My dove, my perfect one, is the only one; she is the only one of her mother, she is the favorite one of her that bore her. The daughters saw her, and blessed her; yea, the queens and the concubines, and they praised her.

Who is she that looks forth as the morning, fair as the moon, clear as the sun, and awesome as an army with banners?

Who is this that comes up from the wilderness, leaning upon her beloved? I awakened you under the apple tree: there your mother brought you forth: there she brought you forth that bore you.

We have a little sister, and she has no breasts: what shall we do for our sister in the day when she shall be spoken for?

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