come, 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,
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.
