| ODES - I.11 | DON'T ASK, LEUCONOE ... |
| Horace (Q. Horatius Flaccus) | trans. Arthur McHugh |
Tu ne quaesieris, scire nefas, quem mihi, quem tibi finem di dederint, Leuconoë, nec Babylonios tentaris numeros. ut melius, quidquid erit, pati! seu plures hiemes seu tribuit Iuppiter ultimam, quae nunc oppositis debilitat pumicibus mare Tyrrhenum, sapias, vina liques, et spatio brevi spem longam reseces. dum loquimur, fugerit invida aetas: carpe diem quam minimum credula postero. | Don't ask, Leuconoe, and don't bother with Babylonian horoscopes, trying to find out what fate the gods have assigned to you and me. It's better to put up with whatever happens, whether Jupiter allows us lots more winters, or whether our last one is now making the waves rage against the rocks of the western ocean: be sensible, drink up your wine and forget about hope. Even as we speak, time flies: enjoy today. Don't count on tomorrow. |
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