I have adjured you, daughters of Jerusalem, By the roes or by the hinds of the field, Stir not up nor wake the love till she please!

I have adjured you, daughters of Jerusalem, By the roes or by the hinds of the field, Stir not up nor wake the love till she please!

One is my dove, my perfect one, One she is of her mother, The choice one she is of her that bare her, Daughters saw, and pronounce her happy, Queens and concubines, and they praise her.

I lead thee, I bring thee in unto my mother's house, She doth teach me, I cause thee to drink of the perfumed wine, Of the juice of my pomegranate,

I have adjured you, daughters of Jerusalem, How ye stir up, And how ye wake the love till she please!

Who is this coming from the wilderness, Hasting herself for her beloved? Under the citron-tree I have waked thee, There did thy mother pledge thee, There she gave a pledge that bare thee.

We have a little sister, and breasts she hath not, What do we do for our sister, In the day that it is told of her?

If she is a wall, we build by her a palace of silver. And if she is a door, We fashion by her board-work of cedar.