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.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem