Years foll’wing Years, steal something ev’ry day,
At last they steal us from our selves away;
In one our Frolicks, one Amusements end,
In one a Mistress drops, in one a Friend:
This subtle Thief of Life, this paltry Time,
What will it leave me, if it snatch my Rhime?
[Singula de nobis anni praedantur euntes;
eripuere iocos, Venerem, convivia, ludum;
tendunt extorquere poemata: quid faciam vis?]
Horace (65–8 BC) Roman poet, satirist, soldier, politician [Quintus Horatius Flaccus]
Epistles [Epistularum, Letters], Book 2, ep. 2 “To Julius Florus,” l. 55ff (2.2.55-57) (14 BC) [tr. Pope (1737)]
More about (and translations of) this quote: wist.info/horace/14802/
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