My beloved is to me a pouch of myrrh that lies between my breasts all night.

Night after night on my bed, I sought the one I love; I sought him, but didn't find him.

All of them are wearing swords and are experienced in battle. Each has his sword on his thigh, ready for the terror of the night.

Your teeth are like a flock of sheep about to be sheared, who are coming up from being washed. All of them are twins, not one has lost her young.

I was asleep, but my heart was awake. There's a sound! My beloved is knocking. "Open up for me, my sister, my darling, my dove, my perfect one. For my head is drenched with dew, my hair with the dampness of the night."

Your teeth are like a flock of ewes coming up from being washed. All of them are twins, not one has lost her young.

Come, my beloved. Let us go out to the country, let us spend the night in the villages.

We have a little sister, and she has not yet reached maturity. What will we do for our sister to prepare her for her engagement?