The fig tree ripens her green figs, and the vines are in blossom. They give forth their fragrance. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.

It was but a little that I passed from them when I found him whom my soul loves. I held him, and would not let him go until I had brought him into my mother's house, and into the chamber of her who conceived me.

My dove, my undefiled, is [but] one. She is the only one of her mother. She is the choice one of her who bore her. The daughters saw her, and called her blessed, [yea], the queens and the concubines, and they praised her.

Who is this who comes up from the wilderness, leaning upon her beloved? Under the apple tree I awoke thee. There thy mother was in travail with thee. There she who brought thee forth was in travail.

If she is a wall, we will build upon her a turret of silver. And if she is a door, we will enclose her with boards of cedar.