I arose to open to my beloved; And my hands dripped with myrrh, And my fingers with drops of myrrh, On the handles of the bolt.
I opened to my beloved, But my beloved had turned away and
had gone! My heart went out to him
as he spoke. I searched for him but I did not find him; I called him but he did not answer me.
The watchmen who make the rounds in the city found me, They struck me and
wounded me; The guards of the walls took my shawl away from me.
Swear to me, you daughters of Jerusalem, If you find my beloved, As to what you will tell him: For I am lovesick.'
'What kind of beloved is your beloved, O most beautiful among women? What kind of beloved is your beloved, That you make us swear in this way?'