart from a few exceptions, everything in such a city is managed by this group. [564e]”
“Indeed,” he said.
“Now another class always stands out from the crowd.”
“Which one?”
“When everyone is trying to make money, those who are most orderly by nature generally become the richest.”
“That makes sense.”
“So they provide the drones with the most honey, and the easiest to extract.”
“How could anyone extract it from those who have little?” he said.
“These rich people, I think, are called the drones' pasture.”
“More or less,” he said.

[565a] “The people form the third class: those who work for themselves, take no part in public affairs, and own very little. This group is the largest and most powerful in a democracy whenever it gathers together.”
“Yes,” he said. “But it seldom wants to gather unless it gets a share of the honey.”
“And it does get a share, as far as its leaders can arrange it. They take wealth away from those who have it and distribute some to the people, keeping most of it for themselves. [565b]”
“That is how it gets its share,” he said.
“Those whose property is taken have to defend themselves by speaking before the people and doing whatever they can.”
“Of course.”
“Then the others accuse them of plotting against the people and being oligarchs, even if they have no wish to start a revolution.”
“Of course.”
“Eventually they see the people trying to wrong them, not deliberately, but in ignorance after being misled by their accusers. Then, whether they want to or not, they truly become oligarchs. They did not choose it. The drone brings about this evil too, by stinging them. [565c]”
“Exactly.”
“Then come charges, trials, and legal battles against one another.”
“Indeed.”
“Don't the people regularly set one particular person over themselves as their special leader? They support him and make him great.”
“They do,” he said.
“Then this much is clear: whenever a tyrant grows, he grows from the root of the people's leadership, and nowhere else. [565d]”
“Very clear.”
“How does a leader start turning into a tyrant? Clearly it begins when he does what the man in the story about the temple of Lycaean Zeus in Arcadia does.”
“What story?” he said.
“It says that anyone who tastes a piece of human entrails, cut up and mixed with the entrails of the other sacrificed animals, must become a wolf. Haven't you heard that story? [565e]”
“Yes, I have.”
“Isn't it the same when someone leading the people gains a very obedient crowd and cannot keep his hands off the blood of his fellow citizens? He brings false charges, as such people like to do, and takes a man to court. He murders him through the courts and destroys his life. With unholy tongue and mouth he tastes the blood of his own kind. He exiles people and [566a] kills them, and hints at canceling debts and dividing up land.

After that, isn't it inevitable and fated that he either dies at the hands of his enemies or becomes a tyrant, turning from a man into a wolf?”
“It must be,” he said.
“This is the man who leads the conflict against property owners.”
“Yes.”
“If he is driven out and then returns by force against his enemies, doesn't he come back a fully formed tyrant?”
“Clearly. [566b]”
“If they cannot exile him or kill him by turning the city against him, they secretly plot to assassinate him.”
“That often happens,” he said.
“Then everyone who has come this far makes the familiar demand of a would-be tyrant. He asks the people for bodyguards, so that their defender will be kept safe for them.”
“Yes indeed,” he said.
“I think they give him guards because they fear for his safety but feel confident about their own. [566c]”
“Certainly.”
“When a man with property sees this, and finds that his wealth has brought him a reputation as an enemy of the people, then, my friend, he follows the oracle given to Croesus:
‘Beside the pebbly Hermus
he flees, and does not wait or feel ashamed to seem a coward.’”
“He wouldn't get a second chance to feel ashamed,” he said.
“If caught, I think, he is put to death.”
“He must be.”
“But the leader himself clearly doesn't lie there, great in his greatness. Having struck down many others, he stands in the city's chariot, a finished tyrant instead of the people's leader. [566d]”
“How could he not?” he said.
“Shall we go through how happy the man and the city are, when such a mortal appears in it?”
“Yes, let's do that,” he said.
“In his first days, doesn't he smile at and greet everyone he meets? He denies being a tyrant and makes many promises, both privately and publicly. He has canceled debts and distributed land to the people and his own supporters. He pretends to be kind and gentle to everyone. [566e]”
“He must,” he said.
“Once he has made peace with some outside enemies and destroyed the others, and there is quiet on that front, he first keeps stirring up wars so that the people will need a leader.”
“That seems likely.”

[567a] “And also so that contributions to the wars will make them poor, keep them busy with daily needs, and leave them less able to plot against him?”
“Clearly.”
“And if he suspects anyone of having an independent spirit and being unwilling to let him rule, he can find a pretext for destroying them by handing them over to the enemy. For all these reasons, a tyrant must keep stirring up war.”
“He must.”
“By doing these things, isn't he likely to become more and more hated by the citizens? [567b]”
“How could he not?”
“And won't some of those who helped put him in power, men who still have influence, speak freely to him and to one another? The bravest among them will criticize what is happening.”
“That seems likely.”
“The tyrant must remove all of them if he is to stay in power. He must go on until he leaves no friend or enemy who is of any use.”
“Clearly.”
“So he has to watch closely to see who is brave, high-minded, sensible, or rich. He is so fortunate that he must treat every one of them as an enemy, whether he wants to or not, and plot against them until he has purged the city. [567c]”
“What a fine purge,” he said.
“Yes, the opposite of how doctors treat bodies. They take away what is worst and leave what is best. He does the opposite.”
“It seems he must, if he is to rule,” he said.
“So he is bound by a happy necessity: either live with a crowd of worthless people who hate him, or not live at all. [567d]”
“That is his situation,” he said.
“And the more he makes the citizens hate him by acting this way, the more numerous and loyal the bodyguards he will need.”
“Of course.”
“Who will these loyal guards be, and where will he send for them?”
“Plenty will fly to him on their own,” he said, “if he pays them.”
“By the dog,” I said, “you seem to be talking about drones again, foreigners from every country. [567e]”
“Yes, I am,” he said.
“What about people from the city itself? Would he be willing to—”
“To do what?”
“Take the citizens' slaves away from them, free them, and make them his own bodyguards?”
“Certainly,” he said. “They will be the most loyal of all.”
“What a blessed lot the tyrant has, if these are the sort of

### Book VIII, 568–569

[568a] friends and loyal men he uses after destroying his former supporters,” I said.
“But those are indeed the men he uses,” he said.
“And these companions admire him, and the new citizens keep him company, while decent people hate him and avoid him?”
“Of course.”
“No wonder tragedy is generally thought wise, and Euripides especially outstanding in it,” I said.
“Why?”
“Because he made this clever observation: [568b] ‘Tyrants grow wise by keeping company with the wise.’ Clearly he meant that these companions of the tyrant were the wise people.”
“He also praises tyranny as equal to a god,” he said, “and says many other such things. The other poets do too.”
“So the tragic poets, being wise, will forgive us and those who establish political orders close to ours for not admitting them into our city, since they sing the praises of tyranny.”
“I think the more reasonable ones among them will forgive us,” he said. [568c]
“But when they tour the other cities and gather crowds, they hire performers with beautiful, strong, persuasive voices. They draw those political orders toward tyranny or democracy.”
“Exactly.”
“Besides, they are paid and honored for doing so. Tyrants give them the greatest honors, as you would expect, and democracies give them the next greatest. But the further they climb up the steep path toward better political orders, the more their honors fade, as if shortness of breath kept them from going any farther. [568d]”
“Quite so.”
“But we have wandered off,” I said. “Let's return to that large, splendid, varied, ever-changing army of the tyrant. Where will he get the money to support it?”
“Clearly,” he said, “if the city has temple funds, he will spend them. He will also spend whatever he gets from selling sacred property for as long as it lasts, requiring the people to pay smaller contributions. [568e]”
“And when these funds run out?”
“Clearly,” he said, “he and his fellow drinkers, his male companions, and his female companions will live off his father's property.”
“I see,” I said. “The people who gave birth to the tyrant will support him and his companions.”
“They will have no choice,” he said.
“But suppose the people resent this. Suppose they say it is not right for a grown son to be supported by his father. Instead, a son should support his father. They did not give birth to him and put him in power

[569a] so that, when he grew up, they would be slaves to their own slaves, supporting him, his slaves, and a pack of other hangers-on. They did it to free themselves, with his help, from the rich and those called fine and good in the city. Now they order him and his companions to leave the city, as a father might throw a son and his troublesome drinking friends out of the house.”
“By Zeus,” he said, “then the people will learn what kind of creature they welcomed into the world and raised, and that they are trying to drive out someone stronger than themselves. [569b]”
“What do you mean?” I said. “Will the tyrant dare to use force against his father, and beat him if he refuses to obey?”
“Yes,” he said, “once he has taken away his weapons.”
“You describe a tyrant who beats his father and cares for him harshly in old age,” I said. “This, it seems, is what everyone agrees tyranny is. As the saying goes, the people have fled the smoke of slavery to free people and fallen into the fire of mastery by slaves. In place of their earlier excessive, ill-timed freedom, they have put on the harshest and bitterest slavery: slavery to slaves. [569c]”
“That is exactly what happens,” he said.
“Well, then,” I said, “will it be fair to say that we have sufficiently described how tyranny develops from democracy, and what it is like after it has arisen?”
“More than sufficiently,” he said.

### Book IX, 571–578

[571a] “We still have to examine the tyrannical man himself,” I said. “How does he change from a democratic man? What is he like once he has changed, and how does he live? Is he miserable or happy?”

“He is indeed the one still left,” he said.

“Do you know what I still want?” I asked.

“What?”

“I don't think we have adequately distinguished the kinds of desires and how many there are. If that remains unfinished, our inquiry [571b] into what we are seeking will be less clear.”

“Is it still a good time to do that?” he asked.

“Certainly. Consider what I want to see about them. I think some unnecessary pleasures and desires are lawless. They probably arise in everyone. But in some people laws and better desires, aided by reason, hold them in check. Then they disappear altogether or remain few and weak; [571c] in others they become stronger and more numerous.”

“Which desires do you mean?” he asked.

“The ones that wake up during sleep,” I said. “The reasoning, gentle, ruling part of the soul is asleep. But the wild, animal part, filled with food or drink, leaps up. It shakes off sleep and tries to go out and satisfy its own habits. You know it dares to do anything then, as if freed of all shame and good sense. In its imagination it has no hesitation about having sex [571d] with its mother, or with any human, god, or animal. It will commit any murder and eat any food. In short, no foolishness or shamelessness is beyond it.”

“That is absolutely true,” he said.

“But suppose someone keeps himself healthy and self-controlled. Before sleeping, he wakes up his reasoning part and feeds it fine arguments and questions, [571e] reflecting quietly to himself. He neither starves nor overfills his appetites, so that they will sleep and won't disturb [572a] the best part with pleasure or pain. He leaves it alone and clear to examine things, and to reach toward knowledge of something it does not know, whether past, present, or future. Likewise, he calms his spirited part instead of going to sleep with it stirred up by anger at someone. He quiets those two parts and activates the third, where understanding arises. When he rests this way, you know he is most likely to grasp the truth, and [572b] lawless visions are least likely to appear in his dreams.”

“I think that is exactly right,” he said.

“We have gone into more detail than we meant to. What we want to know is this: everyone has a frightening, wild, lawless kind of desire, even those of us who seem quite decent. It becomes clear in dreams. See whether what I say makes sense to you and whether you agree.”

“I do agree.”

“Now recall what we said about the democratic man. [572c] He grew up as a young man under a thrifty father. His father valued only desires that make money, and despised unnecessary ones that arise for amusement and display. Isn't that right?”

“Yes.”

“Then he spent time with more sophisticated men, full of the desires we just described. He rushed into every kind of excess and toward their way of life because he hated his father's thrift. Yet he was naturally better than those who corrupted him. Pulled both ways, [572d] he settled between the two ways of life. He enjoyed each in moderation, as he thought, and lived neither a stingy nor a lawless life. Thus he changed from an oligarchic man to a democratic one.”

