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.