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Wilfrid Scawen Blunt - The Love Sonnets Of Proteus. Part III: Gods And False Gods: LXX
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ON READING THE MEMOIRS OF M. D`ARTAGNAN
 Why was I born in this degenerate age?
 Or rather why, a thousand times, with soul
 Of such degenerate stuff that a mute rage
 Is all its reason, tears the only toll
 It takes on life, and impotence its goal?
 Why was I born to this sad heritage
 Of fierce desires which cannot fate control,
 Of idle hopes life never can assuage?
 Why was I born thus weak?--Oh to have been
 A merry fool, at jest with destiny;
 A free hand ready and a heart as free;
 A ruffler in the camps of Mazarin!
 Oh for the honest soul of d`Artagnan,
 Twice happy knave, a Gascon and a man!
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