Come, my beloved, let us go forth into the fields; Let us lodge in the villages.

A bundle of myrrh my beloved to me; he shall lodge between my breasts.

We lodge in the villages, we go early to the vineyards, We see if the vine hath flourished, The sweet smelling-flower hath opened. The pomegranates have blossomed, There do I give to thee my loves;

“On my bed night after night I sought him
Whom my soul loves;
I sought him but did not find him.

I slept, but my heart was awake. The voice of my beloved! he knocketh: Open to me, my sister, my love, my dove, mine undefiled; For my head is filled with dew, My locks with the drops of the night.

They all handle the sword, and are expert in war: Every man hath his sword upon his thigh, Because of fear in the night.