Soracte Horace, Odes, Book 1, 9
Just look at Mt Soracte aglitter with snow, and those bending trees slipping off their packs, and rivers seized up, solid with thick ice. Let’s melt this cold. Heap logs on the fire! Thaliarchus, pour the wine – the vintage in the Sabine jar – and don’t dilute it, strong is fine; the gods can deal with all the rest, they who stop the hurricanes lashing the sea, letting the cypress and ancient ash fall still again.
Don’t fret about tomorrow – that Fortune brings it is a bonus; you have an age before the woes of decrepitude; enjoy your youth, go dancing, have a love affair. Now is the time for moonlit trysts, for whispers in a city square or in a field, perhaps a kiss; the time for hidden giggling from a girl in some nook or cove, for snatching from her mock-resisting finger, a token of her love.