but you are both good yourself and have the gift of making others good. And you are so confident of yourself that, while others make a secret of this art, you have had yourself publicly proclaimed to all the Greeks with the title of sophist, and have appointed yourself preceptor of culture and virtue, and are the first who has ever demanded a regular fee for such work. What then could I do but call upon you to deal with our problem both by question and communication? I had no other course. So now with regard to those points which I have raised on the subject in my opening questions, I desire to be reminded of some by you and to have your help in investigating others. The question, I believe, was this:cf. Plat. Prot. 329c ff. Are the five names of wisdom, temperance, courage, justice, and holiness attached to one thing, or underlying each of these names is there a distinct existence or thing that has its own particular function, each thing being different from the others? And your answer was that they are not names attached to one thing, but that each of these names applies to a distinct thing, and that all these are parts of virtue; not like the parts of gold, which are similar to each other and to the whole of which they are parts, but like the parts of the face, dissimilar to the whole of which they are parts and to each other, and each having a distinct function. If you still hold the same opinion of them, say so; if you have a new one, define what it is, for I make no objection to your replying now on other lines. Indeed I should not be surprised if you were merely experimenting upon me when you spoke before. Well, Socrates, he replied, I say that all these are parts of virtue, and that while four of them are fairly on a par with each other, courage is something vastly different from all the rest. You may perceive the truth of what I say from this: you will find many people extremely unjust, unholy, dissolute, and ignorant, and yet pre-eminently courageous. Stop now, I said: we must duly examine what you say. Do you call courageous men bold, or something else? Yes, and impetuous also, he replied, where most men fear to tread. Well now, do you say that virtue is a good thing, and of this good thing offer yourself as teacher? Nay, it is the best of things, he said, unless I am out of my senses. Then is one part of it base and another good, or is the whole good? Surely the whole is good in the highest possible degree.

Now do you know who dive boldly into wells? I do; divers. Is this because they have knowledge, or for some other reason? Because they have knowledge. And who are bold in going to war on horseback—those who are practised horsemen, or those who are not? Practised horsemen. And who with bucklers—buckler-men, or those who are not? Buckler-men: and so with all other cases, he went on, if that is your point; those who have knowledge are bolder than those who lack it, and individually they are bolder when they have learnt than before learning. But you must have seen at times, I said, persons who are without knowledge of any of these affairs, yet behaving boldly in each of them. I have, he said, and very boldly too. Then are these bold ones courageous also? Nay, that would make courage a base thing, he replied; for those you speak of are out of their senses. What then, I asked, do you mean by courageous men? Surely the same as bold men? Yes, I do still, he said. Then these men, I went on, who are so brave, are found to be not courageous but mad? And in those former cases our wisest men are boldest too, and being boldest are most courageous? And on this reasoning, wisdom will be courage? You do not rightly recall, Socrates, what I stated in replying to you. When you asked me whether courageous men are bold, I admitted it: I was not asked whether bold men are courageous. Had you asked me this before, I should have said—Not all. And as to proving that courageous men are not bold, you have nowhere pointed out that I was wrong in my admission that they are. Next you show that such persons individually are bolder when they have knowledge, and bolder than others who lack it, and therewith you take courage and wisdom to be the same: proceeding in this manner you might even take strength to be wisdom. On this method you might begin by asking me whether the strong are powerful, and I should say Yes; and then, whether those who know how to wrestle are more powerful than those who do not know how to wrestle, and whether individually they are more powerful when they have learnt than before learning, and I should say Yes. And on my admitting these points it would be open to you to say, by the same token, that according to my admission wisdom is strength.

