The Song of Songs, Chapter II: The Version

Christ.
I Am the Rose of Sharon-Field,
I am the Lilly White,
The Lilly, which the Valleys yield,
I am both sweet and bright.

What are Thorns in th' Account of Men,
Unto the Lilly bright?
What are the Fairest Daughters, when
My Love appears in sight?

The Church.
What are the common Trees o'th' Wood
Unto the Apple Tree?
What is the Rich and Noblest Blood,
My lovely Lord, to Thee?
I sate Rejoycing in Times past
Under his cooling Shade;
His Fruit was sweet unto my Tast,
O what a Feast I made!

Unto his Cellars stor'd with Wines,
He caus'd Me to remove,
Over my Head abroad he spread
The Banner of his Love.

Give Flagons for a Cordial,
Bring Apples Me to chear;
For I am sick, I faint, I fall,
I languish for my Dear.

His Left Hand underneath my Head,
For my Support is plac'd;
His Right Hand over me is spread,
And thus I am Embrac'd.

O Salems Daughters, you I charge,
Both by the Roe and Hind;
Ye do not move nor stir my Love,
Until it be his mind.

My Welbeloved's Voice of Joy,
My Heart with Comfort fills;
He comes Leaping on Mountains high,
And Skipping on the Hills.

My Welbeloved comes in hast,
Like a swift footed Roe;
Nay, my Beloved flies so fast,
Young Hart did never so.
Behind our Wall, lo! he doth stand,
He's at our Windows seen;
He shews himself so near at Hand,
There's but a Grate between.

I gladly heard his gracious Tone,
Who thus to me did say,
Rise up, my Love, my Fairest One,
Make haste and come away.

The Season of the Year invites,
The Winters gone and past;
Behold a Spring of new Delights!
No Rain, nor stormy Blast.

The Flowers upon the Earth appear,
The Birds begin to sing;
The People of our Land do hear
The Turtles murmuring.

Green Figs upon their Trees are grown,
Young Grapes their Smells display;
Rise up, my Love, my Fairest One,
Make haste and come away.

O my Fair Dove, whose Fairness dwells
In dark Obscurity,
In cloven Rocks, and secret Cells,
Come, shew thy self to me:
O let thy Face to me appear,
I […] thy Voice answer mine,
Thy Voice is Musick in mine Ear,
Thy Countenance doth shine.

Catch us the Foxes in a Toyl,
The little Foxes catch;
For they our Fruitful Vines do spoil,
Their tender Grapes they snatch.

My Welbeloved, he is mine,
And I am his indeed;
In Pastures, which with Lillies shine,
He makes his Flock to feed.

Till the day break, and shades depart,
Beloved, hast to me;
Even as the Roe and tender Hart
On Bether-Mountains flee.