Classic Poem

Seek not, what we're forbid to know, the date the Gods decree
To you, my fair Leuconoe, or what they fix for me.
Nor your Chaldean books consult, but chearfully submit,
(How much a better thought it is!) to what the Gods think fit.
Whether more winters on our head they shall command to low'r,
Or this the very last of all shall bring our final hour.
E'en this, whose rough tempestuous rage makes yon Tyrrhenian roar,
And all his foamy breakers dash upon the rocky shore.
Be wise and broach your mellow wine, which carefully decant,
And your desires proportionate to life's compendious grant.
E'en while we speak the moments fly, be greedy of to-day;
Nor trust another for those pranks which we may never play.