Draw me; we will run after thee: The king hath brought me into his chambers; We will be glad and rejoice in thee; We will make mention of thy love more than of wine: Rightly do they love thee.

Look not upon me, because I am black, because the sun hath looked upon me: my mother's children were angry with me; they made me the keeper of the vineyards; but mine own vineyard have I not kept.

The fig-tree ripeneth her green figs, And the vines are in blossom; They give forth their fragrance. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.

They watching going about in the city, found me: Saw ye him that my soul loved?

They all hold swords, being expert in war: every man hath his sword upon his thigh because of fear in the night.

Your teeth are like a flock of shorn sheep, which came up from the washing; they all are bearing twins and not one is barren among them.

The watchmen that went about the city found me, they smote me, they wounded me; the keepers of the walls took away my veil from me.

His eyes are as the eyes of doves by the water brooks, as though they were washed with milk and set like pearls in gold.

(The Chorus)“Where has your beloved gone,
O most beautiful among women?
Where is your beloved hiding himself,
That we may seek him with you?”

Turn away thine eyes from me, for they have overcome me: thy hair is as a flock of goats that appear from Gilead.

Your teeth are like a flock of ewes which go up from the washing; they all are bearing twins, and a barren one is not among them.

They are sixty queens, and eighty concubines, and maidens no number.

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 blessed her; yea, the queens and the concubines, and they praised her.

(The Chorus)
“Return, return, O Shulammite;
Return, return, that we may gaze at you.”

Oh that thou wert as my brother, That sucked the breasts of my mother! Should I find thee without, I would kiss thee; And they would not despise me.

(The Chorus)
“Who is this coming up from the wilderness
Leaning upon her beloved?”

Many waters are not able to quench the love, And floods do not wash it away. If one give all the wealth of his house for love, Treading down -- they tread upon it.

THEYA sister, have we, a little one, and, breasts, hath she none, What shall we do for our sister, in the day when she may be spoken for?