Although a human shape I wear, Mother I never had. And though no sense nor life I share, in finest silks I'm clad. By every miss I'm valued much, beloved and highly prized, still my cruel fate is such by boys I am often despised. What am I?
A useful thing, hard, firm, and white, outside in shaggy robe bedight, Hallowed within right cleverly, it goes to work both white and dry. When after labor it comes back, you'll find it moist and very black, for service it is ready ever, and fails the hand that guides it never. What am I?