“Yes,” he said, “that was, and still is, our account of such a man.”

“Now imagine that this man has grown older and has a young son brought up with the same habits.”

“I imagine it.”

“Imagine the same things happening to this son as happened to his father. He is drawn into every sort of [572e] lawlessness, which his guides call complete freedom. His father and other relatives support his middle-range desires, while the others pull him the opposite way. When those cunning magicians and makers of tyrants lose hope of controlling him any other way, they devise a passionate desire in him to lead his idle desires, which spend whatever is at hand. It is a great winged drone [573a]—what else would you call such a passion?”

“Nothing else,” he said.

“Then the other desires buzz around it, loaded with incense, perfumes, garlands, wine, and the pleasures of such gatherings. They grow it and feed it to its fullest size, planting the sting of longing in the drone. This leader of the soul gets madness as its bodyguard [573b] and is driven into a frenzy. If it finds any decent opinions or desires within the man that still feel shame, it kills them and drives them out. It purges him of self-control and fills him with imported madness.”

“You have described exactly how a tyrannical man develops,” he said.

“Is that why passion has long been called a tyrant?” I asked.

“It probably is,” he said.

“And doesn't a drunken man, my friend, take on something of a tyrant's [573c] attitude?”

“He does.”

“And a madman with his mind disturbed tries to rule not only people but gods, and thinks he can.”

“He certainly does,” he said.

“A man becomes fully tyrannical, my friend, when nature, habit, or both make him drunk, passionate, and mad.”

“Exactly.”

“That is how such a man comes into being, it seems. But how does he live?”

[573d] “As people say when they are playing games,” he replied, “you'll have to tell me that too.”

“I will,” I said. “I think the next things in their lives are festivals, drinking parties, banquets, sex workers, and everything else of the kind. Passion lives inside them as a tyrant and directs their entire soul.”

“It must,” he said.

“Don't numerous and terrible desires sprout up beside it day and night, demanding many things?”

“Very many.”

“Then any income they have is quickly spent.”

“How could it not be?”

[573e] “Next come loans and the selling off of their property.”

“Of course.”

“When everything is gone, the desires nested inside them will surely scream often and loudly. The men will be goaded by the stings of the other desires, and especially by passion itself, which leads the rest like a band of guards. They will frantically search for someone who has something they can take by deceit or [574a] force. Won't they?”

“Absolutely,” he said.

“They must bring in goods from everywhere, or suffer terrible pangs and pain.”

“They must.”

“And just as new pleasures in him took more than the old ones and robbed them, won't the son, though younger than his father and mother, insist on taking more than they do? Once he has spent his share, won't he claim and take part of his parents' property?”

“Of course he will,” he said. [574b]

“And if they refuse, won't he first try stealing from and deceiving his parents?”

“Certainly.”

“When that fails, will he then seize things by force?”

“I think so,” he said.

“If his elderly father and mother resist and fight him, my friend, will he be careful not to treat them like a tyrant?”

“I wouldn't feel very confident about such a man's parents,” he said.

“But Adeimantus, by Zeus, would this man beat and enslave his mother, whom he has loved for so long and needs, [574c] for the sake of a new lover he does not need? Or would he do the same to his aging father, the oldest of his friends, whom he needs, for the sake of a new young male lover whom he does not need? Would he put his parents under those lovers' control if he brought them into the same house?”

“Yes, by Zeus,” he said.

“What a blessing it seems to be to have a tyrannical son,” I said.

“Quite a blessing,” he said. [574d]

“What happens when such a man uses up his father and mother's property, and a great swarm of pleasures has gathered inside him? Won't he first break into someone's house or steal the cloak of someone walking late at night, then rob a temple? Throughout this, the opinions about right and wrong that he held since childhood, the ones that supported justice, will be overcome by the newly freed desires serving as guards to his passion. These desires used to break loose only in dreams [574e] when he was still under the rule of law and his father, living with a democracy inside himself. Now that passion rules him like a tyrant, he is always awake as he used to be only occasionally in dreams. He will hold back from no horrible murder, food, or deed. [575a] Passion lives as a tyrant within him, without order or law. Since it rules alone, it drives the man it possesses, as if he were a city, to any outrage that will supply itself and its noisy followers. Some of those followers came from outside through bad company; others, born inside him, were loosened and set free by his own behavior. Isn't that how he lives?”

“Yes, it is,” he said.

“If there are only a few such people in a city [575b] and the rest of the population has good sense, they go abroad and serve as guards to another tyrant, or work as hired soldiers if there is a war somewhere. But if they live in peace and quiet, they stay in the city and do many kinds of lesser harm.”

“What kinds?”

“They steal, break into houses, cut purses, strip people of their clothes, rob temples, and kidnap people to sell them into slavery. Sometimes, if they are persuasive speakers, they bring false charges. They also give false testimony and accept bribes.”

“Those are minor harms,” he said, “if there are only a few such people.”

[575c] “Minor things are minor compared with major ones,” I said. “All these things, compared with a tyrant and the harm and misery he brings a city, don't even come close, as the saying goes. When there are many such people in a city, along with their followers, and they realize their numbers, they and the people's foolishness create a tyrant. He is the one among them whose own soul contains the greatest and strongest [575d] tyrant.”

“That makes sense,” he said. “He would be the most tyrannical.”

“If the city submits willingly, that is one thing. But if it won't let him have his way, he will punish his country if he can, just as he punished his mother and father before. He will bring in new companions and keep his once beloved motherland—as the Cretans call it—and fatherland enslaved under them. That is the final aim of a man's desires like these.”

“It certainly is,” he said. [575e]

“Even in private life, before coming to power, these men behave as follows. The people they associate with are either flatterers ready to do anything for them, or else people whose help they need. Then they stoop to anything and act as though they are close friends. Once they get what they want, [576a] they become strangers.”

“Exactly.”

“So they live without ever being anyone's friend. They are always either ruling someone or serving someone else. A tyrannical nature never tastes freedom or real friendship.”

“Certainly not.”

“Would we be right to call such people untrustworthy?”

“How could we not?”

“And as unjust as anyone can be, if what we agreed [576b] earlier about the nature of justice was right.”

“It certainly was,” he said.

“Then let's sum up the worst man,” I said. “He is the one who is awake as we described him in a dream.”

“Exactly.”

“And he comes into being when someone tyrannical by nature becomes a sole ruler. The longer he lives as a tyrant, the more he becomes like that.”

“He must,” said Glaucon, taking over the conversation.

“Then will the man who proves most wicked [576c] also prove most miserable? And will the one who rules most completely as a tyrant for the longest time truly be the most miserable for the longest time, no matter what different things the majority may think?”

“That must be so,” he said.

“Isn't the tyrannical man like a city under tyranny, the democratic man like a democracy, and the others like their corresponding cities?”

“Of course.”

“And the difference in virtue and happiness between one city and another is the same as the difference between the corresponding men?”

“How could it not be?”

[576d] “So how does a city under a tyrant compare in virtue with the city ruled by kings that we described first?”

“They are complete opposites,” he said. “One is best; the other is worst.”

“I won't ask which you mean,” I said, “since that's clear. Do you judge their happiness and misery the same way or differently? We must not be dazzled by the sight of the tyrant alone, or of the few people around him. We must go inside and look through [576e] the whole city, down to every part, before we give our opinion.”

“That is a fair demand,” he said. “Anyone can see that no city is more miserable than one under a tyrant, and none happier than one ruled by kings.”

“Wouldn't it also be fair,” I asked, “to make the same demand [577a] in judging the men? The judge should be someone who can enter a man's character in thought and see inside it. He must not be like a child, dazzled by the outward show tyrants put on for strangers. He needs to see clearly. Suppose we all listened to someone able to judge who has lived in the same house with a tyrant and seen him deal with each member of his family, where he is most exposed without his theatrical costume. This person has also seen him face public dangers. Having seen it all, he could tell us how the tyrant compares [577b] with others in happiness and misery.”

“That would be a perfectly fair demand,” he said.

“Then shall we pretend that we ourselves are qualified judges, and have met men of this kind already, so we have someone to answer our questions?”

“Certainly.”

[577c] “Come, then,” I said, “look at it this way. Keep the likeness between city and man in mind, and examine each in turn. Tell me what happens to each.”

“Which things?” he asked.

“First, speaking of the city, would you say a city under a tyrant is free or enslaved?”

“As enslaved as it can be,” he said.

“Yet you see masters and free people there.”

“I do,” he said, “but they are a small part. Nearly the whole city, including its best people, lives in dishonored, miserable slavery.”

[577d] “If the man resembles the city,” I said, “won't he have the same arrangement within himself? His soul will be full of slavery and lack of freedom. Its best parts will be enslaved, while a small part that is its most vicious and maddest will be master.”

“It must,” he said.

“Would you call that soul enslaved or free?”

“Enslaved, of course.”

“And a city enslaved under a tyrant is least able to do what it wants, isn't it?”

“By far.”

[577e] “So, speaking of the soul as a whole, a soul under tyranny will be least able to do what it wants. It will always be dragged along by a stinging urge, full of turmoil and regret.”

“How could it not?”

“Must a city under tyranny be rich or poor?”

“Poor.”

[578a] “So the tyrannical soul must always be needy and never satisfied.”

“That's right,” he said.

“Mustn't both this city and this man be full of fear?”

“Very much so.”

“Do you think you would find more cries of grief, groans, mourning, and pain in any other city?”

“No.”

“Or more of these things in any other man than in the tyrannical one, driven mad by his desires and passions?”

“How could you?” he said.

[578b] “So you looked at all this and the other things of this kind when you judged that city the most miserable of cities—”

“Wasn't I right?” he said.

“Quite right,” I said. “But looking at these same things, what do you say about the tyrannical man?”

“He is by far the most miserable of all men,” he said.

“That,” I said, “is not quite right.”

“Why?” he asked.

“I don't think this man is the most miserable one yet.”

“Then who is?”

[578c] “Perhaps you will think this man even more miserable: a tyrannical man who does not live out his life as a private person, but has the bad luck, through some chance event, to become a tyrant.”

“From what we have said, I gather you are right,” he said.

“Yes,” I said, “but we should not just guess about such matters. We must examine them closely by argument. Our inquiry concerns the greatest issue: a good life or a bad one.”

“Absolutely right,” he said.

“See if my point holds. I think we must consider him by looking at this example.”

“Which example?”

[578d] “Think of each wealthy private citizen in a city who owns many enslaved people. Such citizens resemble tyrants in ruling many people, though a tyrant rules more.”

“Many more.”

“You know that these citizens feel safe and aren't afraid of those who serve them?”

“What would they have to fear?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Do you see why?”

“Yes. The whole city comes to the help of each private citizen.”

[578e] “Good,” I said. “But what if a god picked up a man who owned fifty or more enslaved people and moved him, his wife, children, all his property, and the people who served him out of the city? Suppose the god placed them in an isolated place where no free people would come to his help. How deeply would he fear for himself, his children, and his wife, in case his servants killed them?”

“He would be terrified in every way,” he said.

### Book IX, 579–586

[579a] “Wouldn't he have to flatter some of the enslaved people, make them many promises, and set them free though he had no wish to do so? He would turn out to be a flatterer of his own servants.”

“He would have to,” he said, “or be killed.”

“And what if the god settled many neighbors around him who could not stand anyone claiming to be another person's master? If they caught such a man, they would inflict the harshest penalties on him.”

[579b] “Then I think his troubles would be worse still,” he said. “He would be surrounded by enemies on every side.”

“Isn't the tyrant locked in a prison like that? He has the nature we described, full of fears and desires of every kind. Though his soul is insatiable, he alone in the city cannot travel anywhere or go to see the sights that other free people want to see. He spends most of his time shut up in his house like a woman [579c] and envies the other citizens if one of them travels abroad and sees something good.”

