Woodknife at my Syde,
    My Crosse-bow in my Hand, my Gaffle or my Rack
    To bend it when I please, or it I list to slack,
    My Hound then in my Lyam, I by the Woodmans art
    Forecast, where I may lodge the goodly Hie-palm’d Hart,
    To viewe the grazing Heards, so sundry times I vse,
    Where by the loftiest Head I know my Deare to chuse,
    And to vnheard him then, I gallop o’r the ground
    Vpon my wel-breath’d Nag, to cheere my earning Hound. 70
    Sometime I pitch my Toyles the Deare aliue to take,
    Sometime I like the Cry, the deep-mouth’d Kennell make,
    Then vnderneath my Horse, I staulke my game to strike,
    And with a single Dog to hunt him hurt, I like. 
    The Siluians are to me true subiects, I their King,
    The stately Hart, his Hind doth to my presence bring,
    The Buck his loued Doe, the Roe his tripping Mate,
    Before me to my Bower, whereas I sit in State. 
    The Dryads, Hamadryads, the Satyres and the Fawnes
    Oft play at Hyde and Seeke before me on the Lawnes, 80
    The frisking Fayry oft when horned Cinthia shines
    Before me as I walke dance wanton Matachynes,
    The numerous feathered flocks that the wild Forrests haunt
    Their Siluan songs to me, in cheerefull dittyes chaunte,
    The Shades like ample Sheelds, defend me from the Sunne,
    Through which me to refresh the gentle Riuelets runne,
    No little bubling Brook from any Spring that falls
    But on the Pebbles playes me pretty Madrigals. 
    I’ th’ morne I clime the Hills, where wholsome winds do blow,
    At Noone-tyde to the Vales, and shady Groues below, 90
    T’wards Euening I againe the Chrystall Floods frequent,
    In pleasure thus my life continually is spent. 
    As Princes and great Lords haue Pallaces, so I
    Haue in the Forrests here, my Hall and Gallery
    The tall and stately Woods, which vnderneath are Plaine,
    The Groues my Gardens are, the Heath and Downes againe
    My wide and spacious walkes, then say all what ye can,
    The Forrester is still your only gallant man.

    He of his speech scarce made an end,
    But him they load with prayse, 100
    The Nimphes most highly him commend,
    And vow to giue him Bayes: 
    He’s now cryde vp of euery one,
    And who but onely he,
    The Forrester’s the man alone,
    The worthyest of the three. 
    When some then th’ other farre more stayd,
    Wil’d them a while to pause,
    For there was more yet to be sayd,
    That might deserve applause, 110
    When Halcius his turne next plyes,
    And silence hauing wonne,
    Roome for the fisher man he cryes,
    And thus his Plea begunne.