My dove, my perfect one, is unique. She is her mother's only daughter. She is the favorite one of her who bore her. The daughters saw her, and called her blessed; the queens and the concubines, and they praised her.

Who is she who looks forth as the morning, beautiful as the moon, clear as the sun, and awesome as an army with banners?

Who is this who comes up from the wilderness, leaning on her beloved? Under the apple tree I aroused you. There your mother conceived you. There she was in labor and bore you.

We have a little sister. She has no breasts. What shall we do for our sister in the day when she is to be spoken for?

If she is a wall, we will build on her a turret of silver. if she is a door, we will enclose her with boards of cedar. Beloved