I too do not write often to you, but not more seldom than you do to me, though many have travelled hitherward from your part of the world.  If you had sent a letter by every one of them, one after the other, there would have been nothing to prevent my seeming to be actually in your company, and enjoying it as though we had been together, so uninterrupted has been the stream of arrivals.  But why do you not write?  It is no trouble to a Sophist to write.  Nay, if your hand is tired, you need not even write; another will do that for you.  Only your tongue is needed.  And though it does not speak to me, it may assuredly speak to one of your companions.  If nobody is with you, it will talk by itself.  Certainly the tongue of a Sophist and of an Athenian is as little likely to be quiet as the nightingales when the spring stirs them to song.  In my own case, the mass of business in which I am now engaged may perhaps afford some excuse for my lack of letters.  And peradventure the fact of my style having been spoilt by constant familiarity with common speech may make me somewhat hesitate to address Sophists like you, who are certain to be annoyed and unmerciful, unless you hear something worthy of your wisdom.  You, on the other hand, ought assuredly to use every opportunity of making your voice heard abroad, for you are the best speaker of all the Hellenes that I know; and I think I know the most renowned among you; so that there really is no excuse for your silence.  But enough on this point.