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 reward the grateful notes, And pay for poems--when they pay for coats.

All his reverend wit Lies in his wardrobe.

(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.

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