Tu ne quaesieris (scire nefas) quem mihi, quem tibi
finem di dederint, Leuconoe, nec Babylonios
temptaris numeros. Ut melius quicquid erit pati!
Seu pluris 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.

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Don’t ask – it’s wrong to know – what end the Gods
have given you or me, Leuconoe, and don’t resort to exotic
numerology. How much better bear it, whatever it will be!
Whether Jove has granted many winters, or this is our last,
as even now the Tyrrhenian sea is wearing at the rocks
it faces; be wise, pour the wine, prune back long hope
to brief duration. As we speak, the jealous time is gone:
pluck the day, rely the least you can on the day to come.