Quid sit futurum cras fuge quaerere, et Quem sors dierum cumque dabit, lucro Appone, nec dulces amores

Sperne puer neque tu choreas,

Donec virenti canities abest

Morosa. Nunc et campus et areae
Lenesque sub noctem susurri
Composita repetantur hora,

Nunc et latentis proditor intimo
Gratus puellae risus ab angulo
Pignusque dereptum lacertis
Aut digito male pertinaci.

Seek not what shall to-morrow be ; What day soever chance gives thee, Set down as gain, nor love's delight, Nor thou the dance in boyhood slight,

Whilst in thy green sour age is far ;
Now seek the park, and seek the square,
And whispers soft at fall of night
In trysted hour be thy delight;

The merry laugh, too, which betrays Yon nook the damsel's hiding-place, And token snatched from off her wrists Or finger which but ill resists.

LIBER I. CARMEN XI.

Tu ne quæsieris (scire nefas) quem mihi, quem tibi
Finem di dederint, Leuconoe, nec Babylonios
Temptaris numeros. Ut melius, quicquid erit, pati,
Seu plures hiemes seu tribuit Juppiter ultimam,
Quæ nunc oppositis debilitat pumicibus mare
Tyrrhenum. Sapias, vina liques et spatio brevi
Spem longam reseces. Dum loquimur, fugerit invida
Ætas: carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero.

BOOK I. ODE XI.

Thou should'st not seek-'tis sin to know-what end to thee, what end to me,

The Gods have given, Leuconoe; nor calculations of

Chaldee

Should'st thou essay; far better bear, whate'er shall be, submissively,

Be it that Heaven more Winters gives, or this, the last that is to be,

Which even now with barrier cliffs doth break the sea

of Tuscany;

Would'st thou be wise, filtrate the wines, and, as life's span so brief must be,

Cut short long hope; e'en while we speak, time will have fled invidiously;

Enjoy to-day, and trust as little as may be futurity.

LIBER I. CARMEN XIV.

O navis, referent in mare te novi
Fluctus. O quid agis? Fortiter occupa
Portum. Nonne vides ut

Nudum remigio latus,

Et malus celeri saucius Africo
Antemnæque gemant, ac sine funibus
Vic durare carinæ

Possint imperiosius

Equor. Non tibi sunt integra lintea, Non di quos iterum pressa voces malo. Quamvis Pontica pinus,

Silvæ filia nobilis,