Now it befell that once a Visigoth
Stately, while all unconscious of his state,
And proud while nothing thinking of his pride,
Went stalking onwards through the streets of Rome,
Unheeding all the casual passers-by
Who turned to look at him—as a grave bull
Might walk through many sheep—or as my lord
Guy de Plantagenet just now walked by
Before my window, where I writing sit,
In Florence—true he came bien à propos.