To a Water-color

Sweet Phyllis, maid of yesterday,
Come down from out that frame,
And tell me why you looked so gay—
Likewise your other name.

Had bold Sir Plume confessed his love
And asked you if you’d wed?
And had he called you “Lovey-dove”?
And how long are you dead?

Where did you get that wondrous gown,
Those patches, and that hair?
And how were things in London town
The last time you were there?

And did you die a maid or wife,
Your husband lord or knave?
And how did you like this jolly life?
And how do you like the grave?