Horace to Leuconoe
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pray you not, Leuconoe, to poreWith unpermitted eyes on what may beAppointed by the gods for you and me,Nor on Chaldean figures any more.'T were infinitely better to imploreThe present only: -- whether Jove decreeMore winters yet to come, or whether heMake even this, whose hard, wave-eaten shoreShatters the Tuscan seas to-day, the last --Be wise withal, and rack your wine, nor fillYour 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.
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