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.

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

Jone is a wench that's painted;
Jone is a girl that's tainted;
Yet Jone she goes
Like one of those
Whom purity had sainted.

Jane is a girl that's pretty;
Jane is a wench that's witty;
Yet who would think,
Her breath does stink,
As so it doth? that's pity.