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C.N. Douglas, comp.  Forty Thousand Quotations: Prose and Poetical.  1917.
  Great is the tailor, but not the greatest.
  Thy clothes are all the soul thou hast.
Beaumont and Fletcher.    
  Thou art a strange fellow: a tailor make a man? Ay, a tailor, sir; a stone-cutter or a painter could not have made him so ill, though he had been but two hours at the trade.
        Thy gown? why, ay,—come, tailor, let us see’t.
O mercy, God! what masquing stuff is here?
What’s this? a sleeve; ’tis like a demi-cannon:
What, up and down, carv’d 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 i’ devil’s name, tailor, call’st thou this!
        O monstrous arrogance, thou liest, thou thread,
Thou thimble,
Thou yard, three-quarters, half-yard, quarter, nail,
Thou flea, thou nit, thou winter-cricket, thou:—
Brav’d in mine own house with a skein of thread!
Away thou rag, thou quantity, thou remnant;
Or I shall so be-mete thee with thy yard,
As thou shalt think on prating whilst thou liv’st!
                    What a fine man
Hath your tailor made you!
        Sister, look ye,
How, by a new creation of my tailor’s
I’ve shook off old mortality.
John Ford.    
        Yes, if they would thank their maker,
And seek no further; but they have new creators,
God tailor and god mercer.
                        Thou villain base,
Know’st me not by my clothes?
  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 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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