Draw me, we will run after thee! The king hath brought me into his chambers We will be glad and rejoice in thee, We will remember thy love more than wine. They love thee uprightly.

Tell me, thou whom my soul loveth, Where thou feedest thy flock, Where thou makest it to rest at noon; For why should I be as one veiled Beside the flocks of thy companions?

If thou know not, thou fairest among women, Go thy way forth by the footsteps of the flock, And feed thy kids beside the shepherds' booths.

I charge you, daughters of Jerusalem, By the gazelles, or by the hinds of the field, That ye stir not up, nor awake my love, till he please.

Until the day dawn, and the shadows flee away. Turn, my beloved: be thou like a gazelle or a young hart, Upon the mountains of Bether.

I charge you, daughters of Jerusalem, By the gazelles, or by the hinds of the field, That ye stir not up, nor awake my love, till he please.

Its pillars he made of silver, Its support of gold, Its seat of purple; The midst thereof was paved with love By the daughters of Jerusalem.

My beloved put in his hand by the hole of the door; And my bowels yearned for him.

His eyes are like doves by the water-brooks, Washed with milk, fitly set;

Thy neck is as a tower of ivory; Thine eyes, like the pools in Heshbon, By the gate of Bath-rabbim; Thy nose like the tower of Lebanon, Which looketh toward Damascus;

Thy head upon thee is like Carmel, And the locks of thy head like purple; The king is fettered by thy ringlets!

I said, I will go up to the palm-tree, I will take hold of the boughs thereof; And thy breasts shall indeed be like clusters of the vine, And the fragrance of thy nose like apples,

His left hand would be under my head, And his right hand embrace me.

Many waters cannot quench love, Neither do the floods drown it: Even if a man gave all the substance of his house for love, It would utterly be contemned.

We have a little sister, And she hath no breasts: What shall we do for our sister In the day when she shall be spoken for? --

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.

My vineyard, which is mine, is before me: The thousand silver-pieces be to thee, Solomon; And to the keepers of its fruit, two hundred.

Haste, my beloved, And be thou like a gazelle or a young hart Upon the mountains of spices.