Enough to turn the stomach of a grubber,
Unless he tweak his nose and shut his eyes.
And then again there's piles of Lemon-peel,
Hillocks of nutmegs, currants, plums, and figs;
And children gazing "merry as the grigs,"
Longing (for that which joy cannot conceal)
That some of these may sweeten their "minced pies."
Now, men get civil—lads more mild appear,
Than they were wont to do throughout the year;
The hat is doff'd—civilities come fast