For thy love is more pleasant than wine,

Draw thou me unto thee; we will run after thee. The king hath brought me into his privy chamber: We will be glad and rejoice in thee, we think more of thy love than of wine. They that be righteous love thee.

O how fair are thy breasts, my sister, my spouse? Thy breasts are more pleasant than wine, and the smell of thine ointments passeth all spices.

Who is thy love above other lovers, O thou fairest among women? Or what can thy love do, more than other lovers, that thou chargest us so straightly?

Turn again, turn again, O thou Shulamite; turn again, turn again, that we may look upon thee. What pleasure have ye more in the Shulamite, than when she danceth among the men of war?