My dove, my undefiled, is but one; She is the only one of her mother; She is the choice one of her that bare her. The daughters saw her, and called her blessed; Yea , the queens and the concubines, and they praised her.

Who is she that looketh forth as the morning, Fair as the moon, Clear as the sun, Terrible as an army with banners?

Who is this that cometh up from the wilderness, Leaning upon her beloved? Under the apple-tree I awakened thee: There thy mother was in travail with thee, There was she in travail that brought thee forth.

We have a little sister, And she hath no breasts: What shall we do for our sister In the day when she shall be spoken for?

If she be a wall, We will build upon her a turret of silver: And if she be a door, We will inclose her with boards of cedar.