Song of Songs 7:1-13 O how pleasaunt are thy treadynges with the shoes, thou princes daughter? Thy thighes are like a fayre iewell, which is wrought by a connyng worcke master.

Great⁽ⁱ⁾ ¹ O how pleasaunt are thy treadynges with the shoes, thou princes daughter? Thy thighes are like a fayre iewell, which is wrought by a connyng worcke master. ² Thy nauell is lyke a rounde goblet, which is neuer without drinke. Thy wombe is lyke a hepe of wheat that is sett aboute wt roses ³ Thy two brestes are lyke two twyns of yonge roes. ⁴ Thy neck is as it were a tower of yuery: thine eyes also are lyke the water poles that are in Hesebon, besyde the porte of Bathrabbim: thy nose is lyke the tower of Libanus, which loketh toward Damascus. ⁵ That head that standeth vpon the, is lyke Carmel & the hearre of thy heade is lyke purple and lyke a kynge goynge forth wt his garde aboute hym. ⁶ O how fayre & louely art thou my dearlynge, in pleasures? ⁷ Thy stature is lyke a Palme tree & thy brestes lyke the grapes. ⁸ I sayde I will clyme vp into the Palme tree, & take holde of his hye braunches. Thy brestes also shalbe as the vyne clustres the smell of thy nostrels lyke is the smell of apples, ⁹ and thy iawes lyke the beste wyne. Whiche goeth strayte vnto my beloued and brusteth forth by the lyppes of the Auncyent eldres. ¹⁰ There wyl I turne me vnto my loue & he shall turne hym vnto me. ¹¹ O come on my loue, we will go forth into the felde, & take oure lodgynge in the villages. ¹² In the mornynge wyll we go se the vyneyarde: we will se yf the vyne be spronge forth, yf the grapes be growne, and yf the pomgranates be shot out. There will I geue the my brestes: ¹³ the Mandragoras geue theyr sweate smell: and besyde oure dores are all maner of pleasaunt frutes: both newe, & olde: whych I haue kepte for the, o my beloued.