While the King sitteth at his divan, my spikenard perfumes me and to me my beloved is a bouquet of myrrh, unto me he is as a cluster of cypress in the vines of Engedi.

Solomon

Yes, thou art fair, my beloved. Yes, thou art fair. Thine eyes are the eyes of a dove.

The Shulamite
(thinking of the absent one.)

Yes, thou art fair, my beloved. Yes, thou art charming, and our tryst is a litter of green.

Solomon
(to whom constancy has no meaning.)

The beams of our house are cedar and our rafters of fir.


The Shulamite
(singing.)

I am the rose of Sharon The lily of the valley am I.

(Enter suddenly the Shepherd.)