The Song of Songs, Chapter VIII: The Version

The Church.
I Would to God thou wert as near
To me as is my Brother,
That Fill'd the Lap and Suck'd the Pap
Of my most tender Mother:
When I without should light on thee,
Then I thy Lips would Kiss;
Yea, I should not despised be,
Nor disesteem'd for this.

I'd bring thee to my Mothers Tent,
Who would instruct me there;
Pomegranate-Wine of pleasant scent
Should be thy Royal Fare.

His Left Hand underneath my Head
Should lovingly be plac'd.
His Right Hand or'e me should be spread,
Thus should I be Embrac'd.

Ye Daughters of Jerusalem,
'Tis You I charge and bind,
Not once to move, or wake my Love
Until it be his Mind.

Out of the Desart doth Ascend
A comely Sight to see;
One Leaning on her dearest Friend,
O what a One is She!

The Church.
Under the shady Apple-Tree
Thee did I Raise and Rear;
Thy Mother Travell'd there with Thee,
Thy Native Place was there.

O Seal thine Image on thy Heart,
O'Seal it on thy Arm!
For Love, like Death, doth cast its Dart,
And Jealousie is warm:
'Tis like the Grave, whose keen desire
Nothing can satisfie.
The Coals thereof are Coals of Fire
That flame most vehemently.

Waters can't quench loves flame, nor floods
Can Loves height overflow;
If one for Love would give his Goods,
The Price would be too low.

The Jewish Church.
No Breasts on our small Sister grow,
Nor is She yet Admir'd;
What shall we for our Sister do,
When she shall be desir'd?

Christ.
We'll build on her a Silver Court,
If she a Wall shall be;
Or if a Door, Her we'll Support
With Boards of Cedar-tree.

The Jewish Church.
I am a Wall both strong and tall,
My Breasts like Towers are round;
(I then his Sight did much delight,
As one that Favour Found.)

Christ.
At Baal-Hammon, King Solomon
A Vineyard did possess;
Keepers he sent to the Intent
They might his Vineyard dress:
And thus with them he did agree,
That for the Fruit it gave,
A thousand silver Pieces he
Of each of them should have.

My Vineyard which belongs to Me,
I know not how to spare;
It ever lies before mine Eyes,
It is my constant care.
But thou, O Solomon, must have
A thousand for thy Gains;
And those that keep its Fruit may crave
Two Hundred for their pains.

And now farewel thou that Dost dwell
In Gardens here below;
As thy Companions hear thy Voice
So let me hear it too.

The Church.
Haste my Beloved like a Roe
Which soon her course fulfils;
O that thou wert like a young Hart
Upon the Spicy Hills!