“Exactly,” he said.

“Doesn't a man reap even more of these evils when he has a badly governed soul—the tyrannical man you just called most miserable—and is forced by some chance to become a tyrant instead of living as a private citizen? Though he cannot control himself, he tries to rule others. It is as if a sick man who cannot control his body had to spend his life competing and fighting against other bodies [579d] instead of living privately.”

“That comparison is exactly right, Socrates,” he said.

“So, my dear Glaucon, his situation is utterly miserable. The ruling tyrant has a harder life even than the man you judged most miserable.”

“He certainly does,” he said.

[579e] “Then in truth, whether or not anyone thinks so, an actual tyrant is an actual slave. He must flatter and serve others to the utmost, and flatter the worst people. He cannot satisfy his desires in the least. He lacks more things than anyone else, and is truly poor, if you know how to look at his whole soul. He is full of fear throughout his life, racked by distress and pain, if he resembles the city he rules. And he does resemble it, doesn't he?”

“He certainly does,” he said.

[580a] “Besides all this, mustn't we give him the traits we mentioned before? His rule makes him, and increasingly so, envious, untrustworthy, unjust, without friends, unholy, a host and nurturer of every vice. All this makes him supremely miserable himself and makes the people around him miserable too.”

“No one with any sense would disagree with you,” he said.

“Now,” I said, “act like a judge [580b] who gives the final verdict. Rank the five men in order of happiness, first, second, and so on: the kingly, the timocratic, the oligarchic, the democratic, and the tyrannical.”

“That judgment is easy,” he said. “I rank them as they entered, like choirs in a contest, according to their virtue or vice, their happiness or its opposite.”

“Shall we hire a herald,” I asked, “or shall I announce it myself? [580c] The son of Ariston has judged that the best and most just man is the happiest. That is the man who is most kingly and rules himself. The worst and most unjust man is the most miserable: the one who is most tyrannical and rules both himself and his city most tyrannically.”

“Make your announcement,” he said.

“Shall I add that this is true whether or not all human beings and gods know what they are like?”

“Add that,” he said.

“Very well,” I said. “That is one proof. Look at this second one, if you think it counts.”

“What is it?”

[580d] “Each person's soul has three parts, just as a city has three classes. So I think it allows another proof.”

“What proof?”

“This one. Since there are three parts, each has its own kind of pleasure. Each also has its own desires and its own way of taking charge.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“We say there is the part with which a person learns, and the part with which he gets angry. The third takes so many forms that we could not give it a single name all its own. We named it after what is strongest and largest within it. [580e] We called it the appetitive part because its desires for food, drink, sex, and related things are so strong. We also called it money-loving, since money is the main way of satisfying those desires.”

[581a] “And rightly so,” he said.

“Suppose we said its pleasure and affection center on gain. That would bring what we mean together under one description, making it clear which part of the soul we are talking about. Wouldn't we be right to call it the money-loving and gain-loving part?”

“I think so,” he said.

“What about the spirited part? Don't we say it strains constantly toward power, victory, and a good reputation?”

“Certainly.”

[581b] “Would it be fitting to call it the victory-loving and honor-loving part?”

“Perfectly fitting.”

“Now everyone can see that the part with which we learn is always intent on knowing the truth about everything. It cares least of all about money and reputation.”

“Much less than the others.”

“So would it be proper to call it learning-loving and wisdom-loving?”

“Of course.”

[581c] “And in some souls this part rules, while in others one or the other of those two rules, whichever happens to gain control.”

“That's right,” he said.

“That is why we say there are three main kinds of people: lovers of wisdom, lovers of victory, and lovers of gain.”

“Exactly.”

“And there are three kinds of pleasure, one belonging to each of them.”

“Certainly.”

“You know that if you questioned three such men in turn about which life is most pleasant, each would praise his own above the rest. [581d] The man devoted to making money would say that, compared with profit, the pleasures of receiving honor or learning are worth nothing, unless they bring in money.”

“True,” he said.

“And the lover of honor?” I asked. “Doesn't he regard the pleasure of making money as vulgar, and the pleasure of learning as mere smoke and nonsense unless the learning brings honor?”

“He does,” he said.

[581e] “And what do we think the philosopher believes about the other pleasures, compared with knowing the truth about the way things are and always being engaged in learning? Doesn't he think they are nowhere near that pleasure? Doesn't he call them necessary pleasures, since he would have no need of them at all if necessity did not force him?”

“We can be sure of that,” he said.

“Each kind of pleasure and each way of life is disputed. The question is not which life is finer or more shameful, or better or worse, but which is more pleasant and has less pain. How can we tell which of them speaks most truly?”

[582a] “I can't quite say,” he replied.

“Consider this, then. How should we judge things if we want to judge them well? By experience, understanding, and reason, shouldn't we? Could anyone have a better standard than these?”

“How could they?” he said.

“Then consider the three men. Which has the most experience of all the pleasures we mentioned? Do you think the lover of gain, even if he learns about truth itself, has more experience of the pleasure of knowing than the philosopher has of the pleasure of gain?”

[582b] “There is a great difference,” he said. “The philosopher necessarily tastes the other pleasures starting in childhood. The lover of gain has no need to taste the pleasure of learning the nature of reality or experience how sweet it is. Even if he tried, it would not be easy.”

“So the philosopher far surpasses the lover of gain in experience of both kinds of pleasure.”

“By far.”

[582c] “What about the lover of honor? Is the philosopher less experienced in the pleasure of honor than that man is in the pleasure of understanding?”

“Honor comes to all three if they achieve what they seek,” he said. “Many people honor the rich man, the brave man, and the wise man. So all of them know what the pleasure of honor is like. But no one except the philosopher can taste the pleasure of seeing what is real.”

[582d] “So in terms of experience, he is the best judge of the three.”

“By far.”

“And he alone will have gained his experience together with understanding.”

“Of course.”

“And the tool needed to judge is not the tool of the lover of gain or the lover of honor, but of the philosopher.”

“What tool?”

“We said judgment must be made through reasoning, didn't we?”

“Yes.”

“And reasoning is especially his tool.”

“How could it not be?”

“If wealth and gain were the best [582e] measures for judging these things, the lover of gain's praise and blame would necessarily be the truest.”

“Certainly.”

“And if honor, victory, and courage were the measures, wouldn't the lover of honor and victory be right?”

“Clearly.”

“But if the measures are experience, understanding, and reason?”

“Then what the lover of wisdom and reason praises must be the truest,” he said.

[583a] “So, of the three pleasures, the sweetest must be the pleasure of the part of the soul with which we learn. And the most pleasant life must belong to the person ruled by that part.”

“How could it be otherwise?” he said. “The man of understanding is a qualified judge, and he praises his own life.”

“Which life and pleasure,” I asked, “does our judge rank second?”

“Clearly those of the fighter and lover of honor. His life is closer to the philosopher's than the money-maker's is.”

“And the lover of gain comes last, it seems.”

“Of course,” he said.

[583b] “So these are two consecutive victories for the just man over the unjust man,” I said. “Now look at the third, an Olympic victory dedicated to Zeus the Savior and Zeus of Olympia. Apart from the pleasure of the person with understanding, the others' pleasure is not wholly real or pure. It is a sort of shadow painting, as I think I heard some wise person say. This would be the greatest and most decisive defeat of all.”

“Certainly. But what do you mean?”

[583c] “I'll find the answer as I go, if you answer my questions,” I said.

“Ask away,” he said.

“Tell me: don't we say pain is the opposite of pleasure?”

“Certainly.”

“And there is also a condition of feeling neither pleasure nor pain?”

“There is.”

“Isn't that a kind of stillness of the soul between the two? Or wouldn't you describe it that way?”

“I would,” he said.

“Do you remember what sick people say while they are sick?”

“What do they say?”

“[583d] Nothing, they say, is more pleasant than being healthy. But before they got sick, they failed to realize how pleasant health was.”

“I remember,” he said.

“And don't you hear people in severe pain say that nothing is more pleasant than the pain stopping?”

“I do.”

“I expect you notice people in many other situations like these. When they are in pain, they praise being free of pain and at rest as the greatest pleasure, rather than actual enjoyment.”

“At a time like that,” he said, “peace may seem pleasant and welcome.”

[583e] “And when someone stops enjoying something, the stillness after pleasure will feel painful.”

“Perhaps,” he said.

“So the stillness we just said lies between the two will turn out to be both pain and pleasure.”

“It seems so.”

“But can what is neither become both?”

“I don't think so.”

“Furthermore, both pleasure and pain, as they arise in the soul, are kinds of movement, aren't they?”

“Yes.”

[584a] “And what is neither painful nor pleasant has just proved to be stillness, midway between them.”

“Yes, it has.”

“How, then, can it be right to think that not suffering is pleasant, or that not enjoying is painful?”

“It can't be.”

“It isn't so,” I said. “But when placed beside pain, stillness appears pleasant, and when placed beside pleasure, it appears painful. There is no truth in these appearances about real pleasure. They are a kind of illusion.”

“At least that's what the argument shows,” he said.

[584b] “Then look at pleasures that do not arise from pains,” I said. “That will stop you from thinking for the moment that pleasure naturally is just the ending of pain, and pain the ending of pleasure.”

“Where are these pleasures, and what are they?” he asked.

“There are many,” I said. “Think especially of the pleasures of smells. They suddenly become intensely pleasant without any earlier pain, and when they end, they leave no pain behind.”

“Quite true,” he said.

[584c] “Then let's not be persuaded that pure pleasure is relief from pain, or that pain is relief from pleasure.”

“Let's not.”

“Still,” I said, “most of the largest pleasures said to pass through the body into the soul are of this sort. They are forms of relief from pain.”

“They are.”

“And the advance pleasures and pains we feel in anticipation of future ones work the same way?”

“They do.”

[584d] “Do you know what they are like, and what they resemble most?” I asked.

“What?” he said.

“Do you think there is an upper, a lower, and a middle region in nature?”

“I do.”

“Suppose someone moves from below to the middle. Wouldn't he think he was moving upward? And when he stood in the middle and looked back to where he had come from, wouldn't he think he was at the top, if he had never seen the real top?”

“By Zeus,” he said, “I don't see how he could think otherwise.”

[584e] “And if he moved back again, he would think he was going down, and he'd be right.”

“Of course.”

“All this would happen because he had no experience of what is truly above, in the middle, or below.”

“Clearly.”

“Would you be surprised, then, if people with no experience of truth have mistaken beliefs about many other things as well? They are in that position with pleasure, pain, and the condition between them. When they move toward pain, they are right to think it is real pain. [585a] But when they move from pain to the middle, they are firmly convinced they are approaching satisfaction and pleasure. They are like someone who looks at gray beside black and mistakes it for white because he has never seen white. In the same way, they look from pain to the painless state and are deceived because they have never known pleasure.”

“By Zeus,” he said, “I wouldn't be surprised. I'd be much more surprised if it were otherwise.”

“Consider it this way,” I said. [585b] “Aren't hunger, thirst, and the like kinds of emptiness in the condition of the body?”

“Of course.”

“And aren't ignorance and lack of understanding a kind of emptiness in the condition of the soul?”

“Very much so.”

“Wouldn't a person be filled by taking in food, or by gaining understanding?”

“How could they not?”

“Is filling more genuine when the thing that fills is less real or more real?”

“More real, clearly.”

“Which class of things do you think has a greater share in pure reality: grain, drink, meat, and all kinds of food, or true opinion, knowledge, understanding, and, in short, every virtue? [585c] Judge it this way. What belongs to what always stays the same, to immortality, and to truth, and is itself of that kind and exists among such things: does it seem more real than what belongs to what never stays the same and is mortal, and is itself of that kind and exists among such things?”

“What belongs to what always stays the same is far more real,” he said.

