Horace: Book II, Ode 11.
“Quid bellicosus Cantaber et Scythes—”
O Quintius, never mind the things Across the Adriatic; Let Scythian and Cantabrian kings Be never so emphatic, Our board and room and clothes are paid for; Why worry, then, what we were made for?
As I have said a thousand times, (Please pardon my repeating. One has to, writing reams of rhymes.) The longest life is fleeting. (Bromidic and unesoteric— See Longfellow and Robert Herrick.)
The flowers forget the vernal green, The moon has many phases. Why bother, then, the busy bean With the future’s fogs and hazes? Nix on the worry! Us for Bacchus! You, Quintius, and your Uncle Flaccus.