love to it.  All this she does to the poor helpless infant, so void of reason, that it knows not even her that is so good to it, nor can ask her for its own necessities.  Full of tenderness for the welfare and happiness of her babe, her whole time, day and night, is spent in pleasing it, without the least prospect of any recompense for all her fatigue.  After this, when the children are come to an age fit to be instructed, the fathers teach them all the good things they can for the conduct of their life; and if they know any man more capable to instruct them than themselves, they send them to him, without regard to the expense, thus indicating by their whole conduct, what sincere pleasure it would afford them to see their children turn out men of virtue and probity.”  “Undoubtedly,” answered Lamprocles, “if my mother had done all this, and an hundred times as much, no man could suffer her ill-humours?” “Do not you think,” said Socrates, “that the anger of a beast is much more difficult to support than that of a mother?” “Not of a mother like her,” said Lamprocles.  Socrates continued, “What strange thing has she done to you?  Has she bit you, has she kicked you, as beasts do when they are angry?” “She has a tongue that no mortal can suffer,” answered Lamprocles.  “And you,” replied Socrates, “how many crosses did you give her in your infancy by your continual bawling and importunate actions? how much trouble by night and by day? how much affliction in your illnesses?” “At worst,” answered Lamprocles, “I never did nor said anything that might make her blush.”  “Alas!” said Socrates, “is it more difficult for you to hear in patience the hasty expressions of your mother, than it is for the comedians to hear what they say to one another on the stage when they fall into the most injurious reproaches?  For they easily suffer it, knowing well that when one reviles another, he reviles him not with intent to injure him; and when one threatens another, he threatens not with design to do him any harm.  You who are fully convinced likewise of the intentions of your mother, and who know very well that the hard words she gives you do not proceed from hate, but that she has a great affection for you, how can you, then, be angry with her?  Is it because you imagine that she wishes you ill?” “Not in the least,” answered Lamprocles; “I never had such a thought.”  “What!” continued Socrates; “a mother that loves you; a mother who, in your sickness, does all she can to recover your health, who takes care that you want for nothing, who makes so many vows to heaven for you; you say this is an ill mother?  In truth, if you cannot live with her, I will say you cannot live at your ease.  Tell me, in short, do you believe you ought to have any reverence or respect for any one whatever?  Or do you not care for any man’s favour and goodwill, neither for that of a general, suppose, or of any other magistrate?” “On the contrary,” said Lamprocles, “I am very careful to gain the goodwill of all men.”