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The watchmen who patrol the city found me.
They beat me. They bruised me.
They took my shawl away from me,
    those watchmen of the walls!

Daughters of Jerusalem, you must swear to me—
if you find my lover—
what will you tell him?
—that I am sick with love.

The Friends

What makes your lover better than any other lover,
most beautiful of women?
What makes your lover better than any other lover,
that you make us swear in this way?

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