text:  'Twere pity treason at his door to lay Who makes heaven's gate a lock to its own key: Let him rail on let his invective Muse Have four and twenty letters to abuse Which if he jumbles to one line of sense Indict him of a capital offence In fire-works give him leave to vent his spight Those are the only serpents he can write; The height of his ambition is we know But to be master of a puppet-show On that one stage his works may yet appear And a month's harvest keeps him all the year