My dove, my very beautiful one, is but one; she is the only one of her mother, she is the dearest one of her who gave her birth. The daughters saw her, and gave her a blessing; yes, the queens and the servant-wives, and they gave her praises.

Who is she, looking down as the morning light, fair as the moon, clear as the sun, who is to be feared like an army with flags?

I would take you by the hand into my mother's house, and she would be my teacher. I would give you drink of spiced wine, drink of the pomegranate.

Who is this, who comes up from the waste places, resting on her loved one? It was I who made you awake under the apple-tree, where your mother gave you birth; there she was in pain at your birth.

We have a young sister, and she has no breasts; what are we to do for our sister in the day when she is given to a man?

If she is a wall, we will make on her a strong base of silver; and if she is a door, we will let her be shut up with cedar-wood.