In plain words
The cowherd girls, to Kṛṣṇa, owning themselves beaten: With your auspicious, lovely forest garland shining on your chest, lush peacock feathers on your head, a shimmering fine cloth at your waist and a cluster of flowers set fittingly at your ear, you came playing sweetly on your flute, mingling with women whose tresses are fragrant with honey. Yet the music of your flute will never come to us, played for us alone, even for one day.