MULCIBER.
Why, Thersites, hast thou any wit in thy head?
Wouldst thou have a sallet now? all the herbs are dead!
Beside that it is not meet for a smith
To gather herbs and sallets to meddle with.
Go get thee to my lover Venus,
She hath sallets enough for all us:
I eat none such sallets, for now I wax old,
And for my stomach they are very cold.