“Does the being of what always stays the same have any greater share in reality than it has in knowledge?”

“No.”

“What about truth?”

“Not in that either.”

“And if something has less truth, doesn't it also have less reality?”

“It must.”

[585d] “So, in general, the things that serve the body have less truth and reality than those that serve the soul.”

“Much less.”

“And don't you think the same is true of the body itself compared with the soul?”

“I do.”

“Then what is more real and is filled with more real things is more truly filled than what is less real and is filled with less real things.”

“Of course.”

“If it is pleasant to be filled [585e] with things suited to our nature, then what is really real and is filled with real things will produce more actual and genuine enjoyment of true pleasure. But what takes in things less real will be filled less genuinely and securely, and will share in a less trustworthy and less true pleasure.”

“That necessarily follows,” he said.

[586a] “So people with no experience of understanding and virtue, who spend all their time feasting and indulging in such things, move downward and then back up toward the middle. It seems they wander between these levels their whole lives. They have never looked up or risen beyond the middle toward what is truly above. They have never truly filled themselves with what is real or tasted steady, pure pleasure. Instead, like grazing animals, they keep their eyes down, bent toward the ground and the tables. They feed, gorge themselves, and mate. [586b] Hungry for a bigger share of these things, they kick and butt each other with iron horns and weapons and kill each other. They are never satisfied, because neither what they fill themselves with nor what they use to contain it is real.”

“Socrates,” said Glaucon, “you are speaking like a prophet about the lives of the majority.”

[586c] “Mustn't their pleasures be mixed with pains? They are images of true pleasure, colored like a shadow painting by being set side by side with pains. Both seem intense and produce raging desires for themselves in people who lack understanding. People fight over them, just as, according to Stesichorus, the men at Troy fought over an image of Helen because they did not know the real Helen.”

“Something like that must be true,” he said.

“And mustn't similar things happen with the spirited part when someone acts on it out of envy and love of honor, violence and love of victory, or anger and ill temper? [586d] He pursues his fill of honor, victory, and anger without thought or understanding.”

“The same must be true of that part,” he said.

“So can we say confidently that the desires belonging to both the gain-loving and the victory-loving parts will get the truest pleasures they can get, if they follow knowledge and reason and pursue the pleasures that the thinking part directs them toward? [586e] By following truth they will get the pleasures truest for them, and also the pleasures that properly belong to them, if what is best for each part is also what belongs to it most closely.”

“It certainly belongs to it most closely,” he said.

“So when the whole soul follows the part that loves wisdom and is not divided against itself, each part can do its own work and be just in all other respects. Each can also enjoy the pleasures proper to itself, the best ones, and, as far as possible, the

### Book IX, 587–592

[587a] enjoy the truest pleasures.

“Absolutely.”

“But whenever one of the other parts takes control, it cannot find its own pleasure. It also forces the other parts to chase a pleasure that belongs to someone else and is not real.”

“Yes,” he said.

“Then the parts furthest from philosophy and reason would produce the most pleasures of that sort?”

“By far.”

“And what is furthest from reason is also furthest from law and order?”

“Clearly.”

“And the desires furthest away proved to be the desires of love [587b] and tyranny?”

“By far.”

“While the desires of a king, a disciplined person, were closest?”

“Yes.”

“So I think the tyrant will be furthest from pleasure that is real and properly his own, while the other man will be closest.”

“He must be.”

“The tyrant, then,” I said, “will live the least pleasant life, and the king the most pleasant.”

“They certainly will.”

“Do you know,” I asked, “how much less pleasantly the tyrant lives than the king?”

“Tell me,” he said.

“There seem to be three kinds of pleasure, one genuine and two [587c] counterfeit. The tyrant goes beyond the counterfeit kinds. He runs from law and reason and lives with slave pleasures as his bodyguards. How far he falls short is not easy to say, except perhaps like this.”

“How?” he said.

“The tyrant stands third from the oligarchic man. The democratic man stands between them.”

“Yes.”

“If what we said earlier is true, then the pleasure he lives with is a third-level image of pleasure, measured from the oligarchic man toward reality?”

“Yes.”

“And the oligarchic man in turn stands third from the kingly man, if [587d] we count the aristocratic and kingly man as one.”

“He does.”

“So,” I said, “the tyrant is three times three removed from true pleasure, if we count along a line.”

“Apparently.”

“Then the image of a tyrant’s pleasure seems to form a flat surface when we count its length.”

“Exactly.”

“But raise it to the third power, and it becomes clear how great the distance is.”

“Clear to anyone who can calculate,” he said.

“Then suppose someone reverses the calculation and states the true distance between the king’s pleasure [587e] and the tyrant’s. When the multiplication is complete, he will find that the king lives 729 times more pleasantly, and the tyrant lives the same number of times more painfully.”

“You have come up with an astonishing calculation,” he said, “of the difference [588a] between the two men, the just and the unjust, in pleasure and pain.”

“And it is a true number,” I said, “suited to human lives, if days and nights and months and years belong to those lives.”

“They certainly do,” he said.

“So if the good and just man beats the bad and unjust man by so much in pleasure, by how much more will he beat him in the grace, beauty, and excellence of his life?”

“By an astonishing amount, by Zeus,” he said. [588b]

“Well then,” I said, “now that we have reached this point in our argument, let’s return to the first claim, the one that brought us here. Someone said injustice pays for a person who is completely unjust but is thought to be just. Wasn’t that the claim?”

“It was.”

“Now let’s talk with the person who made it. We have agreed on the effects of doing wrong and doing what is just.”

“How?” he said.

“Let’s make a picture of the soul in words, so the person who made that claim can see what he was saying.” [588c]

“What kind of picture?” he asked.

“Something like the creatures said to have existed in old stories: the Chimera, Scylla, and Cerberus. There are plenty of others said to combine many forms in one body.”

“There are,” he said.

“Imagine one form as a many-colored beast with many heads. It has the heads of tame and wild animals all around it and can change and grow all these heads out of itself.” [588d]

“That would take a remarkable sculptor,” he said. “But words are easier to shape than wax or anything like it. So let’s imagine it.”

“Now imagine a second form, a lion, and a third, a human being. Let the first be much the largest and the second the next largest.”

“That’s easier,” he said. “Done.”

“Now join all three into one so that they grow together.”

“They’re joined,” he said.

“Give them an outer covering shaped like a single human being. Then someone who cannot see inside but sees only the outer [588e] casing will think it is one creature, a human being.”

“Done,” he said.

“Now let’s speak to the man who says injustice pays for this human being and justice does not. What he really says is that a person profits by feeding the many-sided beast until it is strong, along with the lion and everything belonging to the lion. He should starve [589a] the human being and make him weak, so either of the other two can drag him wherever it wants. He should not get them used to each other or make them friends. Instead, he should let them bite each other and fight and eat each other.”

“That is exactly what someone who praises injustice would be saying,” he said.

“On the other hand, someone who says justice pays would say that a person must act and speak in ways that give the human being inside [589b] the most control over the whole person. He will care for the many-headed creature like a farmer. He will feed and tame its gentle heads and keep its wild heads from growing. He will make an ally of the lion’s nature, care for all of them together, and make them friendly to one another and to himself. That is how he will raise them.”

“That is exactly what someone who praises justice would say.”

“By every measure, then, the person who praises justice [589c] would be telling the truth, and the person who praises injustice would be lying. Whether we look at pleasure, a good reputation, or benefit, the defender of justice speaks truly. Its critic says nothing sound. He criticizes what he does not understand.”

“I don’t think he understands it at all,” he said.

“Then let’s persuade him gently. He does not go wrong on purpose. Let’s ask: ‘My friend, wouldn’t we say this is also why customs about what is honorable and shameful arose? Honorable customs put the beastlike part of our nature under [589d] the human part, or rather, perhaps, under the divine part. Shameful customs enslave the gentle part to the wild part.’ Would he agree, or not?”

“He would if he listened to me,” he said.

“Can anyone, by that argument, benefit from taking gold unjustly? Suppose that, as he takes the gold, he also enslaves the best part of himself [589e] to the worst. If he took gold in exchange for enslaving a son or daughter to savage, wicked men, the money would do him no good, however large the sum. But when he mercilessly enslaves his most divine part to what is most godless and filthy, isn’t he miserable? Isn’t the ruin for which he takes gold [590a] far worse than the ruin Eriphyle brought upon herself when she took a necklace in exchange for her husband’s life?”

“Far worse,” said Glaucon. “I’ll answer for him.”

“And don’t you think the reason people have always criticized a lack of self-control is that it lets that fearsome, huge, many-shaped creature loose beyond proper limits?”

“Clearly,” he said.

“And stubbornness and bad temper are criticized, aren’t they, when the lionlike [590b] and snakelike part grows too strong and strains against the rest?”

“Certainly.”

“And luxury and softness are criticized because they loosen and relax that same part until it becomes cowardly?”

“Of course.”

“And flattery and a slavish character are criticized when someone puts that same spirited part under the crowdlike beast. For money, and to satisfy that beast’s greed, he gets it used to being abused from youth onward. Instead of a lion it becomes an ape.” [590c]

“Exactly,” he said.

“Why do you think manual trades and craft work are treated with contempt? Isn’t it because someone whose best part is naturally weak cannot rule the creatures inside him? Instead, he serves them and can learn only how to please them?”

“That seems right,” he said.

“Then, so that such a person can be ruled by the same kind of principle that rules the best person, we say he should serve that better person, [590d] who has the divine ruler within himself. We do not think he should be ruled to his own harm, as Thrasymachus thought about those who are ruled. Rather, everyone is better off being ruled by what is divine and wise, preferably within himself, but if not, governing him from outside. That way we can all be alike and friends as far as possible, guided by the same principle.”

“Quite right,” he said. [590e]

“The law also shows that this is what it wants,” I said. “It is an ally to everyone in the city. The way we rule children shows the same thing. We do not let them be free until we establish a government in them as in a city. We nurture their best part using the best part in us, and set up a similar guardian [591a] and ruler within them. Only then do we let them go free.”

“It does show that,” he said.

“So, Glaucon, on what grounds could we say it pays to do wrong, to lack self-control, or to do anything shameful, if the person becomes worse even while gaining more money or some other power?”

“On no grounds,” he said.

“And how could it pay to do wrong without being caught or punished? [591b] Doesn’t the person who escapes notice become still worse? But in the person who is caught and punished, the beastlike part is quieted and tamed, and the gentle part is set free. As the whole soul is brought into its best condition, it gains self-control, justice, and wisdom. That state is more valuable than a body that gains strength and beauty along with health, just as the soul is more valuable than the body.”

“Absolutely,” he said. [591c]

“Then a sensible person will direct everything in his life toward that goal. First, he will value studies that make his soul like that and disregard the others.”

“Clearly,” he said.

“Next,” I said, “he will not surrender the care and feeding of his body to animal pleasures without reason and devote his life to those. But he will not even take health as his sole goal. He will not prize becoming strong, healthy, or handsome unless [591d] it also helps him become self-controlled. He will always bring his body into balance for the sake of harmony in his soul.”

“Yes, if he really intends to live in harmony,” he said.

“And won’t he also bring order and balance to his acquisition of money? He will not be dazzled when the crowd praises great wealth and keep adding to it without limit, bringing himself endless trouble.”

“I don’t think he will,” he said. [591e]

“Instead,” I said, “he will watch the government within himself. He will guard against disturbing any of its parts through too much money or too little. In this way he will manage his affairs, adding to his property or spending from it as far as he can.”

“Exactly,” he said.

“[592a] With the same goal in mind, he will willingly take part in and enjoy honors he believes will make him better. He will avoid, in private or in public, honors that would upset his existing character.”

“Then if that is his concern, he will not want to take part in politics,” he said.

“By the dog,” I said, “he certainly will in his own city, though perhaps not in the land of his birth, unless some divine chance brings it about.”

