There are sixty queens and eighty concubines,
and maidens  without number.
My dove, my perfect one, is the only one,
the darling of her mother,
flawless to her that bore her,
The maidens saw her and called her happy;
the queens and concubines
also, and they praised her.
Who is this that that looks forth like the dawn
fair as the moon, bright as the sun,
terrible as an army with banners?