'Twas on a Thursday morning
When I beheld my darling
She looked so neat and charming
In every high degree
She looked so neat and nimble,
O A-washing of her linen, O
Dashing away with the smoothing iron
Dashing away with the smoothing iron
She stole my heart away.'
****
Because the idea is that the written word has the potential of just dying on you. An so even when Socrates dies, he says, if you're sorry for me, if your crying about my dying, cry about me only if the word dies on us.
You will never die on me. I promise.