But neither there nor elsewhere do I admit that the powerful are strong, only that the strong are powerful; for I hold that power and strength are not the same, but that one of them, power, comes from knowledge, or from madness or rage, whereas strength comes from constitution and fit nurture of the body. So, in the other instance, boldness and courage are not the same, and therefore it results that the courageous are bold, but not that the bold are courageous; for boldness comes to a man from art, or from rage or madness, like power, whereas courage comes from constitution and fit nurture of the soul.Do you speak of some men, Protagoras, I asked, as living well, and others ill? Yes.Then do you consider that a man would live well if he lived in distress and anguish? No, he said. Well now, if he lived pleasantly and so ended his life, would you not consider he had thus contrived to live well? I would, he said. And, I suppose, to live pleasantly is good, and unpleasantly, bad? Yes, he said, if one lived in the enjoyment of honorable things. But, Protagoras, will you tell me you agree with the majority in calling some pleasant things bad and some painful ones good? I mean to say—Are not things good in so far as they are pleasant, putting aside any other result they may have; and again, are not painful things in just the same sense bad—in so far as they are painful? I cannot tell, Socrates, he replied, whether I am to answer, in such absolute fashion as that of your question, that all pleasant things are good and painful things bad: I rather think it safer for me to reply, with a view not merely to my present answer but to all the rest of my life, that some pleasant things are not good, and also that some painful things are not bad, and some are, while a third class of them are indifferent—neither bad nor good. You call pleasant, do you not, I asked, things that partake of pleasure or cause pleasure? Certainly, he said. So when I put it to you, whether things are not good in so far as they are pleasant, I am asking whether pleasure itself is not a good thing. Let us examine the matter, Socrates, he said, in the form in which you put it at each point, and if the proposition seems to be reasonable, and pleasant and good are found to be the same, we shall agree upon it; if not, we shall dispute it there and then. And would you like, I asked, to be leader in the inquiry, or am I to lead? You ought to lead, he replied, since you are the inaugurator of this discussion.

Well then, I proceeded, will the following example give us the light we need? Just as, in estimating a man’s health or bodily efficiency by his appearance, one might look at his face and the lower part of his arms and say: Come now, uncover your chest too and your back and show them, that I may examine you thoroughly—so the same sort of desire comes over me in regard to our inquiry. Observing your condition to be as you describe in respect of the good and the pleasant, I am fain to say something like this: Come, my good Protagoras, uncover some more of your thoughts: how are you in regard to knowledge? Do you share the view that most people take of this, or have you some other? The opinion generally held of knowledge is something of this sort—that it is no strong or guiding or governing thing; it is not regarded as anything of that kind, but people think that, while a man often has knowledge in him, he is not governed by it, but by something else—now by passion, now by pleasure, now by pain, at times by love, and often by fear; their feeling about knowledge is just what they have about a slave, that it may be dragged about by any other force. Now do you agree with this view of it, or do you consider that knowledge is something noble and able to govern man, and that whoever learns what is good and what is bad will never be swayed by anything to act otherwise than as knowledge bids, and that intelligence is a sufficient succor for mankind? My view, Socrates, he replied, is precisely that which you express, and what is more, it would be a disgrace for me above all men to assert that wisdom and knowledge were aught but the highest of all human things. Well and truly spoken, I said. Now you know that most people will not listen to you and me, but say that many, while knowing what is best, refuse to perform it, though they have the power, and do other things instead. And whenever I have asked them to tell me what can be the reason of this, they say that those who act so are acting under the influence of pleasure or pain, or under the control of one of the things I have just mentioned. Yes, Socrates, he replied, I regard this as but one of the many erroneous sayings of mankind.

