PETRUCHIO: 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, 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, i' devil's name, tailor, call'st thou this?