While the New Year was so young that it had newly come,
that day on the dais the dukes were double served.
For the king had come into court with his knights—
the singing of songs had ceased in the chapel—
and loud cries were cast about by the clergy and others,
Noel announced anew, and named as often;
then the lords ran along to deliver handsels,
going “New Year’s gifts!” and giving them out by hand,
debating busily about those gifts;
and ladies laughed aloud, though they’d lost the game,
and he that won wasn’t wounded, as you might well surmise.
All this mirth they made until meal time;
when they had washed worthily, they went to their seats,
the best barons always above, as it best seemed,
Queen Guinevere gaily regaling in their midst,
dressed up on the dais, adorned all about,
fine silk beside her, and silver above her
stitched in topnotch Toulouse, and Tartar tapestries aplenty,
which were embossed and embroidered with the best gems
whose price would be proven with pennies if you bought them
            today—
            the comeliest queen to espy,
            with her glance of glimmering gray;
            that he ever has seen such a sight,
            no man may sincerely say.