Children of the Night

Horace to Leuconoe

     I pray you not, Leuconoe, to pore
     With unpermitted eyes on what may be
     Appointed by the gods for you and me,
     Nor on Chaldean figures any more.
     'T were infinitely better to implore
     The present only: — whether Jove decree
     More winters yet to come, or whether he
     Make even this, whose hard, wave-eaten shore
     Shatters the Tuscan seas to-day, the last —
     Be wise withal, and rack your wine, nor fill
     Your bosom with large hopes; for while I sing,
     The envious close of time is narrowing; —
     So seize the day, — or ever it be past, —
     And let the morrow come for what it will.