If there’s one thing that I may tell you,
Let it be: You are your home,
Your body is the only house
That you will truly ever own.
Maybe it’s got some broken windows
And there are tear-stains on the floors,
Maybe you lock the things you wish weren’t
Behind its many doors.
But there is wisdom on its bookshelves
And a laugh to light the rooms,
There’s a vase upon its table
Where the love you’ve grown all blooms.
Dreams sit on the mantelpiece
Next to kindness and your trust,
Where you use them all so often
They have no time to collect dust.
So please don’t look at mansions
With that envy in your eyes,
There’s more that makes a home
Than its appearance or its size.
Your body is your shelter
So you deserve to love it all,
Don’t let the world stand round outside
And tell you how to paint your walls.
How lucky that you have somewhere
To protect you from the night.
And if there cracks left from the past?
Well then they just let in more light.

Speech: “To be, or not to be, that is the question”
By William Shakespeare
(from Hamlet, spoken by Hamlet)
To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them. To die—to sleep,
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there's the rub:
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause—there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th'oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of dispriz'd love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th'unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovere'd country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.