Song of Solomon · Chapter 1

[ edit] Þe Chirche, of þe comyng of Criſt ſpekiþ, ſeiende, Kiſſe he me wiþ þe cos of his mowþ. Þe vois of þe Fader. For betere ben þi tetes þan wyn, ſmellende wiþ beſt oynemens. Þe vois of þe Chirche. Oile held out, þi name; þerfore þe ȝunge waxende wymmen looueden þee ful myche. Þe vois of þe Chirche to Criſt. Draȝ me aftir þee; wee ſhul rennen in þe ſmel of þin oynemens. Þe Chirche ſeiþ of Criſt. Broȝte me in þe king in to his celeris; wee ſhul ful out ioȝen, and gladen in þee, myndeful of þi tetes, vp on wyn; riȝt men loouen þee. Þe Chirche of hir tribulaciouns. O! ȝee doȝtris of Jeruſalem, blac I am, but ſhapli, as þe tabernacles of Cedar, as þe ſkynnes of Salamon.

Wileþ not beholden, þat I be broun, for diſcoloured me haþ þe ſunne; þe ſonus of my moder foȝten aȝen me, þei ſetteden me kepere in vynes; my vyneȝerd I kepte not. Þe vois of þe Chirche to Criſt. Shew þou to me, whom looueþ my ſoule, wher þou ȝiueſt leſwe, wher þou ligge in myddai; leſt to gon vagaunt I bygynne, aftir þe flockis of þi felawis. Þe vois of Criſt to þe Chirche. If þou knoweſt not þee, O! þou moſt fair among wymmen, go out, and go awei after þe ſteppis of þi flockis; and feed þi got, biſide þe tabernaclis of ſhepperdis. To my riding in charis of Farao I licnede þee, O! my leef. Faire ben þi cheekes, as of a turtil; þi necke as brooches.

Goldene ribanes wee ſhul make to þee, mad fijr red wiþ ſiluer. Þe vois of þe Chirche of Criſt. Whan þe king was in his liyng place, my mad encens ȝaf his ſmel. A bundel of myrre my lemman is to me; betwe my tetes he ſhal dwelle. Þe cluſtre of cipre tree my lemman to me, in þe vynes of Engaddy. Þe vois of Criſt to þe Chirche. Lo! þou art fair, my leef; lo! þou fair, þin eȝen of culueres. Þe vois of þe Chirche to Criſt. Lo! þou art fair, my lemman, and ſemeli; oure bed ſhynende. Þe trees of oure houſes cedre; oure couplis cipreſſe.