The Swashbuckler

Squat-nosed and broad, of big and pompous port; A tavern visage, apoplexy haunts, All pimple-puffed: the Falstaff-like resort Of fat debauchery, whose veined cheek flaunts A flabby purple: rusty-spurred he stands In rakehell boots and belt, and hanger that Claps when, with greasy gauntlets on his hands, He swaggers past in cloak and slouch-plumed hat. Aggression marches armies in his words; And in his oaths great deeds ride cap-à-pie; His looks, his gestures breathe the breath of swords; And in his carriage camp all wars to be: With him, of battles there shall be no lack While buxom wenches are and stoops of sack.