• Ode I. 11 by Horace

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• "Leucon, no one’s allowed to know his fate, / Not you, not me: don’t ask, don’t hunt for answers / In tea leaves or palms. Be patient with whatever comes. / This could be our last winter, it could be many / More, pounding the Tuscan Sea on these rocks: / Do what you must, be wise, cut your vines / And forget about hope. Time goes running, even / As we talk. Take the present, the future’s no one’s affair."