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_.
* * * * *