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.