For thy love is more pleasant than wine,

and that because of the good and pleasant savour. Thy name is sweet smelling ointment when it is shed forth; therefore do the maidens love thee.

Draw thou me unto thee; we will run after thee. The king hath brought me into his privy chamber: We will be glad and rejoice in thee, we think more of thy love than of wine. They that be righteous love thee.

There will I tarry for thee, my love, with mine host and with my chariots, which shall be no fewer than Pharaoh's.

for a bundle of Myrrh is my love unto me; he will lie betwixt my breasts.

O how fair art thou, my love, how fair art thou? Thou hast doves' eyes.

As the lily among the thorns, so is my love among the daughters.

Set about me cups of wine, comfort me with apples; for I am sick of love.

I charge you, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, by the Roes and hinds of the field, that ye wake not up my love nor touch her, till she be content herself.

Behold, my beloved said to me: Up and haste my love, my dove, my beautiful, and come:

Up, haste my love, my dove, in the holes of the rock and secret places of the walls. Show me thy face and let me hear thy voice: for thy voice is sweet and thy fashion beautiful.

My love is mine, and I am his, which feedeth among the lilies,

I charge you, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, by the Roes, and Hinds of the field, that ye wake not up my love nor touch her, till she be content herself.

the pillars are of silver, the covering of gold, the seat of purple, the ground pleasantly paved with love for the daughters of Jerusalem.

O how fair art thou, my love, how fair art thou? Thou hast doves' eyes, beside that which lieth hid within. Thy hairy locks are like the wool of a flock of goats that be shorn on Mount Gilead.

Thou art all fair, O my love, and no spot is there in thee.

As I was asleep, and my heart waking, I heard the voice of my beloved, when he knocked. Open to me, said he, O my sister, my love, my darling, my dove: for my head is full of dew, and my locks of my hair are full of the night drops.

But when my love put in his hand at the hole, my heart was moved within me:

I charge you therefore, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, if ye find my beloved, that ye tell him how that I am sick for love.

Who is thy love above other lovers, O thou fairest among women? Or what can thy love do, more than other lovers, that thou chargest us so straightly?

His throat is sweet; yea, he is altogether lovely. Such one is my love, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, such one is my love.

Whither is thy love gone then, O thou fairest among women; whither is thy love departed, that we may seek him with thee?

My love is gone down into his garden, unto the sweet smelling beds, that he may refresh himself in the garden, and gather flowers.

My love is mine, and I am his, which feedeth among the lilies.

Thou art beautiful, O my love, even as loveliness itself; thou art fair as Jerusalem, glorious as an army of men with their banners.

and thy throat like the best wine. This shall be pure and clear for my love, his lips and teeth shall have their pleasure.

There will I turn me unto my love, and he shall turn him unto me.

O come on my love; let us go forth into the field, and take our lodging in the villages.

there shall the mandragoras give their smell beside our doors; there, O my love, have I kept unto thee all manner of fruits, both new and old.

O that I might find thee without, and kiss thee, whom I love as my brother which sucked my mother's breasts: and that thou wouldest not be offended,

I charge you, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, that ye wake not up my love, nor touch her, till she be content herself. What is she, this that cometh up from the wilderness, and leaneth upon her love?

O set me as a seal upon thine heart, and as a seal upon thine arm: for love is mighty as the death, and jealousy as the hell. Her coals are of fire, and a very flame of the LORD:

so that many waters are not able to quench love, neither may the streams drown it. Yea, if a man would give all the good of his house for love, he should count it nothing.

O get thee away, my love, as a roe or a young hart unto the sweet smelling mountains.