No daintie flowre or herbe that growes on grownd,No arborett with painted blossoms drestAnd smelling sweete, but there it might be fowndTo bud out faire, and throwe her sweete smels al arownd.
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High on a hill a goodly Cedar grewe, Of wond'rous length and straight proportion, That farre abroad her daintie odours threwe; 'Mongst all the daughters of proud Libanon, Her match in beautie was not anie one.
Edmund Spenser