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I
What end the gods may have ordained for me, And what for thee, Seek not to learn, Leuconöe; we may not know. Chaldean tables cannot bring us rest. 'T is for the best To bear in patience what may come, or weal or woe. If for more winters our poor lot is cast, Or this the last, Which on the crumbling rocks has dashed Etruscan seas, Strain clear the wine; this life is short, at best. Take hope with zest, And, trusting not To-morrow, snatch To-day for ease! |
TO LEUCONÖE
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II
Seek not, Leuconöe, to know how long you're going to live
yet, What boons the gods will yet withhold, or what they're going to give yet; For Jupiter will have his way, despite how much we worry,— Some will hang on for many a day, and some die in a hurry. The wisest thing for you to do is to embark this diem Upon a merry escapade with some such bard as I am. And while we sport I'll reel you off such odes as shall surprise ye; To-morrow, when the headache comes,—well, then I'll satirize ye! |
TO LIGURINUS
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I
Though mighty in Love's favor still, Though cruel yet, my boy, When the unwelcome dawn shall chill Your pride and youthful joy, The hair which round your shoulder grows Is rudely cut away, Your color, redder than the rose, Is changed by youth's decay,— Then, Ligurinus, in the glass Another you will spy. And as the shaggy face, alas! You see, your grief will cry: "Why in my youth could I not learn The wisdom men enjoy? Or why to men cannot return The smooth cheeks of the boy?" |