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.