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Alexander Pope
Th' embroider'd suit at least he deem'd his prey; That suit an unpaid tailor snatched away.
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John Ford
Sister, look ye, How, by a new creation of my tailor's I've shook off old mortality.
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John Heywood
'Tis not the robe or garment I affect; For who would marry with a suit of clothes?
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John Heywood
It takes nine tailors to make a man. [Fr., Il faut neuf tailleurs pour faire un homme.]
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Lord Byron (George Gordon Noel Byron)
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.
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Philip Massinger
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.
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Philip Massinger
Yes, if they would thank their maker, And seek no further, but they have new creators, God tailor and god mercer.
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Sir John Harrington
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.
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Thomas Percy
King Stephen was a worthy peere, His breeches cost him but a crowne; He held them sixpence all too deere, Therefore he call'd the taylor lowne.
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William Hazlitt
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.
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William Shakespeare
(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.
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William Shakespeare
(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.
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William Shakespeare
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?
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