Horace, Book II. Ode XXIII

The wary Gods lock up in cells of night Future events, and laugh at mortals here. If they to pry into them take delight,

If they too much presume, or too much fear; O man! for thy short time below Enjoy thyself, and what the Gods bestow: Unequal fortunes here below are shar'd. Life to a river's course may justly be compar'd:

Sometimes within its hed, Without an angry curl or wave,

From the spring-head, It gently glides to the ocean, its grave. Then unawares, upon a sudden rain, It madly overflows the neighbouring plain; It ploughs up beauteous ranks Of trees; that shaded and adorn'd its banks: Overturns houses, bridges, rocks, Drowns shepherds and their flocks: Horror and death rage all the valley o'er, The forests tremble, and the mountains roar.