Now, woe is me! a dupe to impious zeal, Unequal war with Nature do I wage; While, as each sun returns, the ruthless steel, To waste her produce, plies its whetted rage. Like Grecia’s godlike sages dare I feel, My shaggy chin shou’d mock this silly age. * * * * * THE DOCTORS’ DUEL. Two Doctors fought, and thrice from each A deadly ball was sent, Though keenly aim’d, the bullets’ force In air impassive spent. Ye sons of Mars forbear to smile, Since every man must know; ’Tis not by pistol, sword, or gun, A Doctor kills his foe. For had they been on death intent, How surely might they kill, Or by a gentle cooling draught, Or mild _Saturnian Pill_. * * * * * THE EXTENT OF LIFE’S VARIETY. Just this little, and no more, Is in ev’ry mortal’s pow’r, Each to say, I tasted breath, But the cup was fraught with death; I have sigh’d, have laugh’d, have wept, Wak’d to think, and thinking slept; Slept my wearied limbs to rest, Wak’d with labour in my breast; Met with sorrows, happ’ly o’er, Mix’d in pleasures now no more; Hop’d and fear’d, with equal sense, Dup’d by many a slight pretence: Soon shall my soul her veil throw by, My body with its kindred lie; Of this I’m certain, but the rest Is lock’d within a higher breast. * * * * * EPIGRAM. On Seeing the Servant of a Scoundrel Beat his Master’s Coat. Why merciless thwack PETER’s coat? My friend you surely jest! I’d rather beat the Losel’s back, And let his vestment rest. The Castigator look’d and smil’d; Said he, “You’ve wrong premis’d; “For ’tis the _habits_ of the man “That make the man despis’d. NEW-YORK: _+Printed by JOHN BULL, No. 115, Cherry-Street+, where every Kind of Printing work is executed with the utmost Accuracy and Dispatch.--+Subscriptions+ for this +Magazine+ (at 2s. per month) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and by E. MITCHELL, Bookseller, No. 9, Maiden-Lane._ * * * * * * * * * * * * * * _UTILE DULCI._ THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE; or, Miscellaneous Repository. +Vol. II.+] +Wednesday, October 12, 1796.+ [+No. 67.+ _HYMNS_ Of the native Peruvians, used at the solemn worship of the Sun, which they adore as chief of their Gods. Extracted from the INCAS, by Marmontel, a beautiful work, combining all the elegancies of language, the embellishments of fancy, and the charms of historical narration. It it intended for publication in 2 vols. by the Editor. CHORUS OF THE INCAS. Soul of the universe! thou which from the heights of Heaven ceases not to pour forth, in one great stream of light, the principles of warmth, of life, and of fertility; O Sun! receive the vows of thy children, and of a happy people who adore thee! PONTIFF ALONE.