Then Socrates: Will you never tire of repeating that one name? It is
Cleinias here, there, and everywhere with you.

Crit. And if his name died on my lips, think you my mind would less
recall his memory? Know you not, I bear so clear an image of him in my
soul, that had I the sculptor's or the limner's skill, I might portray
his features as exactly from this image of the mind as from
contemplation of his actual self.

But Socrates broke in: Pray, why then, if you bear about this lively
image, why do you give me so much trouble, dragging me to this and
that place, where you hope to see him?

Crit. For this good reason, Socrates, the sight of him inspires
gladness, whilst his phantom brings not joy so much as it engenders
longing.

At this point Hermogenes protested: I find it most unlike you,
Socrates, to treat thus negligently one so passion-crazed as
Critobulus.

Socrates replied: Do you suppose the sad condition of the patient
dates from the moment only of our intimacy?

Herm. Since when, then?

Soc. Since when? Why, look at him: the down begins to mantle on his
cheeks,[36] and on the nape[37] of Cleinias' neck already mounts. The
fact is, when they fared to the same school together, he caught the
fever. This his father was aware of, and consigned him to me, hoping I