Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year together

Phoebe
Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year together.
I had rather hear you chide than this man woo.
Rosalind, as Ganymede
He’s fall’n in love with your foulness.
 To Silvius.
And she’ll fall in love with my anger. If it be so,
as fast as she answers thee with frowning looks,
I’ll sauce her with bitter words.
 To Phoebe
Why look you so upon me?

Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might:
“Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?”

Phoebe
For no ill will I bear you.
Rosalind, as Ganymede
I pray you, do not fall in love with me,
For I am falser than vows made in wine.
Besides, I like you not. If you will know my house,
’Tis at the tuft of olives, here hard by.—
Will you go, sister?—Shepherd, ply her hard.—
Come, sister.—Shepherdess, look on him better,
And be not proud. Though all the world could see,
None could be so abused in sight as he.—
Come, to our flock.
 She exits, with Celia and Corin.
Phoebe, aside
Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might:
“Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?”