Those Dancing Days are Gone

    Those dancing days are gone，

    All that silk and satin gear；

    Crouch¹ upon a stone，

    Wrapping that foul² 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 knave³

    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 pretence⁴ 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.