James Shirley (1596–1666)

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.