Canto XXVII

I envy not in any moods

      The captive void of noble rage,

      The linnet born within the cage,

That never knew the summer woods:

I envy not the beast that takes

      His 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 troth

      But 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 lost

Than never to have loved at all.