Horace to Leuconoë

 I pray you not, Leuconoë, 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.

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