Draw me: after thee we run, The king hath brought me into his inner chambers, We do joy and rejoice in thee, We mention thy loves more than wine, Uprightly they have loved thee!

Declare to me, thou whom my soul hath loved, Where thou delightest, Where thou liest down at noon, For why am I as one veiled, By the ranks of thy companions?

To my joyous one in chariots of Pharaoh, I have compared thee, my friend,

Garlands of gold we do make for thee, With studs of silver!

A bundle of myrrh is my beloved to me, Between my breasts it lodgeth.

A cluster of cypress is my beloved to me, In the vineyards of En-Gedi!

As a citron among trees of the forest, So is my beloved among the sons, In his shade I delighted, and sat down, And his fruit is sweet to my palate.

My beloved is like to a roe, Or to a young one of the harts. Lo, this -- he is standing behind our wall, Looking from the windows, Blooming from the lattice.

My beloved hath answered and said to me, 'Rise up, my friend, my fair one, and come away,

My dove, in clefts of the rock, In a secret place of the ascent, Cause me to see thine appearance, Cause me to hear thy voice, For thy voice is sweet, and thy appearance comely.

Till the day doth break forth, And the shadows have fled away, Turn, be like, my beloved, To a roe, or to a young one of the harts, On the mountains of separation!

Go forth, and look, ye daughters of Zion, On king Solomon, with the crown, With which his mother crowned him, In the day of his espousals, And in the day of the joy of his heart!

Thy two breasts are as two fawns, Twins of a roe, that are feeding among lilies.

Till the day doth break forth, And the shadows have fled away, I will get me unto the mountain of myrrh, And unto the hill of frankincense.

Awake, O north wind, and come, O south, Cause my garden to breathe forth, its spices let flow, Let my beloved come to his garden, And eat its pleasant fruits!

I have come in to my garden, my sister-spouse, I have plucked my myrrh with my spice, I have eaten my comb with my honey, I have drunk my wine with my milk. Eat, O friends, drink, Yea, drink abundantly, O beloved ones!

I am sleeping, but my heart waketh: The sound of my beloved knocking! 'Open to me, my sister, my friend, My dove, my perfect one, For my head is filled with dew, My locks with drops of the night.'

I have put off my coat, how do I put it on? I have washed my feet, how do I defile them?

I rose to open to my beloved, And my hands dropped myrrh, Yea, my fingers flowing myrrh, On the handles of the lock.

I opened to my beloved, But my beloved withdrew -- he passed on, My soul went forth when he spake, I sought him, and found him not. I called him, and he answered me not.

I have adjured you, daughters of Jerusalem, If ye find my beloved -- What do ye tell him? that I am sick with love!

My beloved went down to his garden, To the beds of the spice, To delight himself in the gardens, and to gather lilies.

Unto a garden of nuts I went down, To look on the buds of the valley, To see whither the vine had flourished, The pomegranates had blossomed --

Return, return, O Shulammith! Return, return, and we look upon thee. What do ye see in Shulammith?

Thy two breasts as two young ones, twins of a roe,

Thy neck as a tower of the ivory, Thine eyes pools in Heshbon, near the gate of Bath-Rabbim, Thy face as a tower of Lebanon looking to Damascus,

This thy stature hath been like to a palm, And thy breasts to clusters.

And thy palate as the good wine -- 'Flowing to my beloved in uprightness, Strengthening the lips of the aged!

Come, my beloved, we go forth to the field,

We lodge in the villages, we go early to the vineyards, We see if the vine hath flourished, The sweet smelling-flower hath opened. The pomegranates have blossomed, There do I give to thee my loves;

Who doth make thee as a brother to me, Sucking the breasts of my mother? I find thee without, I kiss thee, Yea, they do not despise me,

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,

Many waters are not able to quench the love, And floods do not wash it away. If one give all the wealth of his house for love, Treading down -- they tread upon it.

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?

Solomon hath a vineyard in Baal-Hamon, He hath given the vineyard to keepers, Each bringeth for its fruit a thousand silverlings;

My vineyard -- my own -- is before me, The thousand is for thee, O Solomon. And the two hundred for those keeping its fruit. O dweller in gardens!

The companions are attending to thy voice, Cause me to hear. Flee, my beloved, and be like to a roe,

Or to a young one of the harts on mountains of spices!