“He's fall'n in love with your foulness, 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.—Why look you so upon me?
PHEBE For no ill-will I bear you. ROSALIND 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,”