Horace to Leuconoe

I pray you not, Leuconoe, to pore

With unpermitted eyes on what may be

Appointed by the gods for you and me,

Nor on Chaldean figures any more.

‘ T were infinitely better to implore

The present only: — whether Jove decree

More winters yet to come, or whether he

Make even this, whose hard, wave-eaten shore

Shatters the Tuscan seas to-day, the last —

Be wise withal, and rack your wine, nor fill

Your bosom with large hopes; for while I sing,

The envious close of time is narrowing; —

So seize the day, — or ever it be past, —

And let the morrow come for what it will.