Ben Jonson (1572–1637)

HERE she was wont to go, and here, and here!

Just where those daisies, pinks, and violets grow:

The world may find the spring by following her;

For other print her airy steps ne’er left:

Her treading would not bend a blade of grass,

Or shake the downy blow-ball from his stalk;

But like the soft west-wind she shot along;

And where she went, the flowers took thickest root

As she had sowed them with her odourous foot.