You virgins, that did late despair
To keep your wealth from cruel men,
Tie up in silk your careless hair:
Soft peace is come again.
Now lovers' eyes may gently shoot
A flame that will not kill;
The drum was angry, but the lute
Shall whisper what you will.
Sing Io, Io! for his sake
That hath restored your drooping heads;
With choice of sweetest flowers make
A garden where he treads;
Whilst we whole groves of laurel bring,
A petty triumph for his brow,
Who is the master of our spring
And all the bloom we owe.