Canto XXVII
I envy not in any moodsThe captive void of noble rage,The linnet born within the cage,That never knew the summer woods:
I envy not the beast that takesHis license in the field of time,Unfetter’d by the sense of crime,To whom a conscience never wakes;
Nor, what may count itself as blest,The heart that never plighted trothBut stagnates in the weeds of sloth;Nor any want-begotten rest.
I hold it true, whate’er befall;I feel it, when I sorrow most;’Tis better to have loved and lostThan never to have loved at all.