These are the forgeries of jealousy: 450 And never, since the middle summer’s spring,Met we in a hill, in dale, forest

These are the forgeries of jealousy: 450
And never, since the middle summer’s spring,Met we in a hill, in dale, forest or mead,By paved fountain or by rushy brook,Or in the beached margent of the sea,to dance our ringlets to the whistling wind: 455Does anybody know which Shakespeare book these lines are from​


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