In allusion to his resolve to sing a palinode, Socrates declares that whereas his former speech was the work of Phaedrus, this will be the work of Stesichorus. The thesis of Lysias was a ‘false tale’, since it assumed that madness is in all cases an evil. In reality it may be a divine boon. There are three types of divine madness, (1) that of divination or prophecy, such as belongs to the priestess at Delphi: this must be distinguished from the inferior practice of rational augury, and etymology helps us to maintain the distinction; (2) that which heals the sick by means of purifications and rites revealed to a frenzied sufferer; (3) poetical frenzy, which gives rise to far truer poetry than the art of the sane composer.

We have now to show that love is a fourth type of divine madness, and to that end we must discern the nature of soul, both human and divine.

Soc. Now you must understand, fair boy, that whereas the preceding discourse was by Phaedrus, son of Pythocles, of Myrrinous, that which I shall now pronounce is by Stesichorus, son of Euphemus, of Himera.

This then is how it must run:

‘False is the tale’ that when a lover is at hand favour ought rather to be accorded to one who does not love, on the ground that the former is mad, and the latter sound of mind.

A brief interlude now follows, in which the midday scene is recalled to our minds, with the cicadas chirping in the hot sunshine. These creatures, Socrates says, are watching to see whether their music lulls us to drowse in idleness or whether we resist their spell. He proceeds to narrate a little myth about their origin, suggesting that we can secure through their help the favour of the Muses of Philosophy, who will aid us in the inquiry upon which we are about to embark.

Soc. Well, I suppose we can spare the time; and I think too that the cicadas overhead, singing after their wont in the hot sun and conversing with one another, don't fail to observe us as well. So if they were to see us two behaving like ordinary folk at midday, not conversing but dozing lazy-minded under their spell, they would very properly have the laugh of us, taking us for a pair of slaves that had invaded their retreat like sheep, to have their midday sleep beside the spring. If however they see us conversing and steering clear of their bewitching siren-song, they might feel respect for us and grant us that boon which heaven permits them to confer upon mortals.

In general the soul cannot regrow its wings and return to its heavenly home in less than 10,000 years; but for the philosopher this is shortened to 3000. After every thousand years souls begin a new incarnate life, determined partly by lot, partly by their own choice; between each life and the next there is a period of reward or punishment.

Incarnations may be in an animal body, but the first is always in that of a man. Man's power to think conceptually is due to his reminiscence of the Forms which his soul beheld in the divine procession; and the philosopher's earlier liberation is due to his constant devotion to the Forms and his living in conformity thereto. Detached from men's ordinary pursuits, he is accounted insane, though in fact he is possessed by a god.

Now in all these incarnations he who lives righteously has a better lot for his portion, and he who lives unrighteously a worse. For a soul does not return to the place whence she came for ten thousand years, since in no lesser time can she regain her wings, save only his soul who has sought after wisdom unfeignedly, or has conjoined his passion for a loved one with that seeking.

By the sight of a beautiful object the soul is reminded of the true Beauty, and seeks to wing its flight upward thereto. This love of Beauty is the fourth and highest type of divine madness. But recollection is not always easy: some souls saw little of the vision, and some forget what they saw, being corrupted by evil associations.

Yet the Form of Beauty may be more readily recollected than the other Forms, since its image is discerned by sight, the keenest of our senses.

Mark therefore the sum and substance of all our discourse touching the fourth sort of madness: to wit, that this is the best of all forms of divine possession, both in itself and in its sources, both for him that has it and for him that shares therein; and when he that loves beauty is touched by such madness he is called a lover. Such an one, as soon as he beholds the beauty of this world, is reminded of true beauty, and his wings begin to grow; then is he fain to lift his wings and fly upward; yet he has not the power, but inasmuch as he gazes upward like a bird, and cares nothing for the world beneath, men charge it upon him that he is demented.

As a first step in the new inquiry Socrates suggests that any good speech presupposes that the speaker knows the truth about his subject; but Phaedrus demurs: the theory familiar to him is that all the speaker need know is what will seem true, in particular about moral questions, to his audience. By a homely illustration Socrates convinces him that this theory is likely to yield disastrous results. Next, a personified Rhetoric claims that knowledge of the truth, however desirable, is of no use to a speaker without the art of eloquence; but Socrates knows of certain arguments, which he hears advancing, to the effect that rhetoric is no art, but a mere knack. These arguments must have their say, in order that Phaedrus may be convinced that he will never be a successful orator unless he becomes a philosopher.

