I sleep, but my heart waketh: it is the voice of my beloved that knocketh, saying, Open to me, my sister, my love, my dove, my undefiled: for my head is filled with dew, and my locks with the drops of the night.

They that did feed delicately are desolate in the streets: they that were brought up in scarlet embrace dunghills.

Of whom the world was not worthy:) they wandered in deserts, and in mountains, and in dens and caves of the earth.