Come then, and join me in the endeavor to persuade the world and explain what is this experience of theirs, which they call being overcome by pleasure, and which they give as the reason why they fail to do what is best though they have knowledge of it. For perhaps if we said to them: What you assert, good people, is not correct, but quite untrue—they might ask us: Protagoras and Socrates, if this experience is not being overcome by pleasure what on earth is it, and what do you call it? Tell us that. Why, Socrates, must we consider the opinion of the mass of mankind, who say just what occurs to them? I fancy, I replied, that this will be a step towards discovering how courage is related to the other parts of virtue. So if you think fit to abide by the arrangement we made a while ago—that I should lead in the direction which seems best for elucidating the matter—you must now follow; but if you would rather not, to suit your wishes I will let it pass. No, he said, your plan is quite right: go on to the end as you began. Once more then, I proceeded, suppose they should ask us: Then what do you call this thing which we described as being overcome by pleasures? The answer I should give them would be this: Please attend; Protagoras and I will try to explain it to you. Do you not say that this thing occurs, good people, in the common case of a man being overpowered by the pleasantness of food or drink or sexual acts, and doing what he does though he knows it to be wicked? They would admit it. Then you and I would ask them again: In what sense do you call such deeds wicked? Is it that they produce those pleasures and are themselves pleasant at the moment, or that later on they cause diseases and poverty, and have many more such ills in store for us? Or, even though they have none of these things in store for a later day, and cause us only enjoyment, would they still be evil just because, forsooth, they cause enjoyment in some way or other? Can we suppose, Protagoras, that they will make any other answer than that these things are evil, not according to the operation of the actual pleasure of the moment, but owing to the later results in disease and those other ills? I think, said Protagoras, that most people would answer thus. Then in causing diseases they cause pains? And in causing poverty they cause pains? They would admit this, I imagine. Protagoras agreed.

Then does it seem to you, my friends, as Protagoras and I assert, that the only reason why these things are evil is that they end at last in pains, and deprive us of other pleasures? Would they admit this? We both agreed that they would. Then again, suppose we should ask them the opposite: You, sirs, who tell us on the other hand that good things are painful—do you not give such instances as physical training, military service, and medical treatment conducted by cautery, incision, drugs, or starvation, and say that these are good, but painful? Would they not grant it? He agreed that they would. Then do you call them good because they produce extreme pangs and anguish for the moment, or because later on they result in health and good bodily condition, the deliverance of cities, dominion over others, and wealth? They would assent to this, I suppose. He agreed. And are these things good for any other reason than that they end at last in pleasures and relief and riddance of pains? Or have you some other end to mention, with respect to which you call them good, apart from pleasures and pains? They could not find one, I fancy. I too think they could not, said Protagoras. Then do you pursue pleasure as being a good thing, and shun pain as being a bad one? He agreed that we do. So one thing you hold to be bad—pain; and pleasure you hold to be good, since the very act of enjoying you call bad as soon as it deprives us of greater pleasures than it has in itself, or leads to greater pains than the pleasures it contains. For if it is with reference to something else that you call the act of enjoyment bad, and with a view to some other end, you might be able to tell it us but this you will be unable to do. I too think that they cannot, said Protagoras. Then is not the same thing repeated in regard to the state of being pained? You call being pained a good thing as soon as it either rids us of greater pains than those it comprises, or leads to greater pleasures than its pains. Now if you have in view some other end than those which I mention when you call being pained good, you can tell it us; but you never can. Truly spoken, said Protagoras. Once more then, I proceeded; if you were to ask me, my friends, Now why on earth do you speak at such length on this point, and in so many ways? I should reply, Forgive me: in the first place, it is not easy to conclude what it is that you mean when you say overcome by pleasures; and secondly, on this point hang all our conclusions.

