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   Ask not ('tis forbidden knowledge), what our destined term of years,
   Mine and yours; nor scan the tables of your Babylonish seers.
   Better far to bear the future, my Leuconoe, like the past,
   Whether Jove has many winters yet to give, or this our last;
   THIS, that makes the Tyrrhene billows spend their strength against
        the shore.
   Strain your wine and prove your wisdom; life is short; should hope
        be more?
   In the moment of our talking, envious time has ebb'd away.
   Seize the present; trust to-morrow e'en as little as you may.

Poem by Horace
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