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Poem	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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