Od. I. 11. Seek Not, For Thou Shalt Not Find It, What My End, What Thine Shall Be; Ask Not Of Chaldaea'S Science What God Wills, Leuconoe: Better Far, What Comes, To Bear It. Haply Many A Wintry Blast Waits Thee Still; And This, It May Be, Jove Ordains To Be Thy Last, Which Flings Now The Flagging Sea-Wave On The Obstinate Sandstone-Reef. Be Thou Wise: Fill Up The Wine-Cup; Shortening, Since The Time Is Brief, Hopes That Reach Into The Future. While I Speak, Hath Stol'N Away Jealous Time. Mistrust To-Morrow, Catch The Blossom Of To-Day.