Under the plane tree
SocratesI have no spare time for them. Here is why, my friend: I have not yet managed to know myself, as the Delphic inscription bids us. It seems absurd to me to investigate things outside myself while I am still ignorant of that. So I let these stories alone, accept the customary account of them and, as I was saying, examine myself instead: am I a beast more tangled and more turbulent than Typhon, or a gentler and simpler creature, naturally sharing in something divine and free of vain conceit? But, my friend, while we have been talking, have we not come to the tree you were leading us to?
PhaedrusYes, this is the one.
SocratesBy Hera, what a lovely resting place! This plane tree is broad and tall, and the chaste tree is wonderfully high and shady. It is in full bloom, filling the whole place with fragrance. There is a delightful spring flowing under the plane, with very cold water, as my foot can testify. The little figures and statues suggest a shrine to the Nymphs and Achelous. And how welcome the breeze is here, so soft and pleasant! The summer chorus of cicadas sounds clear beneath it. Best of all is the grass, growing thick on a gentle slope so that one can lie back with one’s head comfortably raised. You have made an excellent guide, my dear Phaedrus.
PhaedrusAnd you, extraordinary man, seem most unusual to me. As you say, you look just like a visitor being shown around, not someone who belongs here. You never travel from the city into foreign parts, and I do not think you ever even go outside its walls.