I sleep, but my heart is awake: the voice of my kinsman knocks at the door, [saying], Open, open to me, my companion, my sister, my dove, my perfect one: for my head is filled with dew, and my locks with the drops of the night.

HE. They that feed on dainties are desolate in the streets; they that used to be nursed in scarlet have clothed themselves with dung.

of whom the world was not worthy, wandering in deserts and mountains and caves, and the holes of the earth.