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Young Adult (18-35)Accents
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a selection of poetry and monologues performed by Dale Spalding The road not taken by Robert Frost Two roads diverged in a yellow wood And sorry, I could not travel both and be one traveler long. I stood and looked down one as far as I could, where it bent in the undergrowth, then took the other as justice fair and having perhaps the better claim because it was grassy and wanted Wear the S for that. The passing there had warned them really about the same. And both that morning equally lay in leaves No step had trodden black Oh, I kept the first for another day Yet knowing how way leads on to way I doubt it If I should ever come back I shall be telling this with a sigh somewhere. Ages and ages Hence two roads diverged in a wood and I I took the one less traveled by And that has made all the difference As you like it. Act two, Scene seven. Jacques to Duke Senior All the world's A stage and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances. And one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages at first, the infant mewling and puking in the nurse's arms than the whining schoolboy with his satchel and shining morning face creeping like snail unwillingly to school. And then the lover sighing like furnace with a woeful ballot made to his mistress's eyebrow. Been a soldier full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard, jealous in honor, sudden and quick in Quarrel, seeking the bubble reputation even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice in fair round belly, with good captain lined with eyes, severe and beard of formal cut, full of wise sores and modern instances. And so he plays his pond. The Sixth Age shifts into the lean and slip it pantaloon with spectacles on nose and pouch on side. His youthful hose well saved a world too wide for his shrunk shank and his big, manly voice turning again toward childish treble pipes and whistles in his sound. Last seen of all that ends this strange, eventful history, it's second childishness and mere oblivion. Sons teeth, son's eyes, sons, taste sounds, everything if by Rudyard Kipling, if you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs and blaming it on you if you can trust yourself when all men doubt you. But make allowance for their doubting, too. If you can wait and not be tired by waiting or being lied about, don't deal in lies or being hated. Don't give way to hating. And yet don't look too good nor talk to wise. If you can dream and not make dreams or master, if you can think and not make thoughts, your aim. If you can meet with triumph and disaster and treat those two impostors just the same. If you convey rare to hear the truth, you've spoken twisted by naves to make a trap for fools or watch the things you gave your life to broken and stoop and build him up with worn out tools. If you can make one heap of all your winnings and risk it on one turn of pitch and toss and lose and start again at your beginnings and never breathe a word about your loss if you can force your heart and nerve and sing you to serve your turn long after they're gone. And so hold on when there is nothing in you except the will, which says to them, Hold on. If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue or talk with kings nor lose the common touch if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you if all men count with you but none too much. If you can fill the unforgiving minute with 60 seconds worth of distance run, yours is the earth and everything that's in it and which is more? You'll be a man, my son. Plain old oyster author unknown. There once was an oyster whose story I'll tell, who found that some sand had gotten into his shell. It was only a grain, but it gave him great pain for oysters have feelings, although they're playing now, Did he be rate the harsh workings of fate that had brought him to such a deplorable state? No, he said to himself, Since I cannot remove it, I'll lie in my shell and think how to improve it. The years rolled around as the years always dio, and he came to his ultimate destiny still. Now, the small grain of sand that had bothered him so was a beautiful pearl, all richly a glow. This tale has a moral for Isn't it grand? What? An oyster conduce with a morsel of sand, I think. What could we dio if we'd Onley begin with some of the things that get under our skin? Success by Ralph Waldo Emerson to laugh often and much to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of Children to earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends. Toe appreciate beauty to find the best in others to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch or a redeemed social condition to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is toe have succeeded.