But first you need to tell the Chorus here

how your fight originally started. That’s something you should do in any case.

Yes, I’ll tell you how our quarrel first began. As you know, we were having a fine meal. I first asked him to take up his lyre and sing a lyric by Simonides— the one about the ram being shorn. But he immediately refused—saying that playing the lyre while we were drinking was out of date, like some woman singing

while grinding barley.

Well, at that point, you should have been ground up and trampled on— asking for a song, as if you were feasting

with cicadas.

The way he's talking now— that’s just how he was talking there before. He said Simonides was a bad poet. I could hardly stand it, but at first I did. Then I asked him to pick up a myrtle branch and at least recite some Aeschylus for me. He replied at once, “In my opinion,

Aeschylus is first among the poets for lots of noise, unevenness, and bombast— he piles up words like mountains.” Do you know how hard my heart was pounding after that? But I clenched my teeth and kept my rage inside, and said, “Then recite me something recent, from the newer poets, some witty verse.”

So he then right off started to declaim some passage from Euripides in which, spare me this, a brother was enjoying sex

with his own sister— from a common mother. I couldn’t keep my temper any more— so on the spot I verbally attacked with all sorts of nasty, shameful language. Then, as one might predict, we went at it— hurling insults at each other back and forth. But then he jumped up, pushed me, thumped me, choked me, and started killing me.

Surely I was entitled to do that to a man who will not praise Euripides,

the cleverest of all.

Him? The cleverest? Ha! What do I call you? No, I won’t say— I’d just get beaten one more time.

Yes, by Zeus, you would—and with justice, too.

How would that be just? You shameless man, I brought you up. When you lisped your words, I listened ‘til I recognized each one. If you said “waa,” I understood the word and brought a drink; if you asked for “foo foo,” I’d bring you bread. And if you said “poo poo”

I’d pick you up and carry you outside, and hold you up. But when you strangled me just now, I screamed and yelled I had to shit— but you didn’t dare to carry me outside, you nasty brute, you kept on throttling me, until I crapped myself right where I was.

I think the hearts of younger spry are pounding now for his reply— for if he acts in just this way and yet his logic wins the day

I’ll not value at a pin any older person’s skin.

Now down to work, you spinner of words, you explorer of brand new expressions. Seek some way to persuade us, so it will appear that what you’ve been saying is justified.

How sweet it is to be conversant with things which are new and clever, capable

of treating with contempt established ways. When I was only focused on my horses, I couldn’t say three words without going wrong. But now this man has made me stop all that, I’m well acquainted with the subtlest views, and arguments and frames of mind. And so, I do believe I’ll show how just it is to punish one’s own father.

By the gods, keep on with your horses then—for me caring for a four-horse team is better than being beaten to a pulp.

I’ll go back to what I was saying in my argument, when you interrupted me. First, tell me this— Did you hit me when I was a child?

Yes. But I was doing it out of care for you.

Then tell me this: Is it not right for me to care for you in the same way—to beat you— since that’s what caring means—a beating? Why must your body be except from blows, while mine is not? I was born a free man, too. ”The children howl—you think the father should not howl as well?” You’re going to claim

the laws permit this practice on our children. To that I would reply that older men are in their second childhood. More than that— it makes sense that older men should howl before the young, because there’s far less chance their natures lead them into errors.

There’s no law that fathers have to suffer this.

But surely some man first brought in the law, someone like you and me? And way back then people found his arguments convincing. Why should I have less right to make new laws for future sons, so they can take their turn and beat their fathers? All the blows we got before the law was brought in we’ll erase, and we’ll demand no payback for our beatings. Consider cocks and other animals— they avenge themselves against their fathers. And yet how are we different from them, except they don’t propose decrees?

Well then,

since you want to be like cocks in all you do, why not sleep on a perch and feed on shit?

My dear man, that’s not the same at all— not according to what Socrates would think.

Even so, don’t beat me. For if you do, you’ll have yourself to blame.

Why’s that?

Because I have the right to chastise you, if you have a son, you’ll have that right with him.

If I don’t have one, I’ll have cried for nothing, and you’ll be laughing in your grave.

All you men out there my age, it seems to me he’s arguing what’s right. And in my view, we should concede to these young sons what’s fair. It’s only right that we should cry in pain when we do something wrong.

Consider now another point.

No, no. It’ll finish me!

But then again perhaps you won’t feel so miserable at going through what you’ve suffered.

What’s that? Explain to me how I benefit from this.

I’ll thump my mother, just as I hit you.

What’s did you just say? What are you claiming? This second point is even more disgraceful.

But what if, using the Worse Argument, I beat you arguing this proposition— that it’s only right to hit one’s mother?

What else but this—if you do a thing like that, then why stop there? Why not throw yourself and Socrates and the Worse Argument

But then again perhaps you won’t feel so miserable at going through what you’ve suffered.

What’s that? Explain to me how I benefit from this.

I’ll thump my mother, just as I hit you.

What’s did you just say? What are you claiming? This second point is even more disgraceful.

But what if, using the Worse Argument, I beat you arguing this proposition— that it’s only right to hit one’s mother?

What else but this—if you do a thing like that, then why stop there? Why not throw yourself and Socrates and the Worse Argument

into the execution pit?

It’s your fault, you Clouds, that I have to endure all this. I entrusted my affairs to you.

No. You’re the one responsible for this. You turned yourself toward these felonies.

Why didn’t you inform me at the time, instead of luring on an old country man?

That’s what we do each time we see someone who falls in love with evil strategies, until we hurl him into misery,