‘Yes, and twice so much as that to any one who had ears to hear. Briefly, he enlightened me that the plague was spread by the creatures of the Moon. The Moon, our Lady of ill-aspect, was the offender. My own poor wits showed me that I, Nick Culpeper, had the people in my charge, God’s good providence aiding me, and no time to lose neither. ‘I posted up the hill, and broke into Hitheram’s field amongst ‘em all at prayers. ‘“Eureka, good people!” I cried, and cast down a dead mill-rat which I’d found. “Here’s your true enemy, revealed at last by the stars.” ‘“Nay, but I’m praying,” says Jack. His face was as white as washed silver. ‘“There’s a time for everything under the sun,” says I. “If you would stay the plague, take and kill your rats.” ‘“Oh, mad, stark mad!” says he, and wrings his hands. ‘A fellow lay in the ditch beside him, who bellows that he’d as soon die mad hunting rats as be preached to death on a cold fallow. They laughed round him at this, but Jack Marget falls on his knees, and very presumptuously petitions that he may be appointed to die to save the rest of his people. This was enough to thrust ‘em back into their melancholy. ‘“You are an unfaithful shepherd, jack,” I says. “Take a bat” (which we call a stick in Sussex) “and kill a rat if you die before sunrise. ‘Twill save your people.” ‘“Aye, aye. Take a bat and kill a rat,” he says ten times over, like a child, which moved ‘em to ungovernable motions of that hysterical passion before mentioned, so that they laughed all, and at least warmed their chill bloods at that very hour--one o’clock or a little after--when the fires of life burn lowest. Truly there is a time for everything; and the physician must work with it--ahem!--or miss his cure. To be brief with you, I persuaded ‘em, sick or sound, to have at the whole generation of rats throughout the village. And there’s a reason for all things too, though the wise physician need not blab ‘em all. Imprimis, or firstly, the mere sport of it, which lasted ten days, drew ‘em most markedly out of their melancholy. I’d defy sorrowful job himself to lament or scratch while he’s routing rats from a rick. Secundo, or secondly, the vehement act and operation of this chase or war opened their skins to generous transpiration--more vulgarly, sweated ‘em handsomely; and this further drew off their black bile--the mother of sickness. Thirdly, when we came to burn the bodies of the rats, I sprinkled sulphur on the faggots, whereby the onlookers were as handsomely suffumigated. This I could not have compassed if I had made it a mere physician’s business; they’d have thought it some conjuration. Yet more, we cleansed, limed, and burned out a hundred foul poke-holes, sinks, slews, and corners of unvisited filth in and about the houses in the village, and by good fortune (mark here that Mars was in opposition to Venus) burned the corn-handler’s shop to the ground. Mars loves not Venus.