You should not ask, it is wrong to know, what end the
gods will have given to me or to you, O Leuconoe, and do not try
Babylonian calculations. How much better it is to endure whatever will be,
whether Jupiter has allotted more winters or the last,
which now weakens the Tyrrhenian Sea against opposing rocks:
be wise. Strain your wines, and because of brief life
cut short long-term hopes. While we are speaking, envious life
will have fled: seize the day, trusting the future as little as possible.

Tū nē quaesierīs, scīre nefās, quem mihi, quem tibī
fīnem dī dederint, Leuconoē, nec Babylōniōs
temptāris numerōs. Ut melius quidquid 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.

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