“I see,” he said. “You mean the city we have just described in words as we founded it. I don’t think it exists anywhere [592b] on earth.”

“But perhaps,” I said, “a model of it is laid up in heaven for anyone who wants to see it and, by seeing it, establish it within himself. It makes no difference whether that city exists anywhere or ever will. He would take part in the affairs of that city alone, and no other.”

“That seems likely,” he said.

### Book X, 595–602

[595a] “And yet,” I said, “many other things make me think we were right to found the city as we did. I say this especially when I think about poetry.”

“What about it?” he asked.

“Our refusal to admit any part of poetry that imitates things. Now that we have distinguished the parts [595b] of the soul, it seems clearer to me than ever that we must not admit it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can say it to you, since you won’t report me to the tragedians and all the other imitators. Such works seem to damage the minds of listeners who do not have the antidote: knowing what those works really are.”

“What are you thinking of when you say that?” he asked.

“I must say it,” I replied. “Though my affection and respect for Homer since childhood hold me back. [595c] He seems to have been the first teacher and leader of all these fine tragic poets. But we must not value a man above the truth. So, as I said, I must speak.”

“Of course,” he said.

“Listen, then. Or rather, answer my questions.”

“Ask them.”

“Can you tell me what imitation in general is? I don’t really understand what it is supposed to be myself.”

“And you expect me to understand it?” he asked.

“There’s nothing strange in that,” I said. “People with poor eyesight often [596a] see something before people with sharp eyesight do.”

“That happens,” he said. “But with you here, I couldn’t bring myself to say what I think I see. Look into it yourself.”

“Would you like us to start with our usual method of inquiry? We generally set down one Form for each group of many things to which we give the same name. Do you follow?”

“I do.”

“Take any such group you like. For example, [596b] there are many beds and tables.”

“Of course.”

“But there are two Forms for these objects: one of a bed and one of a table.”

“Yes.”

“And we usually say that a craftsman looks to the Form of each object as he makes the beds or tables we use. We say the same of other objects. No craftsman makes the Form itself. How could he?”

“He couldn’t.”

“Now see what you would call this other craftsman.” [596c]

“Which one?”

“The one who makes everything each individual craftsman makes.”

“You mean a remarkable and amazing man.”

“Just wait; you’ll find him even more remarkable. This same craftsman can make every manufactured object. He also makes everything that grows from the earth and every living creature, including himself. Beyond that, he makes earth and heaven, the gods, everything in heaven, and everything beneath the earth in Hades.” [596d]

“You mean a truly amazing magician,” he said.

“Don’t you believe it?” I asked. “Tell me, do you think no such maker could possibly exist? Or could someone make all these things in one way, though not in another? Don’t you realize that you yourself could make them all in a certain way?”

“What way is that?” he asked.

“It isn’t hard,” I said. “It can be done in many ways and quickly. The quickest way, perhaps, is to take a mirror [596e] and carry it around. You will quickly make the sun and the things in the sky. You will quickly make the earth, yourself, the other animals, objects, plants, and everything we mentioned just now.”

“Yes,” he said, “their appearances, but not the real things.”

“Good,” I said. “Your answer comes at exactly the right point. I think the painter is one of these makers. Isn’t he?”

“Of course.”

“But you will say, I suppose, that the things he makes are not real. Still, in a way the painter makes a bed, doesn’t he?”

“Yes,” he said, “but only a bed that appears to be there.”

“[597a] What about the bed-maker? Didn’t you just say that he makes not the Form, which we say is what a bed really is, but a particular bed?”

“I did.”

“So if he does not make what really is, he does not make the real thing. He makes something like it, but not reality itself. If someone said that the product of a bed-maker or any other craftsman was fully real, he probably would not be speaking truly.”

“Not according to people who spend time on these arguments,” he said.

“Then let’s not be surprised if even the bed-maker’s product is faint compared with reality.” [597b]

“No, let’s not.”

“Would you like us to use these examples to find out what an imitator is?” I asked.

“If you like,” he said.

“Then there are three kinds of beds. One exists in nature, and I think we could say a god made it. Who else would have?”

“No one, I think.”

“Another is the one made by the carpenter.”

“Yes,” he said.

“And another by the painter, right?”

“Let’s say so.”

“So the painter, the bed-maker, and the god each have charge of one of these three kinds of beds.”

“Yes, all three.” [597c]

“Now the god, either because he did not want to or because some necessity kept him from making more than one bed in nature, made only that one bed, the thing a bed really is. The god has not made two or more of those, and never will.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because,” I said, “if he made just two, one more Form would appear which both of them would share. That one, not the two, would be what a bed really is.”

“Right,” he said. [597d]

“I think the god knew that. He wanted to be the maker of a bed that truly exists, not the maker of some particular bed. So he brought into being just the one bed in nature.”

“That seems so.”

“Shall we call him its creator in nature, or something of the sort?”

“That seems fair,” he said, “since he made this and everything else in nature.”

“What shall we call the carpenter? Isn’t he the maker of a bed?”

“Yes.”

“Is the painter also a maker and producer of such a thing?”

“Not at all.”

“What, then, would you say he is in relation to a bed?” [597e]

“I think the fairest name for him,” he said, “would be an imitator of what the others make.”

“Well then,” I said, “you call him an imitator of the product that stands third from the natural thing?”

“Exactly,” he said.

“So if the tragic poet is an imitator, he too stands third from the king and the truth. The same goes for every other imitator.”

“That appears to follow.”

“We agree, then, about the imitator. But tell me this about [598a] the painter. Do you think he tries to imitate each thing as it exists in nature, or the things craftsmen make?”

“What craftsmen make,” he said.

“As they are, or as they appear? Make that distinction too.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Think of a bed. If you look at it from the side, from the front, or from anywhere else, does the bed itself change? Or does it stay the same but look different? And isn’t that true of other things too?”

“Yes,” he said. “It looks different, but it doesn’t change.” [598b]

“Now consider this. What does painting aim to imitate about each thing: what really exists as it is, or what appears as it appears? Does it imitate appearance or truth?”

“Appearance,” he said.

“So imitation must be a long way from the truth. Apparently it can make everything because it touches only a small part of each thing, and that part is an image. A painter, for example, will paint a shoemaker, a carpenter, or any other craftsman [598c] without understanding any of their crafts. But if he is a good painter and shows his picture of a carpenter from a distance, he will fool children and foolish people into thinking it is a real carpenter.”

“Of course.”

“But, my friend, I think we must keep this in mind in every such case. Suppose someone tells us he has met a person who knows all the crafts and everything else that any individual knows, with more exact knowledge than [598d] anyone else. We should tell him he is naive. He must have met a magician and imitator who deceived him into thinking the man knew everything. He could not tell the difference between knowledge, ignorance, and imitation.”

“That is absolutely true,” he said.

“Then,” I said, “we must next examine tragedy and its leader, Homer. We hear some people say these poets know all the crafts, all human matters concerning virtue and vice, and even divine matters. They argue that a good poet must know what he writes about to write well. Otherwise he could not write about it. [598e] We must ask whether the people who meet these imitators have been fooled. When they see their works, [599a] do they fail to notice that the works stand three steps away from reality and are easy to make without knowing the truth, since they make appearances and not real things? Or are these people saying something valid? Do good poets actually know the subjects that most people think they speak about so well?”

“We certainly must examine that,” he said.

“Suppose someone could make both the real thing to be imitated and its image. Do you think he would devote himself to making images? Would he make it [599b] the work of his life, as if it were the best he could do?”

“No, I don’t.”

“But if he really understood the things he imitated, I think he would take the real work much more seriously than its imitation. He would try to leave behind many fine works as memorials of himself. He would rather be the person praised than the person doing the praising.”

“I think so,” he said. “The honor and the benefit are not equal.”

“Then let’s not demand an account from Homer [599c] or any other poet about all the other subjects. We need not ask whether any of them was a real doctor instead of someone who merely imitated a doctor’s words. We need not ask whom any poet, ancient or modern, is said to have healed, as Asclepius healed people, or what students of medicine he left behind, as Asclepius left his descendants. Nor do we need to question them about other crafts. Let those go. But Homer tries to speak about the greatest and finest matters: wars, military leadership, governing cities, [599d] and educating people. So it is fair to ask him: ‘My friend Homer, if you are not three steps from the truth about virtue, a maker of images, as we defined an imitator, but are instead at the second step, and if you could tell what practices make people better or worse in private and public life, tell us which city was better governed because of you. Sparta was better governed because of Lycurgus, and many cities, large and small, were better governed because of many others. [599e] Which city credits you with being a good lawgiver who helped it? Italy and Sicily credit Charondas, and we credit Solon. Who credits you?’ Will he be able to name one?”

“I don’t think so,” said Glaucon. “Not even the Homeridae claim that he did.”

“[600a] Then is there any remembered war in Homer’s time that was fought well under his command or guidance?”

“None.”

“Is he credited with the many clever ideas for crafts or other practical matters that we expect from a wise man, as Thales of Miletus and Anacharsis the Scythian are?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“If he did not guide a city, is Homer said to have guided anyone’s education while he was alive? Did anyone love his company [600b] and pass on a Homeric way of life to later generations? Pythagoras was especially loved for his teaching, and even now his followers call their way of life Pythagorean. They seem distinct from other people.”

“No such thing is said of Homer either,” he replied. “His companion Creophylus, Socrates, might seem even more ridiculous in his education than in his name, if what people say about Homer is true. They say Creophylus neglected [600c] Homer badly while Homer was alive.”

“So they say,” I replied. “But Glaucon, if Homer really could educate people and make them better, because he had knowledge of these matters rather than merely the ability to imitate them, don’t you think he would have made many companions who honored and loved him? Protagoras of Abdera, Prodicus of Ceos, and many others can meet privately with people of their day [600d] and persuade them that they cannot run their own households or cities unless these teachers oversee their education. Their companions love them so much for this wisdom that they practically carry them on their shoulders. But if Homer or Hesiod could really help people become virtuous, would people in their time have let them wander around reciting poetry? Wouldn’t they have held on to them more tightly than to gold and made them stay in their homes? And if they could not persuade them, wouldn’t they have followed them wherever they went [600e] until they had received enough education?”

“I think every word of that is true, Socrates,” he said.

“Then shall we say that all poets, beginning with Homer, imitate images of virtue and of every other subject they write about, but never reach the truth? It is like what we just said of the painter. He can make a picture of a shoemaker that looks [601a] like one, although he knows nothing about shoemaking, and those who look at its colors and shapes know nothing about it either.”

“Certainly.”

“In the same way, I think we will say that the poet uses words and phrases to paint over the various crafts with their colors. He knows nothing about them beyond how to imitate them. Others who know as little as he does listen to the words and think he speaks very well, whether he talks about shoemaking in meter, rhythm, and melody, or about military leadership, or anything [601b] else. These things naturally have a powerful charm. But I think you know what poets’ words look like when stripped of the colors of music and spoken on their own. You have seen that, haven’t you?”

“I have,” he said.

“Don’t they look like faces that were attractive in their youth but never truly beautiful, once their youthful bloom has left them?”

“Exactly,” he said.

“Come, look at this. We say that the maker of an image, the imitator, knows nothing about what really exists. He knows only what appears. Is that right?” [601c]

“Yes.”

“Then let’s not leave the matter half said. Let’s examine it properly.”

“Go on,” he said.

“We say a painter can paint reins and a bit?”

“Yes.”

“But the leatherworker and the metalworker make them?”

“Certainly.”

“Does the painter know what reins and bit should be like? Or do even their makers, the metalworker and the leatherworker, lack that knowledge, while only the person who knows how to use them has it—the horseman?”

“That is quite true.”

“Shall we say the same holds for everything?”