Soc. Well, the subject we proposed for inquiry just now was the nature of good and bad speaking and writing: so we are to inquire into that.

Ph. Plainly.

Soc. Then does not a good and successful discourse presuppose a knowledge in the mind of the speaker of the truth about his subject?

Ph. As to that, dear Socrates, what I have heard is that the intending orator is under no necessity of understanding what is truly just, but only what is likely to be thought just by the body of men who are to give judgment; nor need he know what is truly good or noble, but what will be thought so; since it is on the latter, not the former, that persuasion depends.

A consideration of the technical terms and devices of rhetoric which figure in the manuals leads to the conclusion that these are concerned with no more than the antecedents of the art. A number of the chief figures in Greek oratory of the fifth century are passed in rapid review, not without touches of satire.

Soc. But now tell me what we ought to call them if we take instruction from Lysias and yourself. Or is what I have been describing precisely that art of oratory thanks to which Thrasymachus and the rest of diem have not only made themselves masterly orators, but can do the same for anyone else who cares to bring offerings to these princes amongst men?

Ph. Doubtless they behave like princes, but assuredly they do not possess the kind of knowledge to which you refer. No, I think you are right in calling the procedure that you have described dialectical; but we still seem to be in the dark about rhetoric.

Soc. What? Can there really be anything of value that admits of scientific acquisition despite the lack of that procedure? If so, you and I should certainly not disdain it, but should explain what this residuum of rhetoric actually consists in.

Ph. Well, Socrates, of course there is plenty of matter in the rhetorical manuals.

Reverting to the imagery of the charioteer and two horses, one good and the other evil, Socrates describes the conflict within the soul of the lover, a conflict in which the evil horse can only with great effort be subjugated. Next, passing to the beloved, he tells of the gradual awakening of ‘counter-love’ (άντέρως) in his soul, and of the special felicity of a pair who are proof against the temptations of carnal lust through leading the life of philosophy: and also of the lesser happiness of a pair who, content with a lower life, lapse at times from the ideal of true love.

In the beginning of our story we divided each soul into three parts, two being like steeds and the third like a charioteer. Well and good. Now of the steeds, so we declare, one is good and the other is not; but we have not described the excellence of the one nor the badness of the other, and that is what must now be done. He that is on the more honourable side is upright and clean-limbed, carrying his neck high, with something of a hooked nose: in colour he is white, with black eyes: a lover of glory, but with temperance and modesty: one that consorts with genuine renown, and needs no whip, being driven by the word of command alone.

Phaedrus expresses his admiration for Socrates's discourse, and doubts whether Lysias will venture a rejoinder, more especially as he has recently been abused by a certain politician for being a ‘speech-writer’ (λογογράφος). Socrates replies that the term cannot have been meant offensively, since the most distinguished politicians practise speech-writing themselves, and expect to gain immortal fame therefrom. It cannot be writing or speaking in general that is shameful, but only doing it badly. It is therefore our business to inquire what constitutes good and bad writing and speaking, a task which Phaedrus envisages with delight.

Ph. If that be for our good, Socrates, I join in your prayer for it. And I have this long while been filled with admiration for your speech as a far finer achievement than the one you made before. It makes me afraid that I shall find Lysias cutting a poor figure, if he proves to be willing to compete with another speech of his own. The fact is that only the other day, my dear good sir, one of our politicians was railing at him and reproaching him on this very score, constantly dubbing him a ‘speech-writer’; so possibly we shall find him desisting from further composition to preserve his reputation.

