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.

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.

Yes, if they would thank their maker,
And seek no further, but they have new creators,
God read more

Yes, if they would thank their maker,
And seek no further, but they have new creators,
God tailor and god mercer.

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 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?

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.

Get me some French tailor
To new-create you.

Get me some French tailor
To new-create you.

All his reverend wit
Lies in his wardrobe.

All his reverend wit
Lies in his wardrobe.

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.