The Love Sonnets of Proteus, Gods and False Gods, LXX: 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 !