Thy gown? Why, ay--come, tailor, let us see't.
O mercy, God, what masquing stuff is there?
What's read more

Thy gown? Why, ay--come, tailor, let us see't.
O mercy, God, what masquing stuff is there?
What's this, a sleeve? 'Tis like a demi-cannon.
What, up and down carved like an apple tart?
Here's snip and nip and cut and slish and slash,
Like to a censer in a barber's shop.
Why, what's a devil's name, tailor, call'st thou this?

(Cloten:) Thou villain base,
Know'st me not by my clothes?
(Guiderius:) No, nor thy tailor, rascal,
read more

(Cloten:) Thou villain base,
Know'st me not by my clothes?
(Guiderius:) No, nor thy tailor, rascal,
Who is thy grandfather. He made those clothes,
Which, as it seems, make thee.

What a fine man
Hath your tailor made you!

What a fine man
Hath your tailor made you!

Sister, look ye,
How, by a new creation of my tailor's
I've shook off old mortality.

Sister, look ye,
How, by a new creation of my tailor's
I've shook off old mortality.

(Cornwall:) Thou art a strange fellow. A tailor make a man?
(Kent:) A tailor, sir. A stonecutter or a read more

(Cornwall:) Thou art a strange fellow. A tailor make a man?
(Kent:) A tailor, sir. A stonecutter or a painter could not
have made him ill, though they had been but two years o' th'
trade.

Th' embroider'd suit at least he deem'd his prey;
That suit an unpaid tailor snatched away.

Th' embroider'd suit at least he deem'd his prey;
That suit an unpaid tailor snatched away.

All his reverend wit
Lies in his wardrobe.

All his reverend wit
Lies in his wardrobe.

A tailor, though a man of upright dealing,--
True but for lying,--honest but for stealing,--
Did fall read more

A tailor, though a man of upright dealing,--
True but for lying,--honest but for stealing,--
Did fall one day extremely sick by chance
And on the sudden was in wondrous trance.

As if thou e'er wert angry
But with thy tailor! and yet that poor shred
Can bring read more

As if thou e'er wert angry
But with thy tailor! and yet that poor shred
Can bring more to the making up of a man,
Than can be hoped from thee; thou art his creature;
And did he not, each morning, new create thee,
Thou'dst stink and be forgotten.