I opened to my beloved, but my beloved had turned and gone. My soul failed me when he spoke. I sought him, but found him not; I called him, but he gave no answer.
The watchmen found me, as they went about in the city; they beat me, they wounded me, they took away my mantle, those watchmen of the walls.
I adjure you, O daughters of Jerusalem, if you find my beloved, that you tell him I am sick with love.
What is your beloved more than another beloved, O fairest among women? What is your beloved more than another beloved, that you thus adjure us?
My beloved is all radiant and ruddy, distinguished among ten thousand.
His head is the finest gold; his locks are wavy, black as a raven.
His eyes are like doves beside springs of water, bathed in milk, fitly set.
His cheeks are like beds of spices, yielding fragrance. His lips are lilies, distilling liquid myrrh.
His arms are rounded gold, set with jewels. His body is ivory work, encrusted with sapphires.
His legs are alabaster columns, set upon bases of gold. His appearance is like Lebanon, choice as the cedars.
His speech is most sweet, and he is altogether desirable. This is my beloved and this is my friend, O daughters of Jerusalem.