Words for Music — Those Dancing Days are Gone
| 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. |
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| 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. |
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| 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. |