Captain: And I 've other news. Down in the village they say—fer a fishin' sloop brought the word—that his 'Ighness, the Prince o' Wales, left London a month ago.
Duke: And him not givin' me word. I calls that shabby. He was me fag at Eton.
Patch: Does yer think, Captain, he 'll spend a week-end with us, ridin' to the 'ounds, jest tellin' us the London gossip—how the pretty Duchesses is cuttin' up?
Duke: I thought he was settin' in Whitehall, tryin' on crowns, so as ter get one that did n't scratch his ears.
Captain: They say he 's incarnito.
Patch: What? Is it somethin' yer ketches like wollygogs in the stomich?
Duke: Igerence. I 'm 'shamed o' yer, Patch. Ain 't yer been ter school? Ain 't yer done lessons on a slate? Ain 't yer been walloped so standin' 's been comfertabler. The Captain and me soils ourselves talkin' to yer. Incarnito is dressed up fancy, so as no one can know him.
Darlin': Like Cindereller at the party.
Duke: If yer wants Patch ter understand yer, Captain, yer has got to use leetle words as is still pullin' at their bottles.
Darlin': When words grow big and has got beards they jest don 't say nothin' to Patch.