Those dancing days are gone，
All that silk and satin gear；
Crouch upon a stone，
Wrapping that foul body up
In as foul a rag：
I carry the sun in a golden cup，
The moon in a silver bag.
Curse as you may I sing it through；
What matter if the knave
That the most could pleasure you，
The children that he gave，
Are somewhere sleeping like a top
Under a marble flag？
I carry the sun in a golden cup，
The moon in a silver bag.
I thought it out this very day，
Noon upon the clock，
A man may put pretence away
Who leans upon a stick，
May sing， and sing until he drop，
Whether to maid or hag：
I carry the sun in a golden cup，
The moon in a silver bag.