Whither has your beloved gone, O fairest among women? Whither has your beloved turned, that we may seek him with you?
My beloved has gone down to his garden, to the beds of spices, to pasture his flock in the gardens, and to gather lilies.
I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine; he pastures his flock among the lilies.
You are beautiful as Tirzah, my love, comely as Jerusalem, terrible as an army with banners.
Turn away your eyes from me, for they disturb me--Your hair is like a flock of goats, moving down the slopes of Gilead.
Your teeth are like a flock of ewes, that have come up from the washing, all of them bear twins, not one among them is bereaved.
Your cheeks are like halves of a pomegranate behind your veil.
There are sixty queens and eighty concubines, and maidens without number.
My dove, my perfect one, is only one, the darling of her mother, flawless to her that bore her. The maidens saw her and called her happy; the queens and concubines also, and they praised her.