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-a-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.