The elder comedians, once so bold,
Now find themselves confused, ashamed, and cold.
They stand within, heads low, and faces wan,
For they've heard murmurs, "We're so weary, man;
These players feed us nothing but old tales,
Their comedies are musty, stale as gales.
It's all a farce, a jest, a trick, a game."
Yet I swear by all elements of flame,
That to win back your love, they’d sacrifice
Their eyes and teeth—yes, pay the dearest price.
They’ve sent me here with earnest words to say:
But calm your anger, gentle folk, I pray,
Just for a moment, let me speak a word;
Then, do with me whatever you have heard.
We know not how to please you on the stage,
For what's praised one year, the next seems old age.
The wheel of good taste turns, moved by a breeze
Unseen, unheard, yet changes with such ease.
Wherever crowds do gather, we pursue,
For there, we find our worth, our measure true.
Today, for tales complex and multifold,
For characters entwined, surprises bold,
Our comedies must be rich, dense, and fast,
To keep you on the edge, astonished, aghast.
We tremble at the challenge, lost in thought,
But hunger drives us back to what we’ve wrought.
Dear listener, what makes you so severe?
We once enjoyed your favor, now unclear.
Is poetry the cause of our despair?
The world decays, corruption everywhere.
We bear all things with patience, pain and grief,
But your disdain cuts deep, offers no relief.
We’d do all in our power, even more,
Become poets ourselves, our talents pour.
Already, we trade trousers for ink, and write,
Swapping cloaks for paper, day and night.
If we lack talent, still, your pleasure’s prize
Will deem it good, if it brings light to your eyes.
We'll bring to stage new comedies, grand scenes,
Never before seen, nor caught in your dreams.
Don't ask where, when, or how we found these themes,
For after long calm, the rain's new, it seems.
Though it may seem like new water that falls,
Rain is but water, water rain it calls.
Not all things last forever, all time’s test;
What once was head, now tail, takes second best.
Old portraits wear new clothes, returning trend;
Love, opinion, appetite never end.
We swear, though these plays seem strange, bizarre,
These comedies will not be all too far.
Our plots, enough to make old men feel young,
Parents will bring their children, soft and sung.
No superhuman talents shall you find,
But patience, as money smells no kind.
We care not if it’s rich with fragrance rare,
Or reeks of ignorance, we do not care.
Tonight, you’ll see surprises, wondrous, vast,
Marvels you’ve heard, but never seen so fast.
Beasts, doors, birds, all speaking in verse, no jest,
Deserving garlands, Martellian dressed,
So you’ll gladly clap hands with great delight.
Our players are about to take the stage;
I’d tell you more, but fear, and trembling wage
War in my heart, that shouts and jeers await.
Our play’s of love, Three Oranges, name its state.
What could it be? I’ve said it, no regret.
Think of yourselves, dear souls, as kindly set
As grandmothers by the fire’s warm, soft light.