“How?” [601d]

“For each thing there are three arts: using it, making it, and imitating it.”

“Yes.”

“And the excellence, beauty, and correctness of any object, animal, or action relate to the use for which it was made or came into being, don’t they?”

“They do.”

“So the user of each thing must know it best. He must report to its maker what works well or badly in use. For example, the flute-player will tell the flute-maker [601e] which flutes work for playing, and instruct him what kind to make. The maker will follow his instructions.”

“Of course.”

“So the person who knows will report which flutes are good or bad, and the maker will trust him and make them?”

“Yes.”

“Then the maker will have correct belief about whether the object is good or bad because he works with the person who knows and must listen to him. The user, though, has knowledge.” [602a]

“Exactly.”

“Will the imitator have knowledge from using the things he paints, so that he knows whether they are good and correct or not? Or will he have correct belief because he must work with someone who knows and takes instruction about what to paint?”

“Neither.”

“So the imitator will neither know nor have correct beliefs about whether the things he imitates are good or bad.”

“Apparently not.”

“What fine wisdom about his subject a poet who imitates must have!”

“Not much.” [602b]

“And yet he will go on imitating without knowing what makes each thing good or bad. Apparently he will imitate whatever looks fine to the crowd, who know nothing themselves.”

“What else would he imitate?”

“So it seems we have reached a fair agreement. The imitator knows nothing worth mentioning about what he imitates. Imitation is a kind of play, not serious work. And those who write tragedies in iambic verse or epic verse are all imitators to the greatest possible degree.”

“Certainly.” [602c]

“By Zeus,” I said, “doesn’t imitation concern something three steps away from the truth?”

“Yes.”

“And on what part of a person does it have its effect?”

“What sort of part do you mean?”

“Here is what I mean. The same size does not look the same to us when seen from nearby and from a distance.”

“No.”

“And the same things look bent or straight when seen in water or out of it. Things look hollow or raised because our eyes are misled by colors. This shows that our souls contain all kinds of confusion. [602d] Illusionistic painting takes advantage of this weakness in our nature and leaves nothing undone in its deception. So do conjuring tricks and many other such devices.”

“True.”

“But don’t measuring, counting, and weighing turn out to be excellent ways to help us against these effects? They keep what seems bigger or smaller, more numerous or heavier, from ruling us. Instead, the part that calculates, measures, or weighs takes control.”

“Of course.” [602e]

“And that is the work of the reasoning part of the soul.”

“Yes.”

“But after that part has measured things several times and says that some are larger or smaller than others, or equal to them, the opposite appears to it at the same time about those same things.”

“Yes.”

“And didn’t we say that the same part cannot hold opposite beliefs about the same things at the same time?”

“We did, and rightly so.”

### Book X, 603–610

[603a] So the part of the soul that judges things to be out of proportion would not be the same as the part that judges them by measurement.
"No, it wouldn't."
"And the part that trusts measurement and calculation would be the best part of the soul."
"Of course."
"Then the part that opposes it must be one of the poorer parts of us."
"It must."
"I wanted us to agree on this when I said that painting, and imitation in general, produces work that is far from the truth. It associates with the part of us that is far from good judgment [603b] and becomes its companion and friend, with no healthy or truthful purpose."
"Absolutely," he said.
"So imitation, being poor itself, joins with what is poor and produces poor things."
"It seems so."
"Does this apply only to imitation through sight," I asked, "or also through hearing, the kind we call poetry?"
"Probably to poetry too," he said.
"But let's not rely just on a probability drawn from painting," I said. "Let's turn to the very part of the mind [603c] that poetic imitation associates with, and see whether it is poor or worthwhile."
"We should."
"Let's put it this way. We say that imitation represents people doing things, whether they act under compulsion or willingly. They think their actions have turned out well or badly, and in all these situations they feel pain or pleasure. Was there anything else besides that?"
"No."
"Is a person of one mind through all of this? [603d] Or does he have a conflict within himself in his actions, as he did in what he saw? There he held opposing beliefs about the same things at the same time. But I remember that we don't need to reach a fresh agreement about this. In our earlier discussion we agreed fully that our souls are full of countless such conflicts occurring at once."
"That's right," he said.
"Yes," I said. "But there is something we left out then, and I think we need to go through it [603e] now."
"What is it?" he asked.
"We said, I believe, that when a decent man suffers a loss of this kind—losing a son, or something else he holds most dear—he bears it more easily than other people."
"Certainly."
"Now let's ask whether he feels no distress at all, or whether that's impossible and he instead keeps his grief within limits."
"The second is closer to the truth," he said.

[604a] "Tell me this about him. Do you think he fights back against his grief more when people like him can see him, or when he is alone by himself?"
"It makes a great difference when people can see him," he said.
"When he's alone, I imagine, he will dare to say many things he would be ashamed for someone to hear, and he will do many things he would not want anyone to see."
"That's true," he said.
"Then reason and custom tell him to resist, [604b] while the feeling itself pulls him toward grief?"
"Yes."
"And when a person is pulled in opposite directions over the same thing at the same time, we say there must be two parts at work in him."
"Of course."
"And one of them is ready to obey the law as it directs him?"
"In what way?"
"The law says that when disaster strikes, it is best to stay as calm as possible and not get angry. We cannot tell whether events of this kind are good or bad. Feeling miserable gets us nowhere afterward. Nothing human deserves too much concern. And grief gets in the way of the thing we need to do as quickly as possible in such cases. [604c]"
"What thing do you mean?" he asked.
"We need to think about what has happened," I said, "and arrange our affairs in light of what has turned up, just as we play the dice as they have fallen. We must choose the course reason judges best. If we stumble, we shouldn't spend our time like children, clutching the hurt place and crying out. Instead, we must always train the soul to turn as quickly as it can [604d] to healing and setting right what has fallen and what is sick. We must replace wailing with treatment."
"That's certainly the best way to deal with misfortune," he said.
"Then, as we say, the best part of us is willing to follow this reasoning."
"Clearly."
"But the part that pulls us back to memories of the hurt and to cries of grief, and can never get enough of them—wouldn't we call that part irrational, idle, and a friend of cowardice?"
"We certainly would. [604e]"
"The grieving, resentful part offers many varied things to imitate. But a sensible and calm character, which always stays much the same, is not easy to imitate. And when it is imitated, people do not easily understand it, especially a crowd of all kinds of people gathered at a theater festival. What is being imitated is a feeling foreign to them."

[605a] "Quite so."
"It's clear, then, that an imitative poet does not naturally address that part of the soul. If he wants to be popular with the many, his skill is not aimed at pleasing it. He addresses the changeable and resentful character instead, because it is easy to imitate."
"Clearly."
"So we would now be right to criticize him and set him alongside the painter. Like the painter, he makes things of little value when measured against truth. And he associates with another part of the soul of the same low kind, [605b] not with its best part. That is another way they are alike. We would therefore be right to refuse him entry to a city that is going to have good laws. He stirs up this part of the soul, feeds it, and makes it strong, destroying the rational part. This is just as if someone handed a city over to bad people by putting them in power and ruined its better citizens. In the same way, we will say that the imitative poet creates a bad government in each person's soul. He indulges its foolish part, [605c] which cannot tell larger from smaller but considers the very same things large at one time and small at another. He makes images of images, far removed from the truth."
"Certainly."
"But we still haven't brought our strongest charge against poetry. The terrible thing is that it can corrupt even decent people, apart from a very few."
"How could it fail to, if it does what you say?"
"Listen and consider. When even the best of us hear Homer or another tragedian imitate [605d] a hero in mourning, giving a long speech of lament, or singing and beating his chest, you know we enjoy it. We give ourselves over to it and follow along, sharing the hero's feelings. We take the matter seriously and praise as a good poet the man who affects us most strongly in this way."
"I know we do. How could I not?"
"But when one of us suffers a personal loss, notice that we pride ourselves on the opposite: being able to stay calm [605e] and endure it. We think that is what a man does, while the behavior we praised earlier is what a woman does."
"I see that," he said.
"Then is that praise proper?" I asked. "We see a man behaving in a way we ourselves would be ashamed to behave, but instead of being disgusted, we enjoy it and praise him."
"No, by Zeus," he said. "That doesn't seem reasonable."

[606a] "Yes," I said, "especially if you look at it this way."
"How?"
"When we suffer our own losses, we forcibly hold back the part of us that longs to cry and wail its fill. Its nature is to want these things. But that is exactly the part the poets satisfy and delight. Meanwhile, the naturally better part of us has not been trained well enough by reason and habit. So it lets down its guard against [606b] this grieving part. It is watching someone else's suffering, and it thinks there is no shame in praising and pitying another man who claims to be good but mourns without restraint. It believes it is gaining something: pleasure. It would not agree to give up that pleasure by rejecting the whole poem. I think very few people stop to reason that feelings learned from watching others inevitably carry over into our own lives. Once we have fed the part that pities others and made it strong, it isn't easy to restrain it when we ourselves suffer. [606c]"
"That's completely true," he said.
"Doesn't the same reasoning apply to what is funny? You would be ashamed to make certain jokes yourself, but you greatly enjoy hearing them in a comedy or in private and don't reject them as bad. Isn't this just what you do with displays of grief? You previously held back the part of yourself that wanted to make jokes, because you feared seeming crude. Now you let it loose. Once you've encouraged it there, you often find yourself carried away in your own life and acting like a comic performer."
"Very much so," he said. [606d]
"The same goes for sex, anger, and all the desires, pains, and pleasures in our souls that, as we say, go along with every action. Poetic imitation has this effect on us. It waters and feeds these feelings when they should be allowed to dry out. It gives them control over us when they should be controlled. Otherwise we become worse and more miserable instead of better and happier."
"I can't say otherwise," he said. [606e]
"So, Glaucon," I said, "when you meet people who admire Homer and say that this poet has educated Greece, and that he is worth studying for the management and education of human affairs, and that a person ought to shape his entire life by learning from him,

[607a] you should treat these people with affection and welcome them as the best people they can be. You may agree that Homer is the most gifted poet and the foremost of the tragic poets. But you must know that the only poetry we can admit into our city consists of hymns to the gods and praises of good people. If you admit the sweetened Muse, whether in song or verse, pleasure and pain will rule your city instead of law and the reasoning commonly held to be best."
"That is entirely true," he said. [607b]
"Let this, then, be our defense when we remember our treatment of poetry. We had good reason to send it away from the city in its present form. Reason compelled us to. But to keep it from accusing us of harshness and lack of culture, let us add that the quarrel between philosophy and poetry is an old one. There are all those old lines: 'the yelping dog barking at her master,' 'the great man among the empty talk of fools,' [607c] 'the crowd of overly wise men who rule,' and 'the people with their fine-spun worries because they are poor.' There are countless other signs of this ancient dispute. Still, we should say that if poetry and imitation aimed at pleasure can offer an argument for having a place in a well-governed city, we would gladly welcome them. We know that we ourselves are under poetry's spell. But it would be wrong to betray what we believe to be true. You too are under its spell, my friend, [607d] aren't you, especially when you see it in Homer?"
"Very much."
"Then it is only fair that poetry should return if it can make its case, whether in a song or in some other meter."
"Certainly."
"And I suppose we would let its defenders who love poetry, though they are not poets themselves, speak for it in plain prose. Let them argue that it is not only pleasant but useful for cities and for human life. We will listen sympathetically. [607e] We would gain something if it proved not only pleasant but useful."
"Of course we would gain something," he said.
"But if it cannot, my dear friend, we must do as people do when they have fallen in love and decide that the love is doing them no good. They give it up, reluctantly but firmly. Our upbringing under good political systems has given us a love of this kind of poetry. [608a] We will be eager for it to prove as excellent and truthful as possible. But until it can defend itself, whenever we listen to it we will repeat to ourselves the argument we have given, like a protective chant. We must take care not to fall back into the love we had for it as children, and that most people still have. We will remind ourselves that poetry of this kind must not be taken seriously as something concerned with truth and important matters. A listener concerned for the government of his own soul must be on guard against it [608b] and hold to what we have said about poetry."
"I agree completely," he said.
"The contest is great, my dear Glaucon," I said, "greater than it seems. It is the contest over becoming a good or bad person. So no one should be lured by honor, money, power, or even poetry into neglecting justice and the other virtues."
"I agree," he said, "on the basis of all we have discussed. I think anyone else would too. [608c]"
"And yet," I said, "we haven't discussed the greatest rewards of virtue or the prizes set before it."
"They must be unimaginably great," he said, "if there are greater ones than those we have discussed."
"What great thing could come about in a short time?" I said. "All the time from childhood to old age is surely short compared with all time."
"It is nothing at all," he said.
"Then do you think an immortal thing should concern itself with just that stretch [608d] of time and not with all time?"
"I suppose not," he said. "But what do you mean?"
"Haven't you realized," I said, "that our soul is immortal and never dies?"
He looked at me in surprise and said, "By Zeus, no. Can you really say that it is?"
"Yes, unless I am mistaken," I said. "And I think you can too. It isn't difficult."
"It is for me," he said. "I'd be glad to hear this argument that you say isn't difficult."
"Then listen," I said.
"Just tell me," he said.
"Do you speak of good and bad things?" I asked.
"I do. [608e]"
"Do you think of them as I do?"
"What do you mean?"
"I call whatever destroys and corrupts something bad, and whatever preserves and benefits it good."
"So do I," he said.
"And do you say that each thing has its own bad and good? Take inflammation of the eyes,

