At this he blushed; and I said to him, O Hippothales, thou son of Hieronymus!
do not say that you are, or that you are not, in love; the confession is too
late; for I see that you are not only in love, but are already far gone in
your love. Simple and foolish as I am, the Gods have given me the power of
understanding affections of this kind. Whereupon he blushed more and more.
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.