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,

(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.

(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.

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?

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.

All his reverend wit Lies in his wardrobe.