5 I rose up to open to my beloved; And my hands droppeth with myrrh, And my fingers with liquid myrrh, Upon the handles of the bolt.
6 I opened to my beloved; But my beloved had withdrawn himself, 'and' was gone. My soul had failed me when he spake: I sought him, but I could not find him; I called him, but he gave me no answer.
7 The watchmen that go about the city found me, They smote me, they wounded me; The keepers of the walls took away my mantle from me.
8 I adjure you, O daughters of Jerusalem, If ye find my beloved, That ye tell him, that I am sick from love.
9 What is thy beloved more than 'another' beloved, O thou fairest among women? What is thy beloved more than 'another' beloved, That thou dost so adjure us?
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