Horace

(Book i. Ode xi.)

Seek not to know (for ’tis as wrong as vain) What term of life to thee or me The god may grant, Leuconoe, Nor with Chaldean numbers vex thy brain. But calmly take what comes of joy or pain, Whether Jove grant us many winters more, Or this complete our destiny Which makes the stormy Tuscan sea Weary its strength with angry shocks Against the hollow-echoing rocks. Be gently wise, my friend, and while you pour The ruddy wine, live long by living well. While we are speaking, hark! time’s envious knell! Let us enjoy to-day, nor borrow Vague grief by thinking of to-morrow.