[609a] disease of the whole body, mildew in grain, rot in wood, and rust in bronze and iron. As I was saying, isn't there a natural evil and disease belonging to nearly everything?"
"Yes," he said.
"And when one of these attaches itself to something, it makes that thing defective, and in the end breaks it down completely and destroys it?"
"Of course."
"So a thing's own natural evil and defect destroy it. If its own evil cannot destroy it, nothing else can. Good will certainly never destroy anything, [609b] and neither will something that is neither good nor bad."
"How could it?" he said.
"Then suppose we find something that has an evil which makes it defective, but that evil cannot break it down and destroy it. Wouldn't we know that a thing of this nature cannot be destroyed?"
"That seems likely," he said.
"Well," I said, "doesn't the soul have something that makes it bad?"
"Certainly," he said. "All the things we have just been going through: injustice, [609c] lack of self-control, cowardice, and ignorance."
"Does any of these break it down and destroy it? Be careful not to fool ourselves by thinking that an unjust and foolish man is destroyed by injustice, the soul's defect, when he is caught acting unjustly. Look at it this way instead. Disease is a defect of the body. It wears down and destroys the body until it is no longer a body. The other things we mentioned [609d] are likewise reduced to nothing when their own particular defect takes hold of them, remains in them, and destroys them. Isn't that right?"
"Yes."
"Now examine the soul in the same way. When injustice and the other evils are in it, do they destroy and waste it away by remaining there, until they bring it to death and separate it from the body?"
"Not at all," he said.
"Yet it would make no sense," I said, "for one thing to be destroyed by another thing's defect but not by its own."
"No sense at all. [609e]"
"Think about this, Glaucon. We don't believe that the body must be destroyed by a defect in food itself, whether the food has grown stale, gone rotten, or suffered any other defect. If the food's defect produces a defect in the body, then we will say that the body has died because of the food, but through its own defect, disease. We would never claim that the body, a different thing from food, was destroyed by the food's defect, which belongs to another thing, unless that defect produced the body's own natural evil.

[610a] "That's exactly right," he said.
"Then, by the same reasoning," I said, "unless the body's defect produces a defect in the soul, we must never claim that the soul is destroyed by an evil belonging to something else without developing its own defect. One thing cannot be destroyed by another thing's evil."
"That makes sense," he said.
"Either we must refute this argument and show that it is wrong, or, as long as it stands, we must never say that fever, another disease, a violent killing, or even cutting the whole body into the tiniest pieces makes the soul any more likely to perish. First someone would have to show that these bodily injuries [610b] make the soul itself more unjust and less holy. When an evil belonging to one thing arises in another, without the latter developing its own evil, we must allow no one to say that either a soul or anything else is destroyed. [610c]"
"But no one will ever show," he said, "that the souls of those who die become more unjust because of death."
"And if someone does dare to challenge the argument," I said, "and claims that a dying person becomes worse and more unjust just to avoid admitting that souls are immortal, we will insist that, if his claim is true, injustice must be as deadly to its possessor as a disease. People who have it must die from injustice's own killing power, the most unjust dying quickly and the less unjust more slowly. They must not die, as unjust people now do, because other people punish them for their actions. [610d]"
"By Zeus," he said, "injustice wouldn't seem so terrible if it were deadly to the one who has it! Death would free him from his troubles. Rather, I think it will turn out to be quite the opposite. It kills other people, if it can, but makes its possessor very much alive. Besides keeping him alive, it keeps him awake. It seems to be very far from deadly. [610e]"
"Well said," I replied. "If a soul's own defect and evil cannot kill and destroy it, an evil assigned to destroy something else will hardly destroy the soul or anything other than the thing it belongs to."
"Hardly, as far as we can tell," he said.
"So if it is destroyed by no evil at all, neither

### Book X, 611–618

[611a] its own nor another's, it clearly must always exist. And if it always exists, it is immortal."
"It must be," he said.
"Let's accept that, then," I said. "If it is true, you see that souls must always be the same in number. None can disappear, so there cannot be fewer, and there cannot be more either. If any immortal thing increased in number, you know the increase would have to come from mortal things, until everything ended up immortal."
"You're right."
"But we mustn't believe that," I said. "The argument [611b] won't allow it. Nor should we believe that the soul, in its truest nature, is full of variety and inner differences and divisions."
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"It's hard for a thing to last forever if it is made up of many parts that are not joined together in the best way. Yet that is how the soul appeared to us just now."
"That doesn't seem likely."
"Our recent argument, and others too, would compel us to agree that the soul is immortal. But to see what it really is, we must not look at it while it is disfigured [611c] by its association with the body and other evils, as we are looking at it now. We need to use reason to examine it closely in its pure state. Then we will find it much more beautiful. We will see more clearly what justice and injustice are, along with everything we have discussed. What we've said about the soul as it appears now is true. But the condition in which we've seen it is like that of the sea god Glaucus. People who look at him [611d] would have trouble seeing his original form. The waves have broken off some old parts of his body, worn down others, and disfigured all of it. Shells, seaweed, and rocks have grown onto him. He looks like some other sea creature rather than what he naturally was. In the same way, we see the soul disfigured by countless evils. But we must look in another direction, Glaucon."
"Where?" he asked. [611e]
"Toward the soul's love of wisdom. Think about the things it reaches for and the company it longs to keep. It is related to what is divine, immortal, and always real. Think what it would become if it followed such things completely. That drive would lift it out of the sea where it now lies. It would knock away the rocks and shells that have grown onto it. Since it feeds on the earth, many earthy, stony, and wild things have gathered there through the feasts people call happy ones.

[612a] Then we could see its true nature: whether it has many forms or just one, and exactly what it is like. For now, I think we have given a fair account of its experiences and appearances during human life."
"We certainly have," he said.
"Haven't we also removed the other distractions from our argument?" I said. "We haven't praised justice for its rewards or reputation, as you said Hesiod and Homer did. We found that justice itself is best for the soul itself, and that the soul ought to do just things whether it possesses the ring of Gyges or not—even if it had Hades' helmet of invisibility as well. [612b]"
"What you say is completely true," he said.
"Then, Glaucon, can we now return to justice and the other virtues, without anyone objecting, all the rewards they give the soul from people and gods, while a person is alive and after death?"
"Certainly," he said. [612c]
"Will you return what you borrowed from me during our argument?"
"What exactly?"
"I let you assume that the just person looks unjust and the unjust person looks just. You asked for this assumption for the sake of argument, even if it proved impossible for either gods or people to be mistaken about them. That way we could judge justice itself against injustice itself. Don't you remember? [612d]"
"It would be wrong of me not to," he said.
"Now that the judgment is over," I said, "I ask you on behalf of justice to agree that it has the reputation it actually has with gods and people. That way it can collect the prizes that come from being seen for what it is, the prizes it gives to those who have it. We have already seen that justice gives its own benefits and does not deceive those who truly possess it. [612e]"
"That's a fair request," he said.
"First, then, you'll give back this assumption: the gods know what each person is really like?"
"We will," he said.
"If the gods know, they must love the just person and hate the unjust one, as we agreed at the start."
"Yes."
"And won't we agree that everything that comes from the gods to the person they love turns out as well as possible, unless he has some necessary evil left over from an earlier wrongdoing?

[613a]"
"Certainly."
"Then that is how we must think of the just person. Whether he lives in poverty, falls ill, or suffers anything else people consider bad, it will end in some good for him, either in life or after death. The gods never neglect a person who wants to become just and practices [613b] virtue, becoming as like a god as a human can."
"It makes sense," he said, "that someone like the gods would not be neglected by them."
"And we must think the opposite about the unjust person?"
"Absolutely."
"Those would be the prizes the gods give to the just person."
"That's my view, at least," he said.
"What about the prizes people give?" I asked. "If we are to say what really happens, isn't it like this? Clever but unjust people are like runners who run well on the outward stretch but not on the way back. They sprint away at first, [613c] but in the end they make themselves ridiculous, running off with their ears down by their shoulders and no wreath on their heads. The genuine runners reach the finish, take the prizes, and are crowned. Doesn't this usually happen to just people too? By the end of each action, relationship, and life, they earn a good reputation and receive their prizes from people."
"Yes, it does."
"Then will you let me say about just people what you yourself said [613d] about unjust people? I'll say that when just people get older, they hold offices in their own city if they wish. They marry into whatever families they choose and give their children in marriage to whomever they wish. Everything you said about the others, I now say about these people. And I'll say this about the unjust: most of them, even if they escape notice while young, are caught near the end of their race and become objects of ridicule. When they grow old, they are miserable. Foreigners and fellow citizens insult them and whip them. Then they suffer the things you rightly called brutal: they are racked and burned with hot irons. You may take it that I too have described them suffering all those things. But tell me whether you can accept what I say. [613e]"
"I certainly can," he said. "What you say is fair."
"Those, then," I said, "are the prizes, wages, and gifts that gods and

[614a] people give a just person during his life, in addition to the good things justice itself provides."
"And they are fine, dependable rewards," he said.
"But these are nothing in number or size compared with what awaits both the just and the unjust after death. We must hear about those things, so each one can receive in full what our argument owes him."
"Go on," he said. "There aren't many things I'd rather hear. [614b]"
"But I won't tell you a tale of Alcinous," I said. "I'll tell you the tale of a brave man, Er, the son of Armenius, a Pamphylian by birth. He once died in battle. Ten days later, when the bodies were collected and the others had decayed, his body was found intact. He was carried home for burial, and on the twelfth day, as he lay on the funeral pyre, he came back to life. When he recovered, he told what he had seen in the other world. He said that when his soul left his body, it traveled [614c] with many others and arrived at a strange place. There were two openings in the earth side by side, and above them, directly opposite, two more openings in the sky. Judges sat between them. After passing judgment, they directed the just to the right-hand road leading upward through the sky, with signs of the verdict attached to their fronts. They directed the unjust along the left-hand road leading downward, with signs of all their deeds attached to their backs. [614d] When Er himself came before the judges, they told him he must become a messenger to humanity about that place. They ordered him to listen and watch everything there. He saw souls depart by one opening in the sky and one in the earth once judgment was given. Through the other two openings, he saw souls rise from the earth covered in dirt and dust, and others come down from the sky clean. [614e] The souls kept arriving as though they had made a long journey. They gladly went out into the meadow and camped there as if at a festival. Those who knew one another greeted each other. Souls coming from the earth asked the others about the world above, and souls coming from the sky asked about the world below. They told each other their stories.

