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Your teeth are like a flock of sheep coming up from the washing. Each has its twin, not one of them is alone.
Your temples behind your veil are like the halves of a pomegranate.
Sixty queens there may be, and eighty concubines, and virgins beyond number;
but my dove, my perfect one, is unique, the only daughter of her mother, the favorite of the one who bore her. The maidens saw her and called her blessed; the queens and concubines praised her.
Who is this that appears like the dawn, fair as the moon, bright as the sun, majestic as the stars in procession?
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Thy teeth are as a flock of sheep which go up from the washing, whereof every one beareth twins, and there is not one barren among them.
As a piece of a pomegranate are thy temples within thy locks.
There are threescore queens, and fourscore concubines, and virgins without number.
My dove, my undefiled is but one; she is the only one of her mother, she is the choice one of her that bare her. The daughters saw her, and blessed her; yea, the queens and the concubines, and they praised her.
Who is she that looketh forth as the morning, fair as the moon, clear as the sun, and terrible as an army with banners?
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