7 The watchmen who go round about the city, Found me, smote me, wounded me, Keepers of the walls lifted up my veil from off me.
8 I have adjured you, daughters of Jerusalem, If ye find my beloved -- What do ye tell him? that I [am] sick with love!
9 What [is] thy beloved above [any] beloved, O fair among women? What [is] thy beloved above [any] beloved, That thus thou hast adjured us?
10 My beloved [is] clear and ruddy, Conspicuous above a myriad!
11 His head [is] pure gold -- fine gold, His locks flowing, dark as a raven,
12 His eyes as doves by streams of water, Washing in milk, sitting in fulness.
13 His cheeks as a bed of the spice, towers of perfumes, His lips [are] lilies, dropping flowing myrrh,
