Those who run across the sea change the climate but not themselves. Odes 2.16.18-20
Ode I-XI Carpe Diem
Ask not, we cannot know, what end the gods have set for you, for me; nor attempt the Babylonian reckonings Leuconoë. How much better to endure whatever comes, whether Jupiter grants us additional winters or whether this is our last, which now wears out the Tuscan Sea upon the barrier of the cliffs! Be wise, strain the wine; and since life is brief, prune back far-reaching hopes! Even while we speak, envious time has passed: pluck the day, putting as little trust as possible in tomorrow!
Ode II-XVI Otium
Peace the sailor prays, caught in a storm on the open Aegean, when dark-clad clouds have hid the moon and the stars shine no longer certain; Peace prays Thrace furious in war; peace prays the Mede with quiver richly adorned; peace Grosphus, that cannot be bought with gems nor with purple nor with gold. It isn't treasure nor even the consul's lictor that can banish the soul's miserable tumults and the cares that fly unseen about the paneled ceilings. He lives happily on a little, on whose frugal table shines the ancestral salt-dish, and whose soft slumbers are not carried away by fear or sordid greed. Why do we strive so hard in our brief lives for great possessions? Why do we change our country for climes warmed by a different sun? What exile from his fatherland ever escaped himself as well? Care mounts even the brass-bound galley nor fails to leave behind the troops of horse, swifter than stags, swifter than Eurus when he drives the storm before him. Joyful let the soul be in the present, let it disdain to trouble about what is beyond and temper bitterness with a laugh. Nothing is blessed forever. Achilles for all his glory was quickly snatched away by death; Tithonus, though living longer into old age, shrank away; and to me perhaps the passing hour will grant what it denies to you. Around you moo a hundred herds of Sicilian cows; in your stables whinnies the racing-mare; in wool twice-dipped in African purple you are dressed. To me Fate that does not belie her name has given a small domain, the fine breath of Muses' Grecian song, and the spiteful crowd to spurn.
Letter to Tibullus
Albius, candid critic of my talks, what will I say you are now doing in your land of Pedana? Writing something to outshine the writings of Cassius of Parma? Or strolling peacefully in the healthful woods, musing on all that is worthy of one wise and good? Never were you a body without soul: the gods gave you beauty, the gods gave you wealth, and the art of enjoyment. For what more would a devoted nurse wish for her sweet ward, if he could think and voice his thoughts—if favor, fame, and health fall to him abundantly, with clean living and a never-failing purse? Amid hopes and cares, amid fears and passions, believe that every day that has dawned is your last. Gratefully will arrive to you another hour unhoped for. As for me, when you want a laugh, you will see me in fine state, fat and flourishing, a hog from Epicurus's herd.