The Bridegroom Praises the Bride |
| 1 | Behold, thou art fair, my love;
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| behold, thou art fair; |
| thou hast doves' eyes within thy locks: |
| thy hair is as a flock of goats, |
| that appear from mount Gil'e-ad. |
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| 2 | Thy teeth are like a flock of sheep that are even shorn,
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| which came up from the washing; |
| whereof every one bear twins, |
| and none is barren among them. |
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| 3 | Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet,
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| and thy speech is comely: |
| thy temples are like a piece of a pomegranate within thy locks. |
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| 4 | Thy neck is like the tower of David builded for an armory,
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| whereon there hang a thousand bucklers, |
| all shields of mighty men. |
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| 5 | Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins,
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| which feed among the lilies. |
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| 6 | Until the day break,
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| and the shadows flee away, |
| I will get me to the mountain of myrrh, |
| and to the hill of frankincense. |
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| 7 | Thou art all fair, my love;
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| there is no spot in thee. |
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| 8 | Come with me from Lebanon, my spouse,
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| with me from Lebanon: |
| look from the top of Ama'na, |
| from the top of Shenir and Hermon, |
| from the lions' dens, |
| from the mountains of the leopards. |
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| 9 | Thou hast ravished my heart, my sister, my spouse;
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| thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes, |
| with one chain of thy neck. |
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| 10 | How fair is thy love, my sister, my spouse!
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| How much better is thy love than wine! |
| and the smell of thine ointments than all spices! |
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| 11 | Thy lips, O my spouse, drop as the honeycomb:
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| honey and milk are under thy tongue; |
| and the smell of thy garments is like the smell of Lebanon. |
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| 12 | A garden inclosed is my sister, my spouse;
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| a spring shut up, a fountain sealed. |
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| 13 | Thy plants are an orchard of pomegranates, with pleasant fruits;
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| camphire, with spikenard, |
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| 14 | spikenard and saffron;
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| calamus and cinnamon, |
| with all trees of frankincense; |
| myrrh and aloes, |
| with all the chief spices: |
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| 15 | a fountain of gardens,
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| a well of living waters, |
| and streams from Lebanon. |
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| 16 | Awake, O north wind;
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| and come, thou south; |
| blow upon my garden, |
| that the spices thereof may flow out. |
| Let my beloved come into his garden, |
| and eat his pleasant fruits. |
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