"He's no scholar, but he is a match for any French general that ever swallowed the English for fricassee de crapaud.
He saved the crown for the best of kings, his royal father, his Most Gracious Majesty King George." Off went Mr.Franklin's hat, and from his large buckled wig escaped a great halo of powder.
"He is the soldier's best friend, and has been the uncompromising enemy of all beggarly red-shanked Scotch rebels and intriguing Romish Jesuits who would take our liberty from us, and our religion, by George.

His Royal Highness, my gracious master, is not a scholar neither, but he is one of the finest gentlemen in the world." "I have seen his Royal Highness on horseback, at a review of the Guards, in Hyde Park," says Mr.Franklin.

"The Duke is indeed a very fine gentleman on horseback." "You shall drink his health to-day, Postmaster.

He is the best of masters, the best of friends, the best of sons to his royal old father; the best of gentlemen that ever wore an epaulet." "Epaulets are quite out of my way, sir," says Mr.Franklin, laughing.
"You know I live in a Quaker City." "Of course they are out of your way, my good friend.

Every man to his business.