The Match.

BY what wild Frenzy was I Led,
That with a Muse I needs must Wed?
Whose Dow'r consists of pop'lar Fame,
The short Possession of a Name!
Yet with what Trouble and Debate
The owner holds this poor Estate?
Where after long Expence and Toil
He Starves on the Ungrateful Soil.
The Fields and Groves which Poets feign
The curious Fancy Entertain,
But yeild no nourishing Grain or Fruit,
The craving Stomach to recruit.
With Thirsty Tongue the Rhymer Sings
Of Nectar and Olympian Springs.
And such I fear the Faiery ground
Of their Elysium will be found.
A meer Fools Paradise, and fit
For such as will be Men of Wit. 
Yet fain wou'd I that Rhymer know,
That Raves not of th' Shades below,
Whose Verse describes not there each Hill,
Each Flow'ry Vale and wandring Rill,
With such praecise particular Care,
As He had been a Native there;
When (maugre all his Art and Pains)
What are his Gay Elysian Plains
But an Imaginary Cheat,
Utopia's form'd i'th' wild Conceit,
When with Poetick Calenture
'Tis seiz'd, and Death alone can Cure.