Over 40,000 Famous Quotes Sorted By Topic and Author

'Twas when young Eustace wore his heart in's breeches.

Thy clothes are all the soul thou hast.

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.

Great is the Tailor, but not the greatest.

Sister, look ye, How, by a new creation of my tailor's I've shook off old mortality.

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.

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,

'Tis not the robe or garment I affect; For who would marry with a suit of clothes?

It takes nine tailors to make a man.

What a fine man Hath your tailor made you!

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.

Get me some French tailor To new-create you.

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

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.

Th' embroider'd suit at least he deem'd his prey; That suit an unpaid tailor snatched away.

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.

Thou art a strange fellow. A tailor make a man? A tailor, sir. A stonecutter or a painter could not have made him ill, though they had been but two years o' th' trade.

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?

All his reverend wit Lies in his wardrobe.