"A cur!", they cursed oft, while on strides
That do cross streets bobbing heads of pride--
Pelted at him stones of all kinds,
Large or trifle, it wasn't a surprise.

A vagrant on his ragged attire,
Shoved away with uncaring satire,
Clenched not unto their haughty minds in heart
Globe's usual machinery, it wasn't a surprise.

Dribbling...