Who is this, that cometh up out of the wilderness like pillars of smoke, as it were a smell of Myrrh, frankincense and all manner spices of the Apothecary?

How fair is thy love, my sister, my bride! How much better is thy love than wine! And the fragrance of thine oils than all manner of spices!

The Maidens to The Beloved: Why is your beloved better than others, O most beautiful of women? Why is your beloved better than others, that you would command us in this manner?

His cheeks are like a garden bed, wherein the Apothecaries plant all manner of sweet things; His lips are like roses that drop sweet smelling Myrrh.

The mandrakes give a smell, and at our gates are all manner of pleasant fruits, new and old, which I have laid up for thee, O my beloved.