And what avails it that indulgent heaven 125
From mortal eyes has wrapt the woes to come,
If we, ingenious to torment ourselves,
Grow pale at hideous fictions of our own?
Enjoy the present; nor with needless cares,
Of what may spring from blind Misfortune’s womb, 130
Appal the surest hour that life bestows.
Serene, and master of yourself, prepare
For what may come; and leave the rest to heaven.
Oft from the body, by long ails mistun’d,