Chapter 7 No.7

Hal, brave Hal, from your foreign parts

Come home you'll choose among kinder hearts.

Forget, forget, you're too good to hold

A fancy 't were best should faint, grow cold,

And fade like an August marigold;

For of three that woo I can take but one,

And what's to be done-what's to be done?

There's no sense in it under the sun,

And

Of three that woo I can take but one.