Horace, Odes 1.11
Read by George Sharpley
tū nē quaesierīs, scīre nefās, quem mihi, quem tibi
fīnem dī dederint, Leuconoē, nec Babylōniōs
temptārīs numerōs. ut melius quicquid erit patī,
seu plūrīs hiemēs seu tribuit Iuppiter ultimam,
quae nunc oppositīs dēbilitat pūmicibus mare
Tyrrhēnum. sapiās, vīna liquēs, et spatiō brevī
spem longam resecēs. dum loquimur, fūgerit invida
aetās: carpe diem, quam minimum crēdula posterō.
You should not inquire – it’s not right to know – what end the gods have given to me or to you, Leuconoë, nor should you be trying Babylonian numbers. How much better to take whatever comes, whether Jupiter has granted more winters or this is the last, which now wears out the Etruscan sea on opposing rocks. Be wise, decant the wine and trim your long-term ambition to a brief span. Even as we speak, the unkind hour has slipped away: enjoy the moment, and trust as little as possible in tomorrow.