Date of composition

Although it is impossible, and likely to remain impossible, to assign a precise date to the composition of the Phaedrus, or even to fix with complete certainty its position in the order of dialogues, there has been an increasing tendency during the present century to consider it a relatively late work. Apart from the patently absurd belief preserved by Diogenes Laertius (III, 38), and echoed by Olympiodorus in the sixth century, that it was the earliest of Plato's writings, the only ancient opinion that has come down to us is that of Cicero (Orator XIII, 47), who refers to the compliment paid by Socrates to Isocrates at the very end of the dialogue (279A) and adds ‘at ea de seniore scribit Plato et scribit aequalis, et quidem exagitator omnium rhetorum hunc miratur unum’. This is indeed vague enough; but if we may accept W. H. Thompson's belief that the word senior would not be applied to a man under fifty, it would follow that Plato, being at most eight years younger than Isocrates, was certainly over forty at the time. That few to-day would doubt, but it does not get us very far.

We are therefore thrown back on internal evidence, and more particularly on the relations between the Phaedrus and other dialogues. And we may begin by noting that, whereas it is universally recognised nowadays that the Sophist is the first of a group of six late dialogues (Sophist, Statesman, Philebus, Timaeus, Critias, Laws) which all display a deliberate avoidance of hiatus, the Phaedrus stands, on this criterion, outside the group, yet near to it.

Socrates continues with a vivid account of the regrowing of the soul's wings achieved through the perception of physical beauty and the consequent recollection of Beauty itself, the Form seen in the supra-celestial vision. The pangs of love unsatisfied are followed by a deep joy and satisfaction, for Love is the healer of suffering. The lover's state is one of reverent devotion and utter absorption in the beloved. What men call Eros the gods call by another name, Pteros, the winged one, because of his power to renew the plumage of the soul.

Now he whose vision of the mystery is long past, or whose purity has been sullied, cannot pass swiftly hence to see Beauty's self yonder, when he beholds that which is called beautiful here; wherefore he looks upon it with no reverence, and surrendering to pleasure he essays to go after the fashion of a four-footed beast, and to beget offspring of the flesh; or consorting with wantonness he has no fear nor shame in running after unnatural pleasure. But when one who is fresh from the mystery, and saw much of the vision, beholds a godlike face or bodily form that truly expresses beauty, first there comes upon him a shuddering and a measure of that awe which the vision inspired, and then reverence as at the sight of a god: and but for fear of being deemed a very madman he would offer sacrifice to his beloved, as to a holy image of deity.

Phaedrus is now bidden to convey to Lysias the purport of the late argument: the writer of speeches, the poet and the lawgiver, if their writing conforms to the conditions developed in the last section, deserve a different name: the name of philosopher. But Socrates agrees that there is a message for his own young friend Isocrates too; this takes the form half of prophecy, half of hope, that he may use his considerable gifts for higher purposes than ordinary rhetoric.

The dialogue ends with Socrates uttering a short prayer, in which Phaedrus joins, for inward goodness, for spiritual riches together with such material wealth, but only such, as befits the wise and temperate.

Soc. Then we may regard our literary pastime as having reached a satisfactory conclusion. Do you now go and tell Lysias that we two went down to the stream where is the holy place of the Nymphs, and there listened to words which charged us to deliver a message, first to Lysias and all other composers of discourses, secondly to Homer and all others who have written poetry whether to be read or sung, and thirdly to Solon and all such as are authors of political compositions under the name of laws: to wit, that if any of them has done his work with a knowledge of the truth, can defend his statements when challenged, and can demonstrate the inferiority of his writings out of his own mouth, he ought not to be designated by a name drawn from those writings, but by one that indicates his serious pursuit.

The speech, the purport of which has already been announced, consists mainly in adducing a large number of prudential considerations. In every way it will be to a boy's good—to his material advantage, his security, his good repute, and even his moral improvement—to yield not to a lover, that is to one who feels genuine passion for him, but to one who is moved by physical desire and nothing else. The lover's passion is a malady, precluding him from all self-restraint, and no permanent satisfaction can be expected from him. Moreover, there is a far wider field of choice from amongst non-lovers, though it is of course not all such that should be favoured.

You know how I am situated, and I have told you that I think it to our advantage that this should happen. Now I claim that I should not be refused what I ask simply because I am not your, lover. Lovers, when their craving is at an end, repent of such benefits as they have conferred: but for the other sort no occasion arises for regretting what has passed; for being free agents under no constraint, they regulate their services by the scale of their means, with an eye to their own personal interest.