No daintie flowre or herbe that growes on grownd,
No arborett with painted blossoms drest
And smelling sweete, but there it might be fownd
To bud out faire, and throwe her sweete smels al arownd.
--
Canto 6, stanza 12.Edmund Spenser
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Spenser, Edmund
Sperry, Roger Wolcott
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