Ask not ('tis forbidden knowledge), what our destined term of years,Mine and yours; nor scan the tables of your Babylonish seers.Better far to bear the future, my Leuconoe, like the past,Whether Jove has many winters yet to give, or this our last;This, that makes the Tyrrhene billows spend their strength against the shore.Strain your wine and prove your wisdom; life is short; should hope be more?In the moment of our talking, envious time has ebb'd away.Seize the present; trust tomorrow e'en as little as you may.

What man, what hero, Clio sweet,On harp or flute wilt thou proclaim?What god shall echo's voice repeatIn mocking gameTo Helicon's sequester'd shade,Or Pindus, or on Haemus chill,Where once the hurrying woods obey'dThe minstrel's will,Who, by his mother's gift of song,Held the fleet stream, the rapid breeze,And led with blandishment alongThe listening trees?