HORACE, BOOK I. ODE XI.

SEEK not to learn, Leuconoe,

(For it befits not such as we)

What term of life to thee or me

Allots the silent destiny;

Nor tempt Chaldean witchery.

Whatever comes, 't were better, sure,

Only in silence to endure,

Whether Jove more winters send,

Or this shall be for us the end

Which beats to death the Tyrian waves

Within our hard coast's rocky caves.

Learn truer wit, thy rich wines strain;

To life's short span thy high hopes train.

The jealous time, e'en while we stay

To talk, is stealing swift away.

The present seize! the coming day,

Trust it as little as ye may.