Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples: for I am sick of love.

Till the evening comes, and the sky slowly becomes dark, come, my loved one, and be like a roe on the mountains of Bether.

I will rise now, and go about the city in the streets, and in the broad ways I will seek him whom my soul loveth: I sought him, but I found him not.

Till the evening comes, and the sky slowly becomes dark, I will go to the mountain of myrrh, and to the hill of frankincense.

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

(The Chorus)
“What is your beloved more than another beloved,
O most beautiful among women?
What is your beloved more than another beloved,
That you should so command us to take an oath?”

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 beloved gone, O thou fairest among women? whither is thy beloved turned aside? that we may seek him with thee.

How beautiful you are and how pleasant,
my love, with such delights!