[bad word]  let me sing into your ear; 

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, 

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.