I've lived the times
Of the theater of my life
Dancing in the foyer:

Commedia dell'Arte
Comprised the entirety
Of my personal repetoire;

Dress rehearsals were
Never taken seriously:
The final play was just

A moments decision
Hurried through a huddle
Of half-written plots.

The masterful monologues
Of my long and intrepid career
Were carried off by the

Glib tongue of the characters
I've built from the stock
Of my immense experiences;

As Harlequin I have cried
In the place of the writer:
Tears supplied as props;

My Il Capitano laughed at pain
Because the words on
The page dictated it so;

Cantarina hurt as you hurt,
But seldom felt the ache,
For it was a performance.

The dancing, the art, the grace:
All came from the well of
The actor within me.

Now, as I see you laying
In the dimmed auditorium
Of your final show,

I fear for the end
Of my long-settled contract,
The time when my reviews

Return with scathing words,
And the audience who watches
No longer comes to see:

The light in the foyer dimmed,
The props-room locked,
The writers' pens laid down.

When that time comes,
I don't know who will be there
To catch me, and lift me again,

For your performances are
At an end, and you will be gone.
Then where should I turn?

La Ruffiana will be my last,
And with her cruel words
My play will end, too.