13 The fig-tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines [with] the tender grape give a [good] smell. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.
14 O my dove, [that art] in the clefts of the rock, in the secret [places] of the stairs, let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice; for sweet [is] thy voice, and thy countenance [is] comely.
15 Take for us the foxes, the little foxes, that spoil the vines: for our vines [have] tender grapes.
16 My beloved [is] mine, and I [am] his: he feedeth among the lilies.
17 Until the day shall break, and the shadows flee away, turn, my beloved, and be thou like a roe or a young hart upon the mountains of Bether.