They stay upon your patience.

I picture the players behind a police barricade, clambering to get out, fiercely warming up – stretching their legs ballerina style, doing vocal exercises. The barrier, instead of NYPD reads “Patience.”
The players are chomping at the bit, ready to be released, hungry for the work before them, the way a runner will be hungry for the race.
They wear sweatbands and capes, which they could throw off at any moment. They drink bottles of Gatorade and trade preparatory barbs.
As soon as Rosencrantz lifts the barrier, they will come hurtling onto the stage like dogs released from a pen.

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