[615a] Those from below wept and cried as they recalled everything they had suffered and seen on their journey under the earth, a journey of a thousand years. Those from the sky told of the good things they had experienced and of sights of unimaginable beauty. Glaucon, the full story would take a long time to tell. But Er said the main point was this: for every wrong a soul had done to someone, it was punished in turn ten times. Each punishment took place over a hundred years, [615b] the span of a human life, so that they paid tenfold for every wrong. For instance, if some people had caused the deaths of many others, betrayed cities or armies, forced people into slavery, or shared responsibility for some other abuse, they suffered ten times as much pain for every act. But if they had done good to people and had been just and respectful toward the gods, they received rewards in the same proportion. [615c] Er had other things to say about those who died shortly after birth and lived only a little while, but they aren't worth repeating. He described still greater rewards and punishments for respect and disrespect toward the gods and parents, and for murder committed with one's own hands.
"He said he was there when one soul asked another where Ardiaeus the Great was. This Ardiaeus had been a tyrant in a city of Pamphylia a thousand years earlier. He had killed his elderly father [615d] and his older brother and, according to the story, committed many other terrible crimes. The soul that was asked replied, 'He has not come here, and he never will. We ourselves saw a horrifying sight. We were close to the mouth of the passage, ready to go up after all we had endured, when we suddenly saw him and some others. Most of them were tyrants, though there were also private citizens guilty of great crimes. They expected to ascend, but the mouth would not admit them. It roared whenever anyone incurably wicked or not yet sufficiently punished tried to go up. [615e] Then wild men with bodies like fire, who were standing there listening for the sound, seized some of them and led them away. They seized Ardiaeus and the others, bound their hands, feet, and heads, [616a] threw them to the ground and skinned them. They dragged them off the road and scraped them on thornbushes, telling each soul that passed why they were doing this and that they were taking the prisoners to cast them into Tartarus. Of all the many kinds of fear we felt there, the greatest was that the mouth might roar as each of us went up. Every soul was overjoyed to make the ascent when the mouth stayed quiet.' Such, Er said, were the punishments and penalties. The rewards were their opposites. [616b] After each group of souls had spent seven days in the meadow, they had to get up and travel on the eighth day. Four days later they reached a place from which they could see a straight column of light stretching down through all the sky and earth. It looked most like a rainbow, but was brighter and purer. After another day's journey they reached the light. There, [616c] in the middle of it, they saw the ends of its bands stretching from the sky. This light was a band holding the heavens together, like the ropes wrapped around a warship to hold it together. It kept the whole rotating sky in place. From the ends of the bands hung the spindle of Necessity, which turned all the heavenly circles. Its shaft and hook were made of adamant, while its whorl was made of adamant mixed with other materials.
"[616d] This was the structure of the whorl. Its shape was like a whorl here on earth. From Er's description, imagine a large hollow whorl scooped out all the way through, containing a smaller whorl fitted inside it, like buckets that fit into each other. Then there was a third, a fourth, and four more in the same way. [616e] There were eight whorls in all, fitted one inside another. Seen from above, their rims looked like circles, while together they made the continuous back of one whorl around the shaft. The shaft passed all the way through the center of the eighth. [616d] The first and outermost whorl had the widest rim. The rim of the sixth was second widest, that of the fourth third, the eighth fourth, the seventh fifth, the fifth sixth, the third seventh, and the second eighth.
"[617a] The largest circle was many-colored. The seventh was the brightest. The eighth got its color from the light of the seventh shining on it. The second and fifth looked like each other and were yellower than the others. The third was the whitest. The fourth was reddish. The sixth came second in whiteness. The whole spindle turned in the same direction. Within the turning whole, the seven inner circles turned slowly in the opposite direction. The eighth moved fastest, followed jointly by the seventh, sixth, and fifth. [617b] Next, as it seemed to them, came the fourth, moving backward at the third-fastest rate. The third came fourth, and the second fifth. The spindle turned in Necessity's lap. On top of each of its circles stood a Siren, carried around with it and sounding one note in one pitch. The eight Sirens together made a single harmony. [617c] Around them, spaced equally apart, sat three others, each on a throne. These were the Fates, the daughters of Necessity: Lachesis, Clotho, and Atropos. They wore white clothes and wreaths on their heads. They sang in harmony with the Sirens: Lachesis sang of what had happened, Clotho of what was happening, and Atropos of what was to come. Clotho used her right hand to help turn the outer circle of the spindle from time to time. Atropos used her left hand to turn the inner circles in the same way. Lachesis touched each in turn with each hand.
"[617d] When Er and the others arrived, they had to go straight to Lachesis. First a spokesman arranged them in rows. Then he took lots and examples of lives from Lachesis' lap, climbed onto a high platform, and announced: 'Here is the word of Lachesis, maiden daughter of Necessity. Souls who live for a day, a new cycle of mortal life begins, and it ends in death. No spirit will be assigned to you. You will choose your spirit. [617e] Whoever draws the first lot must choose first the life that will then be his. Virtue has no master. Each will have more or less of it as he honors or dishonors it. The chooser is responsible; god is not.'
"When he had said this, he threw the lots out among them all. Each soul picked up the one that landed close to him, except Er, whom he did not allow to pick one up. Everyone who picked up a lot could see his order of choice.

[618a] "Next the spokesman spread the examples of lives on the ground before them, far more than the number of souls present. There were lives of every sort, belonging to every kind of animal and to humans of every kind. Some lives were tyrannies lasting until death; others ended partway through, in poverty, exile, and begging. There were lives of men famous for their looks and beauty, other kinds of strength, and success in contests. Others were famous for their birth and the achievements of their ancestors. There were also lives of men without such reputations, and the same was true of women. [618b] The examples did not include a fixed condition of the soul. By choosing a different life, a soul would necessarily become different itself. The other features were mixed together in various ways: wealth and poverty, disease and health, and conditions between these extremes.
"And here, my dear Glaucon, it seems, lies the whole danger for a person. [618c] This is why each of us should put every other subject aside to pursue and learn this one, if there is someone from whom he can learn how to find out what will make him capable of telling a good life from a bad one, and of always choosing the better life from those available wherever he is. He must think about all the things we just mentioned. He must consider how they combine with one another or come apart and what they mean for a virtuous life. [618d] He must know what beauty does when mixed with poverty or wealth and with a particular state of soul, and whether it produces good or evil. He must know the effects of high and low birth, private life and public office, strength and weakness, quickness and slowness in learning, and all other traits the soul has by nature or acquires. He must consider what all of them do when mixed with one another. From all this he can reason out his choice, looking to the soul's nature, and choose between a worse and a better life. [618e] He should call the life that makes the soul more unjust worse, and the one that makes it more just better. He should disregard everything else. We have seen that this is the best choice both in life and after death. One must hold fast as adamant

### Book X, 619–621

[619a] A person must go to the world of the dead with this belief. Then, even there, wealth and other such evils will not throw him off course. He will not fall into a tyrant’s life or similar activities, do many terrible things that cannot be undone, and suffer even worse things himself. Instead, he will know how to choose a life between these extremes and avoid going too far in either direction, as far as he can in this life and in every life after it. For that is how [619b] a person becomes happiest.

And the messenger from that place reported that the spokesman then said this: “Even for the person who comes forward last, if he chooses wisely and lives with determination, a life worth having is available, not a bad one. Let the first chooser be careful, and let the last not lose heart.”

After he said this, the messenger told us, the person who drew the first place came straight forward and chose the greatest tyranny. In his foolish greed he made the choice without examining everything carefully. He failed [619c] to notice that his allotted fate included eating his own children and other evils. When he had time to look it over, he beat his breast and grieved over his choice. He did not follow the spokesman’s earlier warning. He blamed his troubles not on himself but on chance, the divine spirits, and anything else rather than himself. He was one of those who had come from heaven. In his previous life he had lived in a well-ordered city and had acquired virtue by habit, [619d] without philosophy. On the whole, no fewer of those caught in such choices had come from heaven, since they had no practice in suffering. Most of those who came from the earth had suffered themselves and seen others suffer, so they did not make their choices in a rush. This, along with the luck of the draw, is why most souls experience a reversal of good and bad fortune. But if someone always practiced philosophy soundly whenever he came into this life, [619e] and if his turn to choose did not fall among the very last, then, judging by the reports from that other place, he would probably be happy not only here. His journey from here to there and back again would also take him not along a rough path beneath the earth but along a smooth path through heaven.

The messenger said that this was a sight worth seeing: how each [620a] soul chose its life. It was sad, funny, and astonishing to watch. Most made their choices according to the habits of their former lives. He said he saw the soul that had once been Orpheus choose the life of a swan. Women had caused his death, and he hated them so much that he would not be born from a woman and become human again. He saw the soul of Thamyris choose the life of a nightingale. He also saw a swan choose to change to a human life, and other musical animals do the same. [620b] The soul that drew the twentieth turn chose a lion’s life. It was the soul of Ajax, son of Telamon. He remembered the judgment about the armor and did not want to become human again. Agamemnon’s soul came next. It too hated the human race because of what it had suffered, and exchanged its life for an eagle’s. Atalanta’s soul drew a turn somewhere in the middle. She saw the great honors given to a male athlete and could not pass them up, so she chose that life. [620c] After her, he saw the soul of Epeius, son of Panopeus, go into the life of a woman skilled at crafts. Far back among the last, he saw the soul of Thersites, the clown, take on the life of a monkey. As chance would have it, Odysseus’ soul drew the very last turn. The memory of his past troubles had put an end to his ambition. He went around for a long time looking for the life of an ordinary man who kept out of public affairs. With difficulty he found it lying somewhere, overlooked [620d] by everyone else. When he saw it, he said that he would have made the same choice even if he had drawn the first turn, and he chose it gladly. Other animals also turned into humans and into one another. The unjust changed into wild animals and the just into tame ones. Every kind of mixture occurred.

When all the souls had chosen their lives, they went up to Lachesis in the order in which their turns had been drawn. She sent with each of them the divine spirit that soul had chosen, to guard its life [620e] and carry out what it had chosen. This spirit first led the soul to Clotho. Beneath her hand and the turning of her spindle, it confirmed the fate the soul had received by lot and chosen. After touching her spindle, the spirit led the soul to the spinning of Atropos, making what had been spun impossible to undo. From there the soul went on, without turning back, beneath the throne of [621a] Necessity. Once it had passed through, and all the others had passed through too, they all traveled to the Plain of Forgetfulness in terrible heat that made it hard to breathe. The plain had no trees or anything else that grows from the earth. As evening came, they camped beside the River of Neglect, whose water no vessel can hold. Each of them had to drink a certain amount of its water. Those who lacked the sense to restrain themselves drank more than that amount. Anyone who drank it [621b] forgot everything. When they fell asleep and midnight came, there was thunder and an earthquake. Suddenly they were carried upward in different directions to be born, shooting like stars. The messenger himself had been prevented from drinking the water. He did not know where or how he got back into his body. He suddenly opened his eyes at dawn and saw himself lying on the funeral pyre.

And so, Glaucon, the story was saved and did not perish. [621c] It can save us too if we believe it. We will cross the River of Forgetfulness safely and keep our souls unstained. If we take my advice, we will believe that the soul is immortal and can endure every evil and every good. We will always follow the upward path and practice justice together with wisdom in every way. Then we will be friends to ourselves and to the gods, both while we remain here and when we receive the rewards [621d] for justice, like victorious athletes going around to collect their prizes. And we will do well both here and on the thousand-year journey that we have described.