But it is still quite possible to retract, if you can somehow contrive to say that the good is different from pleasure, or the bad from pain. Is it enough for you to live out your life pleasantly, without pain? If it is, and you are unable to tell us of any other good or evil that does not end in pleasure or pain, listen to what I have to say next. I tell you that if this is so, the argument becomes absurd, when you say that it is often the case that a man, knowing the evil to be evil, nevertheless commits it, when he might avoid it, because he is driven and dazed by his pleasures; while on the other hand you say that a man, knowing the good, refuses to do good because of the momentary pleasures by which he is overcome. The absurdity of all this will be manifest if we refrain from using a number of terms at once, such as pleasant, painful, good, and bad; and as there appeared to be two things, let us call them by two names—first, good and evil, and then later on, pleasant and painful. Let us then lay it down as our statement, that a man does evil in spite of knowing the evil of it. Now if someone asks us: Why? we shall answer: Because he is overcome. By what? the questioner will ask us and this time we shall be unable to reply: By pleasure—for this has exchanged its name for the good. So we must answer only with the words: Because he is overcome. By what? says the questioner. The good—must surely be our reply. Now if our questioner chance to be an arrogant person he will laugh and exclaim: What a ridiculous statement, that a man does evil, knowing it to be evil, and not having to do it, because he is overcome by the good! Is this, he will ask, because the good is not worthy of conquering the evil in you, or because it is worthy? Clearly we must reply: Because it is not worthy; otherwise he whom we speak of as overcome by pleasures would not have offended. But in what sense, he might ask us, is the good unworthy of the bad, or the bad of the good? This can only be when the one is greater and the other smaller, or when there are more on the one side and fewer on the other. We shall not find any other reason to give; So it is clear, he will say, that by being overcome you mean getting the greater evil in exchange for the lesser good. That must be agreed.

Then let us apply the terms pleasant and painful to these things instead, and say that a man does what we previously called evil, but now call painful, knowing it to be painful, because he is overcome by the pleasant, which is obviously unworthy to conquer. What unworthiness can there be in pleasure as against pain, save an excess or defect of one compared with the other? That is, when one becomes greater and the other smaller, or when there are more on one side and fewer on the other, or here a greater degree and there a less. For if you should say: But, Socrates, the immediately pleasant differs widely from the subsequently pleasant or painful, I should reply: Do they differ in anything but pleasure and pain? That is the only distinction. Like a practised weigher, put pleasant things and painful in the scales, and with them the nearness and the remoteness, and tell me which count for more. For if you weigh pleasant things against pleasant, the greater and the more are always to be preferred: if painful against painful, then always the fewer and smaller. If you weigh pleasant against painful, and find that the painful are outbalanced by the pleasant—whether the near by the remote or the remote by the near—you must take that course of action to which the pleasant are attached; but not that course if the pleasant are outweighed by the painful. Can the case be otherwise, I should ask, than thus, my friends? I am certain they could state no alternative. To this he too assented. Since that is the case, then, I shall say, please answer me this: Does not the same size appear larger to your sight when near, and smaller when distant? They will admit this. And it is the same with thickness and number? And sounds of equal strength are greater when near, and smaller when distant? They would agree to this. Now if our welfare consisted in doing and choosing things of large dimensions, and avoiding and not doing those of small, what would be our salvation in life? Would it be the art of measurement, or the power of appearance? Is it not the latter that leads us astray, as we saw, and many a time causes us to take things topsy-turvy and to have to change our minds both in our conduct and in our choice of great or small? Whereas the art of measurement would have made this appearance ineffective, and by showing us the truth would have brought our soul into the repose of abiding by the truth, and so would have saved our life. Would men acknowledge, in view of all this, that the art which saves our life is measurement, or some other? It is measurement, he agreed.

