The fig-tree melloweth her winter figs, And the vines in bloom give forth their fragrance. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away!

Scarcely had I passed from them, When I found him whom my soul loveth: I held him, and would not let him go, Until I had brought him into my mother's house, And into the chamber of her that conceived me.

My dove, mine undefiled, is but one; She is the only one of her mother, She is the choice one of her that bore her. The daughters saw her, and they called her blessed; The queens and the concubines, and they praised her.

Who is this that cometh up from the wilderness, Leaning upon her beloved? I awoke thee under the apple-tree: There thy mother brought thee forth; There she brought thee forth that bore thee.

If she be a wall, We will build upon her a turret of silver; And if she be a door, We will enclose her with boards of cedar.