[Exit with Servant.
Syl. Make the dispute between love and duty, and I am prince Prettyman exactly.—If my brother dies, ah, poor brother! if he lives, ah, poor sister! It is bad both ways, I'll try it again—Follow my own inclinations, and break my father's heart; or obey his commands, and break my own? Worse and worse.—Suppose I take it thus: A moderate fortune, a pretty fellow, and a pad; or a fine estate, a coach and six, and an ass.—That will never do neither.
Enter Balance and a Servant.
Bal. Put four horses to the coach. [To a Servant, who goes out.] Ho, Sylvia!
Syl. Sir.
Bal. How old were you when your mother died?
Syl. So young that I don't remember I ever had one; and you have been so careful, so indulgent to me since, that indeed I never wanted one.
Bal. Have I ever denied you any thing you asked of me?
Syl. Never, that I remember.
Bal. Then, Sylvia, I must beg that once in your life you would grant me a favour.