Well now, if the saving of our life depended on the choice of odd or even, and on knowing when to make a right choice of the greater and when of the less—taking each by itself or comparing it with the other, and whether near or distant—what would save our life? Would it not be knowledge; a knowledge of measurement, since the art here is concerned with excess and defect, and of numeration, as it has to do with odd and even? People would admit this, would they not? Protagoras agreed that they would. Well then, my friends, since we have found that the salvation of our life depends on making a right choice of pleasure and pain—of the more and the fewer, the greater and the smaller, and the nearer and the remoter—is it not evident, in the first place, that measurement is a study of their excess and defect and equality in relation to each other? This must needs be so. And being measurement, I presume it must be an art or science? They will assent to this. Well, the nature of this art or science we shall consider some other timeThe intellectual control of our sense-perceptions, which differ as to the size or number of the same things when near and when distant, etc., has an important part in the educational scheme of the . The measuring art is further considered in the (283 ff.).; but the mere fact of its being a science will suffice for the proof which Protagoras and I are required to give in answer to the question you have put to us. You asked it, if you remember, when we were agreeingcf. Plat. Prot. 352b ff. that there is nothing stronger than knowledge, and that knowledge, wherever it may be found, has always the upper hand of pleasure or anything else; and then you said that pleasure often masters even the man of knowledge, and on our refusing to agree with you, you went on to ask us: Protagoras and Socrates, if this experience is not being overcome by pleasure, whatever can it be, and what do you call it? Tell us. If on the spur of the moment we had replied, Ignorance, you would have laughed us to scorn: but now if you laugh at us you will be laughing at yourselves as well. For you have admitted that it is from defect of knowledge that men err, when they do err, in their choice of pleasures and pains—that is, in the choice of good and evil; and from defect not merely of knowledge but of the knowledge which you have now admitted also to be that of measurement. And surely you know well enough for yourselves that the erring act committed without knowledge is done through ignorance. Accordingly to be overcome by pleasure means just this—ignorance in the highest degree, which Protagoras here and Prodicus and Hippias profess to cure. But you, through supposing it to be something else than ignorance, will neither go yourselves nor send your children to these sophists, who are the teachers of those things—you say it cannot be taught; you are chary of your money and will give them none, and so you fare badly both in private and in public life.

Such would have been our answer to the world at large. And I ask you now, Hippias and Prodicus, as well as Protagoras—for I would have you make a joint reply—whether you think what I say is true or false. They all thought what I had said was absolutely true. Then you agree, I continued, that the pleasant is good and the painful bad. And let me entreat my friend Prodicus to spare me his distinction of terms: for whether you say pleasant or delightful or enjoyable, my excellent Prodicus, or in whatever style or manner you may be pleased to name these things, pray reply to the sense of my question. At this Prodicus laughed and consented, as did the rest. Well now, my friends, I said, what of this? All actions aimed at living painlessly and pleasantly are honorable, are they not? And the honorable work is both good and useful? They agreed. Then if, I proceeded, the pleasant is good, no one who has knowledge or thought of other actions as better than those he is doing, and as possible, will do as he proposes if he is free to do the better ones; and this yielding to oneself is nothing but ignorance, and mastery ofYielding to oneself and mastery of oneself are here put instead of being overcome by pleasure and the opposite state. The conflict between the better and worse self is discussed in Plat. Rep. 4.430e ff. oneself is as certainly wisdom. They all agreed. Well then, by ignorance do you mean having a false opinion and being deceived about matters of importance? They all agreed to this also. Then surely, I went on, no one willingly goes after evil or what he thinks to be evil; it is not in human nature, apparently, to do so—to wish to go after what one thinks to be evil in preference to the good; and when compelled to choose one of two evils, nobody will choose the greater when he may the lesser. All this met with the assent of everyone. Well, I said, is there something you call dread, or fear? And is it—I address myself to you, Prodicus —the same as I have in mind—something I describe as an expectation of evil, whether you call it fear or dread? Protagoras and Hippias agreed to this description of dread or fear; but Prodicus thought this was dread, not fear. No matter, Prodicus, I said, but my point is this: if our former statements are true, will any man wish to go after what he dreads, when he may pursue what he does not? Surely this is impossible after what we have admitted—that he regards as evil that which he dreads? And what is regarded as evil is neither pursued nor accepted willingly, we saw, by anyone. Here also they were all in agreement.

