u see the tallest plane-tree in the distance?

SOCRATES: Yes.

PHAEDRUS: There are shade and gentle breezes, and grass on which we may
either sit or lie down.

SOCRATES: Move forward.

PHAEDRUS: I should like to know, Socrates, whether the place is not
somewhere here at which Boreas is said to have carried off Orithyia from
the banks of the Ilissus?

SOCRATES: Such is the tradition.

PHAEDRUS: And is this the exact spot? The little stream is delightfully
clear and bright; I can fancy that there might be maidens playing near.

SOCRATES: I believe that the spot is not exactly here, but about a
quarter of a mile lower down, where you cross to the temple of Artemis,
and there is, I think, some sort of an altar of Boreas at the place.

PHAEDRUS: I have never noticed it; but I beseech you to tell me,
Socrates, do you believe this tale?

SOCRATES: The wise are doubtful, and I should not be singular if, like
them, I too doubted. I might have a rational explanation that Orithyia
was playing with Pharmacia, when a northern gust carried her over the
neighbouring rocks; and this being the manner of her death, she was said
to have been carried away by Boreas. There is a discrepancy, however,
about the locality; according to another version of the story she was
taken from Areopagus, and not from this place. Now I quite acknowledge
that these allegories are very nice, but he is not to be envied who has
to invent them; much labour and ingenuity will be required of him; and
when he has once begun, he must go on and rehabilitate Hippocentaurs and
chimeras dire. Gorgons and winged steeds flow in apace, and numberless
other inconceivable and portentous natures. And if he is sceptical
about them, and would fain reduce them one after another to the rules of
probability, this sort of crude philosophy will take up a great deal of
time. Now I have no leisure for such enquiries; shall I tell you why? I
must first know myself, as the Delphian inscription says; to be curious
about that which is not my concern, while I am still in ignorance of my
own self, would be ridiculous. And therefore I bid farewell to all this;
the common opinion is enough for me. For, as I was saying, I want to
know not about this, but about myself: am I a monster more complicated
and swollen with passion than the serpent Typho, or a creature of a
gentler and simpler sort, to whom Nature has given a diviner and lowlier
destiny? But let me ask you, friend: have we