HORACE, BOOK 1, ODE XI.
Seek not to know what is the fate
The Gods above to us dictate;
Nor strive to gain that knowledge won
From magic writ of Babylon.
How much more noble to endure
The future's pain we cannot cure!
If this thy latest winter be,
Which now doth dash the Tuscan Sea
Against the rocks of yonder shore,__
Or Jove to thee grant many more,
Yet be thou wise, Leuconoe mine,
And through the filter press the wine.
Now cut thou short thy long-drawn hope,
Nor think for aye with death to cope.
E'en while we speak, the moments fly,
Unheeding both our laugh and sigh.
Pluck thou the flower of bright to-day__
To-morrow morn 'twill fade away.
__Nellie Green Thacher