Upon Sudds, A Laundress.

Feacie, some say, doth wash her clothes i' th' lie
That sharply trickles from her either eye.
The laundresses, they envy her good-luck,
Who can with so small charges drive the buck.
What needs she fire and ashes to consume,
Who can scour linens with her own salt rheum?

For thirty years Tubbs has been proud and poor;
'Tis now his habit, which he can't give o'er.

With paste of almonds, Syb her hands doth scour;
Then gives it to the children to devour.
In cream she bathes her thighs, more soft than silk;
Then to the poor she freely gives the milk.

When Pimp's feet sweat, as they do often use,
There springs a soap-like lather in his shoes.

"Archer. How many are there, Scrub?"
"Scrub. Five-and-forty, Sir." Beaux' Stratagem.

"For shame - let the linen alone!" M. W. of Windsor.


Mr. Scrub - Mr. Slop - or whoever you be!
The Cock of Steam Laundries, - the head Patentee
Of Associate Cleansers, - Chief founder and prime
Of the firm for the wholesale distilling of grime -
Co-partners and dealers, in linen's propriety -
That make washing public - and wash in society -
O lend me your ear! if that ear can forego,
For a moment, the music that bubbles below, -
From your new Surrey Geisers all foaming and hot, -
That soft "simmer's sang" so endear'd to the Scot -
If your hands may stand still, or your steam without danger -
If your suds will not cool, and a mere simple stra...

If wounds in clothes Cuts calls his rags, 'tis clear
His linings are the matter running there.