Tell me, O thou whom my soul loveth, Where thou feedest thy flock , Where thou makest it to rest at noon: For why should I be as one that is veiled Beside the flocks of thy companions?

If thou know not, O thou fairest among women, Go thy way forth by the footsteps of the flock, And feed thy kids beside the shepherds tents.

Behold, thou art fair, my love; Behold thou art fair; Thine eyes are as doves.

Behold, thou art fair, my beloved, yea, pleasant: Also our couch is green.

Until the day be cool, and the shadows flee away, Turn, my beloved, and be thou like a roe or a young hart Upon the mountains of Bether.

Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; Thine eyes are as doves behind thy veil. Thy hair is as a flock of goats, That lie along the side of mount Gilead.

Thou art all fair, my love; And there is no spot in thee.

Thou hast ravished my heart, my sister, my bride; Thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes, With one chain of thy neck.

Thou art a fountain of gardens, A well of living waters, And flowing streams from Lebanon.

Awake, O north wind; and come, thou south; Blow upon my garden, that the spices thereof may flow out. Let my beloved come into his garden, And eat his precious fruits.

What is thy beloved more than another beloved, O thou fairest among women? What is thy beloved more than another beloved, That thou dost so adjure us?

Whither is thy beloved gone, O thou fairest among women? Whither hath thy beloved turned him, That we may seek him with thee?

Thou art fair, O my love, as Tirzah, Comely as Jerusalem, Terrible as an army with banners.

How fair and how pleasant art thou, O love, for delights!

Oh that thou wert as my brother, That sucked the breasts of my mother! When I should find thee without, I would kiss thee; Yea, and none would despise me.

My vineyard, which is mine, is before me: Thou, O Solomon, shalt have the thousand, And those that keep the fruit thereof two hundred.

Thou that dwellest in the gardens, The companions hearken for thy voice: Cause me to hear it.

Make haste, my beloved, And be thou like to a roe or to a young hart Upon the mountains of spices.