You should not ask, it is unholy to know, for me or for you
what end the gods have given, O Leuconoe, nor Babylonian
calculations attempt. How much better it is whatever will be to endure,
whether more winters Jupiter has allotted or the last,
which now weakens against opposing rocks the sea
Tyrrhenian: be wise, strain your wines, and because of brief life
cut short long-term hopes. While we are speaking, envious will have fled
a lifetime: seize the day, as little as possible trusting the future.

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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