Chapter Seventy-Two, in which Your Bibliothecary settles down to a long winter's Nap

Lo, now is come the joyful'st feast!
   Let every man be jolly,
Eache roome with yvie leaves is drest,
   And every post with holly.

Now all our neighbours' chimneys smoke,
   And Christmas blocks are burning;
Their ovens they with bak't meats choke,
   And all their spits are turning.
      Without the door let sorrow lie,
         And if, for cold, it hap to die,
      We'll bury't in a Christmas pye,
         And evermore be merry.

--excerpt from a carol by George Wither