Horace, Ode 1.9

Vides ut alta stet nive candidum

Soracte, nec iam sustineant onus

silvae laborantes, geluque

flumina constiterint acuto.

Dissolve frigues ligna super foco

large reponens atque benignius

deprome quadrimum Sabina,

o Thaliarche, merum diota.

Permitte divis cetera, qui simul

stravere ventos aequore fervido

deproeliantis, nec cupressi

nec veteres agitantur orni.

Quid sit futurum cras fuge quaerere, et

quem Fors dierum cumque dabit lucro

appone, nec dulcis ameres

sperne puer neque tu choreas,

donec virenti canities abest

morosa. Nunc et campus et areae

lenesque sub noctem susurri

composita reqetantur hora,

nunc et latentis proditor intimo

gratus puellae risus ab angulo

pignusque derptum lacertis

aut digito male pertinaci.

You see how high Soracte stands, bright with

snow, and no longer do the straining forests

support the burden, and the rivers have

frozen with sharp frost.

Melt the cold piling logs high upon

the hearth and more generously

draw off the four-winter wine, oh

Thaliarche, from the Sabine jar.

Leave other things to the gods, who

as soon as they calm the winds on the stormy seas

from fighting each other, they agitate neither

the cypress trees nor the old ash trees.

Avoid seeking what is about to be tomorrow, and

assign to profit whatever days Fortune will

give, and scorn neither loves

nor dances, boy,

while your bloom is absent from irritable

white hairs. Now both field and parks

and light whispers repeated under night

at the arranged hour,

and now the pleasing laughter betraying the

hidden girl in the most secret corner

and the pledge seized from the

badly resisting arms with a finger.