13. The fig-tree ripeneth her green figs, And the vines are in blossom; They give forth their fragrance. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.
14. O my dove, that art in the clefts of the rock, In the covert of the steep place, Let me see thy countenance, Let me hear thy voice; For sweet is thy voice, and thy countenance is comely.
15. Take us the foxes, the little foxes, That spoil the vineyards; For our vineyards are in blossom.
16. My beloved is mine, and I am his: He feedeth his flock among the lilies.
17. Until the day be cool, and the shadows flee away, Turn, my beloved, and be thou like a roe or a young hart Upon the mountains of Bether.