Odes 1.11 (Martin): Tu Ne Quaesieris

Ask not of fate to show ye, —
Such lore is not for man, —
What limits, Leuconoe,
Shall round life's little span.
Both thou and I
Must quickly die!
Content thee, then, nor madly hope
To wrest a false assurance from Chaldean horoscope.

Far nobler, better were it,
Whate'er may be in store,
With soul serene to bear it;
If winters many more
Jove spare for thee,
Or this shall be
The last, that now with sullen roar
Scatters the Tuscan surge in foam upon the rockbound shore.

Be wise, your spirit firing
With cups of temper'd wine,
And hopes afar aspiring
In compass brief confine.
Use all life's powers,
The envious hours
Fly as we talk; then live to-day,
Nor fondly to to-morrow trust more than you must and may.