Translated by Samuel Rogers, 1764.
Consult no astrologic quack
To know the number of your years,
Nor your deluded fancy wrack
With short-liv’d hopes and idle fears.
He’s happier far, whose will agrees
With fortune’s, whatsoe’er it be;
Can die to-day, if fortune please,
Or plod thro’ dull mortality.
With eager haste then seize to day,
Nor once reflect on future sorrow:
Ev’n while we talk time posts away,
And warns us not to trust to-morrow.