Ctesippus said: I like to see you blushing, Hippothales, and hesitating to
tell Socrates the name; when, if he were with you but for a very short
time, you would have plagued him to death by talking about nothing else.
Indeed, Socrates, he has literally deafened us, and stopped our ears with
the praises of Lysis; and if he is a little intoxicated, there is every
likelihood that we may have our sleep murdered with a cry of Lysis. His
performances in prose are bad enough, but nothing at all in comparison with
his verse; and when he drenches us with his poems and other compositions,
it is really too bad; and worse still is his manner of singing them to his
love; he has a voice which is truly appalling, and we cannot help hearing
him: and now having a question put to him by you, behold he is blushing.

Who is Lysis? I said: I suppose that he must be young; for the name does
not recall any one to me.

Why, he said, his father being a very well-known man, he retains his
patronymic, and is not as yet commonly called by his own name; but,
although you do not know his name, I am sure that you must know his face,
for that is quite enough to distinguish him.

But tell me whose son he is, I said.

He is the eldest son of Democrates, of the deme of Aexone.

Ah, Hippothales, I said; what a noble and really perfect love you have
found! I wish that you would favour me with the exhibition which you have
been making to the rest of the company, and then I shall be able to judge
whether you know what a lover ought to say about his love, either to the
youth himself, or to others.