I've come into my garden, my sister, my bride; I've gathered my myrrh with my spices. I've eaten my honeycomb with my honey. I've drunk my wine with my milk. Eat, friends! Drink and become drunk with love.

"I've taken off my clothes am I supposed to put them on again? I've washed my feet am I supposed to get them dirty again?"

The mandrakes give off their fragrance, and over our doors are all the choice fruits, both old and new, that I've stored up for you, my beloved.

If only you were like a brother to me, like one who nursed at my mother's breasts. If I found you outside I would kiss you, and no one would view me with contempt.