To such as poor and needy are, Her hand, yea both hands, reacheth she; The winter none of her's doth fear, For double cloth'd her houshold be.

She mantles maketh wrought by hand, And silk and purple clothing gets; Among the rulers of the land, Known in the gate her husband sits. For sale fine linen weaveth she, And girdles to the merchant sends; Renown and strength her clothings be, And joy her latter time attends.

She speaks discretely when she talks ; The law of grace her tongue hath learn'd; She heeds the way her houshold walks, And feedeth not on bread unearn'd. Her children rise and bless her call; Her husband thus applaudeth her; O! thou hast far surpast them all, Though many daughters thriving are. Deceitful favour quickly wears, And beauty suddenly decays; But if the Lord she truly fears, That woman well deserveth praise. The fruit her handy-work obtains, Without repining grant her that; And yield her what her labour gains To do her honour in the gate..

The first Canticle.

SONG IX.

COME, kiss me with those lips of thine!
For better are thy loves than wine;
And as the poured ointments be,
Such is the savour of thy name ;
And for the sweetness of the same,
The virgins are in love with thee

Begin but thou to draw me on,
And then we after thee will run;

O King! thy chambers bring me to:
So we in thee delight shall find,
And more than wine thy love will mind,
And love thee as the righteous do.

And daughters of Jerusalem!

pray you do not me contemn,
Because that black I now appear;

For I as lovely am, I know,
As Kedar tents appear in show,

Or Solomon his curtains are.

Though black I am, regard it not:
It is but sun-burn I have got,

Whereof my mother's s sons were cause:
Their vineyard-keeper me they made,
Through envy which to me they have,
So mine own vine neglected was.
Thou, whom my soul doth best affect!
Unto thy pastures me direct,

Where thou at noon art stretch'd along;

For why should I be straggling spied,
Like her that loves to turn aside,

Thy fellow-shepherds' flocks among
O fairest of all woman-kind!

If him thou know not where to find,
Go where the paths of cattle are ;
Their track of footsteps stray not from,
Till to the shepherds' tents thou come,
And feed thy tender kidlings there.
My love! thou art of greater force
Than Pharaoh's troops of chariot-horse;
Thy cheeks and neck made lovely be
With rows of stone and many a chain;
And we gold borders will ordain,
Beset with silver studs for thee.

The second Canticle.

SONG X.

WHILE that the king was at repast,
My spikenard his perfumings cast,
And 'twixt my breasts repos'd my dear,
My love, who is as sweet to me
As myrrh, or camphire bundles be,
Which at Engaddi vineyards are.
Lo! thou art fair; lo! thou, my love!
Art fair, and eyed like the dove:

Thou fair and pleasant art my dear! And lo! our bed with flowers is strew'd; Our house is beam'd with cedar-wood, And of the fir our rafters are.

I am the rose that Sharon yields,
The rose and lily of the fields,

And flower of all the dales below.
My love among the daughters shews,
As when a sweet and beauteous rose
Amid her bush of thorns doth grow.
Among the sons, such is my dear,
As doth an apple-tree appear,

Within a shrubby forest plac'd. I sat me down beneath his shade, Whereto a great desire I had,

And sweet his fruit was to my taste. Me to his banquet-house he bare, Ev'n where his wine-provisions are;

And there his love my banner was.
With flaggons me from fainting stay;
With apples comfort me, I pray ;
For I am sick of love, alas!

My head with his left hand he staid;
His right hand over me he laid;

And by the harts and roes said he,
You daughters of Jerusalem!
Stir not, for you I charge by them,

Nor wake my love till pleas'd she be.

The third Canticle.

SONG XI.

I HEAR my love, and him I see
Come leaping by the mountains there:
Lo! o'er the hillocks trippeth he,
And roe or stag-like doth appear.

Lo! from behind the wall he pries;
Now at the window-grate is he;
Now speaks my dear, and says, arise,
My love, my fair, and come with me!
Lo! winter's past, and come the spring;
The rain is gone, the weather clear;
The season woos the birds to sing,
And on the earth the flow'rs appear.
The turtle croweth in our field;
Young figs the fig-tree down doth weigh;
The blossom'd vines a savour yield;
Rise love, my fair! and come away.
My dove, that art obscured, where
The rock's dark stairs do thee enfold!
Thy voice, thy sweet voice, let me hear,
And thee, that lovely sight! behold.

Those fox's cubs the vines that mar, Go take us, while the grapes be young; My love's am I, and mine's my dear, Who feeds the lily-flowers among.

While break of day, when shades depart, Return, my well-beloved one!

Ev'n as a roe or lusty hart,

That doth on Bether mountains run.