My dove in the refuges of the rock, in the biding of the steep mountain: cause me to see thy form, cause me to hear thy voice; for thy voice is sweet and thy form becoming.
Behold thee beautiful, my friend, behold thee beautiful; thine eyes doves' from behind to thy veil: thy hair as a herd of goats which lay down from mount Gilead.
She is one, my dove, my perfect one; she is one to her mother, she is the chosen to her bearing her. The daughters saw her and pronounced her happy; the queens and the concubines, and they will praise her.