Your cheeks are like halves of a pomegranate behind your veil.
There are sixty queens and eighty concubines, and virgins without number.
My dove, my perfect one, is the only one, the only one of her mother, pure to her who bore her. The young women saw her and called her blessed; the queens and concubines also, and they praised her.
“Who is this who looks down like the dawn, beautiful as the moon, bright as the sun, awesome as an army with banners?”
I went down to the nut orchard to look at the blossoms of the valley, to see whether the vines had budded, whether the pomegranates were in bloom.
Before I was aware, my desire set me among the chariots of my kinsman, a prince.
Return, return, O Shulammite, return, return, that we may look upon you. Why should you look upon the Shulammite, as upon a dance before two armies?