How delightful your love is, my sister, my bride.
Your love is much better than wine,
and the fragrance of your perfume than any balsam.

SHEAwake, O north wind, and come in, thou south, Fan my garden - its balsams, will flow out, - Let my beloved enter his garden, and eat his precious fruits.

The Lover to His Beloved: I have entered my garden, O my sister, my bride; I have gathered my myrrh with my balsam spice. I have eaten my honeycomb and my honey; I have drunk my wine and my milk! The Poet to the Couple: Eat, friends, and drink! Drink freely, O lovers!

His cheeks are like garden beds full of balsam trees yielding perfume. His lips are like lilies dripping with drops of myrrh.

The Beloved to the Maidens: My beloved has gone down to his garden, to the flowerbeds of balsam spices, to graze in the gardens, and to gather lilies.

SHECome quickly, my beloved, and resemble thou a gazelle, or a young stag, upon the mountains of balsam-trees.