by James Shirley
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 wo'not kill :
The drum was angry, but the lute
Shall whisper what you will.
Sing Io, Io, for his sake,
Who 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 to his brow,
Who is the Master of the Spring,
And all the bloom we owe.
Massingham, H. J., Ed. A Treasury of Seventeeth Century English Verse.
London: Macmillan and Co., Ltd., 1931. 202-203.
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