That, clad with sheepe, doth iarre; and hathe no sounde.
And, if that stringes bee of their intrailes wroughte,
And ioyned both, to make a siluer sounde:
No cunninge care can tune them as they oughte,
But one is harde, the other still is droun’de:
Or discordes foule, the harmonie doe marre;
And nothinge can appease this inward warre.
So, Zisca thoughte when deathe did shorte his daies,
As with his voice, hee erste did daunte his foes;
That after deathe hee shoulde new terror raise,