Enter Balance and Sylvia.
Syl. Whilst there is life there is hope, sir; perhaps my brother may recover.
Bal. We have but little reason to expect it; the doctor acquaints me here, that before this comes to my hands he fears I shall have no son.—Poor Owen! but the decree is just; I was pleased with the death of my father, because he left me an estate; and now I am punished with the loss of an heir to inherit mine. I must now look upon you as the only hopes of my family; and I expect that the augmentation of your fortune will give you fresh thoughts and new prospects.
Syl. My desire in being punctual in my obedience, requires that you would be plain in your commands, sir.
Bal. The death of your brother makes you sole heiress to my estate, which you know is about three thousand pounds a year: this fortune gives you a fair claim to quality and a title: you must set a just value upon yourself, and, in plain terms, think no more of Captain Plume.
Syl. You have often commended the gentleman, sir.
Bal. And I do so still; he's a very pretty fellow; but though I liked him well enough for a bare son-in-law, I don't approve of him for an heir to my estate and family; five thousand pounds indeed I might trust in his hands, and it might do the young fellow a kindness; but—od's my life! three thousand pounds a year would ruin him, quite turn his brain—A captain of foot worth three thousand pounds a year! 'tis a prodigy in nature!
Enter a Servant.
Serv. Sir, here's one with a letter below for your worship, but he will deliver it into no hands but your own.
Bal. Come, show me the messenger.