Go on, Sylvanus!--Bear a wary eye, The churches cannot yet be quite run out! Some parishes must yet have been pass'd by,-- There's Bullock-Smithy has a church no doubt! XIII. Go on--and close the eyes of distant ages! Nourish the names of the undoubted dead! So epicures shall pick thy lobster-pages, Heavy and lively, though but seldom _red_. XIV. Go on! and thrive! Demurest of odd fellows! Bottling up dulness in an ancient binn! Still live! still prose!--continue still to tell us Old truths! no strangers, though we take them in! AN ADDRESS TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY. _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[216] 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 stranger, Both to you and to washing, may put in a rub-- O wipe out your Amazon arms from the tub-- And lend me your ear,--Let me modestly plead For a race that your labours may soon supersede-- For a race that, now washing no living affords-- Like Grimaldi must leave their aquatic old boards, Not with pence in their pockets to keep them at ease, Not with bread in the funds--or investments of cheese-- But to droop like sad willows that liv'd by a stream, Which the sun has suck'd up into vapour and steam. Ah, look at the laundress, before you begrudge Her hard daily bread to that laudable drudge; When chanticleer singeth his earliest matins, She slips her amphibious feet in her pattens, And beginneth her toil while the morn is still grey, As if she was washing the night into day-- Not with sleeker or rosier fingers Aurora Beginneth to scatter the dewdrops before her; Not Venus that rose from the billow so early, Look'd down on the foam with a forehead more _pearly_[217]-- Her head is involv'd in an aërial mist, And a bright-beaded bracelet encircles her wrist; Her visage glows warm with the ardour of duty; She's Industry's moral--she's all moral beauty! Growing brighter and brighter at every rub-- Would any man ruin her? No, Mr. Scrub! No man that is manly would work her mishap-- No man that is manly would covet her cap-- Nor her apron--her hose--nor her gown made of stuff--