So much, then, being granted, Prodicus and Hippias, I said, let our friend Protagoras vindicate the correctness of the answer he made at first—not that which he made at the very beginning,cf. Plat. Prot. 330a ff. when he said that, while there were five parts of virtue, none of them was like any other, but each had its particular function: I do not refer to that, but the statement he made afterwards,cf. Plat. Prot. 349d ff. when he proceeded to say that four of them had a considerable resemblance to each other, but one was quite different from the rest—courage; and he told me I should perceive this by the following token: You will find, Socrates, said he, that men may be most unholy, most unjust, most dissolute, and most ignorant, yet most courageous; whence you may judge that courage is very different from the other parts of virtue. His answer caused me great surprise at the moment, and still more when I went into the matter with your help. But anyhow, I asked him whether by the brave he meant bold. Yes, he replied, and impetuous. Protagoras, I said, do you remember making this answer? He admitted he did. Well now, I said, tell us, towards what do you mean they are impetuous when they are courageous? Towards the same things as cowards? No, he said. Then towards other things? Yes, he said. Do cowards go after things that allow boldness, and the courageous after dreadful things? So people say, Socrates. Quite true, I said. But my point is rather, towards what, according to you, are the brave impetuous? Dreadful things, in the belief that they are dreadful, or towards what is not dreadful? No, he said; the former has just been shown, by the arguments you put forward, to be impossible. Quite true again, I said; so that if this proof was correct, no one goes to meet what he regards as dreadful, since to be overcome by oneself was found to be ignorance. He admitted this. And yet all men go also to meet what they can face boldly, whether cowardly or brave, and in this respect cowardly and brave go to meet the same things. But still, Socrates, he said, what cowards go to meet is the very opposite of what the courageous go to meet. For instance, the latter are willing to go to war, but the former are not. Is going to war an honorable thing, I asked, or a base thing? Honorable, he replied. Then if it is honorable, we have admitted, by our former argument, that it is also good for we agreed that all honorable actions were good. True, and I abide by that decision.

You are right to do so, I said. But which sort of men do you say are not willing to go to war, that being an honorable and good thing to do? The cowardly, he replied. Then, I went on, if it is honorable and good, is it also pleasant? That certainly has been admitted, he said. Now do the cowards wittingly refuse to go to what is more honorable, better, and pleasanter? Well, if we admit that too, he replied, we shall undo our previous admissions. But what of the courageous man? Does he not go to the more honorable and better and pleasanter? I am forced to admit that, he said. Now, in general, courageous men do not feel base fears, when they fear, nor is there anything base in their boldness? True, he said. And if not base, then it must be honorable? He admitted this. And if honorable, then good? Yes. And the cowardly and the bold and the mad, on the contrary, feel base fears and base boldness? He agreed. Do they feel base and evil boldness solely through stupidity and ignorance? Just so, he said. Well now, the cause of cowards being cowardly, do you call this cowardice or courage? Cowardice, I call it, he replied. And were they not found to be cowards through ignorance of what is dreadful? Certainly, he said. And so they are cowards because of that ignorance? He agreed. And the cause of their being cowards is admitted by you to be cowardice? He assented. Then ignorance of what is dreadful and not dreadful will be cowardice? He nodded assent. But surely courage, I went on, is the opposite of cowardice. Yes. Then the wisdom that knows what is and what is not dreadful is opposed to the ignorance of these things? To this he could still nod assent. And the ignorance of them is cowardice? To this he nodded very reluctantly. So the wisdom that knows what is and what is not dreadful is courage, being opposed to the ignorance of these things? Here he could no longer bring himself to nod agreement, and remained silent. Then I proceeded: Why is it, Protagoras, that you neither affirm nor deny what I ask you? Finish it, he said, by yourself. I must first ask you, I said, just one more question: Do you still think, as at the beginning, that there are any people who are most ignorant and yet most courageous? I see, Socrates, you have set your heart on making me your answerer; so, to oblige you, I will say that by what we have admitted I consider it impossible. My only motive, I then said, in asking all these questions has been a desire to examine the various relations of virtue and its own special nature.

I quite agree, said I, if you think so: for I was long ago due to be where I told you I was going; I stayed merely to oblige our excellent Callias. Here our colloquy ended, and each went his way.