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,
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