Of my Lorde cheef Baron that was.

THe Sittern sweete whose siluer sounde,
(the sloggards witts awakes:)
Through chaunge and choice, of notes newe founde,
a pleasant Musicke makes.
The Lute that best is likte of all, a solempne noyes doeth yelde,
And moste delites the cunnyng heddes, that in that arte are skilde:
The Harpe whose twang and stroke is strange, is vsed eury where,
His many stryngs and warblyng sound, so mutche delites the eare.
The milde Recorder hath a place, where sweete Concordance is,
The Cornet and the Howboies bothe, maie matche and sound wt this
The Uirginall with quiet noyes, must matched be I trowe,
The sliller that the Musick is, the better doeth it showe:
But some had rather heare for chaunge, a cherefull ryng of bells,
Who fains the noies doeth pearce the aire, and thonder crack expels.
In elder daies when stormes arose, and tempests rough did rore,
Thei loudly rang the halloude bell, for cause I told before.
In tounes of warre where watche & ward, is kept with worthy gard
The Larum bell that warnyng giues, in deede maie ill be spard:
When Prince remoues the bells thei ryng, & at hie feasts and times,
In forraine lande a noble noies, is made of bells and chimes.
The blest birthe daie of Kyngs and Queenes, wt bells is honord still,
In signe of Princes happie raignes, and Subiects greate good will:
A ryng of bells is heard farre of, and pleaseth many a minde,
Now nere thei sound, then farre thei seem, as bloes the gale of winde.
But I delite in passyng Bell, for that doeth plainly shoe,
As one from hence doeth take his leaue, so hence we all must goe:
A passyng Bell then shall it be, that makes best Musicke here,
It tings and tolls what we are worthe, and sounds in eare so clere.
That eche man knowes the passyng Bell, is best in these our daies,
Let Lute and Sutern then giue place, and yeeld to Bell the praies.