[163] "_Fast and loose_," says Sir John Hawkins (note to "Antony and Cleopatra," act iv. sc. 10), "is a term to signify a cheating game, of which the following is a description. A leathern belt is made up into a number of intricate folds, and placed edgewise upon a table. One of the folds is made to represent the middle of the girdle, so that whoever should thrust a skewer into it would think he held it fast to the table; whereas, when he has so done, the person with whom he plays may take hold of both ends and draw it away. The trick is now known to the common people by the name of pricking at the belt or girdle." The Gipsies, so early as the reign of Queen Elizabeth, were great adepts in these practices. See Scot's "Discoverie of witchcraft," 1584, p. 336; where in the 29th chapter is described the manner of playing at _fast and loose_ with handkerchiefs, &c. ACT V. _Enter +Antonio+ and a +Slave+, one in the other's habit_ +Slave.+ But faith, sir, what's your device in this? This change insinuates some project. +Ant.+ Shall I tell thee? Thou art my slave; I took thee (then a Turk) In the fight thou know'st we made before Palermo: Thou art not in stricter bondage unto me Than I am unto Cupid. +Slave.+ O, then you are going, sir, To your old rendezvous; there are brave rogues there: But the duke observes you narrowly, and sets spies To watch if you step that way. +Ant.+ Why therefore, man, Thus many times I have chang'd habits with thee, To cheat suspicion: and prejudicate Nature (Mistress of inclinations), sure, intended To knit thee up so like me for this purpose; For th' hast been taken in my habit for me. +Slave.+ Yes, and have had many a French cringe, As I have walk'd i' th' park; and, for fear of discovery, I have crown'd it only with a nod. _Enter a +Lord+._ +Ant.+ Th' art a mad villain. But, sirrah, I am wondrously taken With a sweet face I saw yonder; thou know'st where. +Slave.+ At Venus College, the court bawdy-house. +Ant.+ But this maid, howsoever she came there, Is acquainted so with Heaven, that when I thought To have quench'd my frantic blood, and to have pluck'd The fruit a king would leap at: even then She beat me with such brave thunder off, as if Heaven had lent her the artillery of angels. +Slave.+ She was coy then? +Ant.+ Coy, man! she was honest--left coyness to court ladies: She spake the language of the saints, methought. Holy spectators sat on silver clouds, And clapp'd their white wings at her well-plac'd words. She piecemeal pull'd the frame of my intentions, And so join'd it again, that all the tempest Of blood can never move it. +Slave.+ Some rare phœnix! what's her name?