What a fine man
Hath your tailor made you!

What a fine man
Hath your tailor made you!

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.

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.

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?

One commending a Tayler for his dexteritie in his profession,
another standing by ratified his opinion, saying tailors had read more

One commending a Tayler for his dexteritie in his profession,
another standing by ratified his opinion, saying tailors had
their business at their fingers' ends.
- William Hazlitt,

Thy clothes are all the soul thou hast.

Thy clothes are all the soul thou hast.

May Moorland weavers boast Pindaric skill,
And tailors' lays be longer than their bill!
While punctual beaux read more

May Moorland weavers boast Pindaric skill,
And tailors' lays be longer than their bill!
While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes,
And pay for poems--when they pay for coats.

(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.

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.