Agathon held a stone in his mouth
for three years, until he learned the art
of silence. When he knew how to be quiet

he decided that now he would study
patience. But he didn't have the patience for it. Someone
was always irritating him. If only I could

live alone!—he said. So he withdrew
to the desert. He carried water from afar.
One day, while he was filling his jug,

it was upset. He filled it again. But
again it was upset. He tried a third time,
in vain. Suddenly, his patience was used up,

and he was upset. He smashed his earthen
vessel. Later on he came back to his senses
and asked it for forgiveness. And the jug

forgave him. And instructed him: 'Have
faith in no one! There is no feeling more injurious
than trust. It is the begetter of every passion!'—

spoke the crockery. Agathon then returned
to the world of people. And lo and behold, from then on
he was wise in comprehension, tireless in work,

sparing with food. 'Be as the dog,
who leaves when he is pestered.' And so he left,
when he grew weary of the world's vexations.