3分钟内的话，考虑到语速应尽量放慢，以200字左右的为宜，鉴于你是初中水平，用语不太难，话题比较立志的。选了两篇供你参考。Never give up hope永远别放弃希望Life doesn't always give us the joys we want.生活并非总是如你所愿。We don't always get our hopes and dreams, and we don't always get our own way.希望有时会落空，梦想有时会破灭，我们不能一切随心所愿。But don't give up hope, because you can make a difference, one situation and one person at a time.但别放弃希望，因为事物并非一成不变；不同时间，不同场合，你会呈现不同的面貌。Look for the beauty around you, in nature, in others, in yourself, and believe in the love of friends, family, and humankind.处处留心身边的美吧---自然中的，别人身上的，你自己的——请相信，美来自朋友、家庭乃至全人类的浓浓爱意。You can find love in a smile or a helping hand, in a thoughtful gesture or a kind word. It is all around, if you just look for it.一个微笑，援助之手，关心的举止，友善的世界，无不传达着爱。爱无所不在，只要你肯寻找。Give love, for in giving it you will find the power in life along with the joy, happiness, patience, and understanding.奉献爱心吧，从中你会发现生活的力量，感受生活带来的幸福快乐，学会忍耐和理解。Believe in the goodness of others and remember that anger and depression can be countered by love and hope.相信人性本善。记住，爱心和希望能化解一切愤怒和沮丧。Even when you feel as though there isn't a lot you can do to change unhappiness or problems, you can always do a little-and a little at a time eventually makes a big difference.哪怕生活中挥之不去的不快和困难将你重重包围，让你力不从心，但你仍可以尽力而为。累积点滴努力，最终你将扭转乾坤。PS：此篇稍短，我读了一下，大概两分钟 另一篇：Life's Balance 寻找生活的平衡Imagine life as a game in which you are juggling five balls in the air. You name them: work, family, health, friends, and spirit, and you're keeping all of them in the air. You will soon understand that work is a rubber ball. If you drop it, it will bounce back. But the other four balls--family, health, friends, and spirit are made of glass. If you drop one of these, they will be irrevocably scuffed, marked, nicked, damaged, or even shattered. They will never be the same. You must understand that and strive for balance in your life.How? Don't undermine your worth by comparing yourself with others. It is because we are different that each of us is special. Don't set your goals by what other people deem important. Only you know what is best for you. Don't take for granted the things closest to your heart. Cling to them as you would your life, for without them, life is meaningless. Don't le t life slip through your fingers by living in the past or for the future. By living your life one day at a time you live ALL the days of your life. Don't give up when you still havesomething to give. Nothing is really over until the moment you stop trying. Don't be afraid to admit that you are less than perfect. It is this fragile thread that binds us together. Don't be afraid to encounter risks. It is by taking chances that we learn to be brave. Don't run thruogh life so fast that you forget not only where you've been, but also where you are going. Don't forget that a person's greatest emotional need is to feel appreciated. Don't use time or words carelessly. Neither can be retrieved. Life is not a race, but a journey to be savored each step of the way.这一篇感觉文章比较有气势，最后一段，连续的don't 很适合带出感情，这一篇是三分钟
给你推荐两篇，都是形式不复杂而内容深刻地文章。1. 威廉·福克纳1950年获颁诺贝尔文学奖时所做的演讲I feel that this award was not made to me as a man, but to my work--a life's work in the agony and sweat of the human spirit, not for glory and least of all for profit, but to create out of the materials of the human spirit something which did not exist before. So this award is only mine in trust. It will not be difficult to find a dedication for the money part of it commensurate with the purpose and significance of its origin. But I would like to do the same with the acclaim too, by using this moment as a pinnacle from which I might be listened to by the young men and women already dedicated to the same anguish and travail, among whom is already that one who will some day stand where I am standing.Our tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear so long sustained by now that we can even bear it. There are no longer problems of the spirit. There is only one question: When will I be blown up? Because of this, the young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat. He must learn them again. He must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid: and, teaching himself that, forget it forever, leaving no room in his workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed--love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice. Until he does so, he labors under a curse. He writes not of love but of lust, of defeats in which nobody loses anything of value, and victories without hope and worst of all, without pity or compassion. His griefs grieve on no universal bones, leaving no scars. He writes not of the heart but of the glands.Until he learns these things, he will write as though he stood among and watched the end of man. I decline to accept the end of man. It is easy enough to say that man is immortal because he will endure: that when the last ding-dong of doom has clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking. I refuse to accept this. I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance. The poet's, the writer's, duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past. The poet's voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.这篇文章用的句式比 Born to Win 的要简单很多，但是它所阐释的“作家的义务”却是英语文学文学中重要的思想，所以理解起来稍稍有点难。而且绝对的口语化，适合演讲。本身这篇文章就是福克纳演讲的誊写，后来经过作家自己的修改出版。2. 飞蛾之死，Death of a Moth, Virginia Woolf 写的Moths that fly by day are not properly to be called moths; they do not excite that pleasant sense of dark autumn nights and ivy-blossom which the commonest yellow-underwing asleep in the shadow of the curtain never fails to rouse in us. They are hybrid creatures, neither gay like butterflies nor sombre like their own species. Nevertheless the present specimen, with his narrow hay-coloured wings, fringed with a tassel of the same colour, seemed to be content with life. It was a pleasant morning, mid–September, mild, benignant, yet with a keener breath than that of the summer months. The plough was already scoring the field opposite the window, and where the share had been, the earth was pressed flat and gleamed with moisture. Such vigour came rolling in from the fields and the down beyond that it was difficult to keep the eyes strictly turned upon the book. The rooks too were keeping one of their annual festivities; soaring round the tree tops until it looked as if a vast net with thousands of black knots in it had been cast up into the air; which, after a few moments sank slowly down upon the trees until every twig seemed to have a knot at the end of it. Then, suddenly, the net would be thrown into the air again in a wider circle this time, with the utmost clamour and vociferation, as though to be thrown into the air and settle slowly down upon the tree tops were a tremendously exciting experience.The same energy which inspired the rooks, the ploughmen, the horses, and even, it seemed, the lean bare-backed downs, sent the moth fluttering from side to side of his square of the window-pane. One could not help watching him. One was, indeed, conscious of a queer feeling of pity for him. The possibilities of pleasure seemed that morning so enormous and so various that to have only a moth’s part in life, and a day moth’s at that, appeared a hard fate, and his zest in enjoying his meagre opportunities to the full, pathetic. He flew vigorously to one corner of his compartment, and, after waiting there a second, flew across to the other. What remained for him but to fly to a third corner and then to a fourth? That was all he could do, in spite of the size of the downs, the width of the sky, the far-off smoke of houses, and the romantic voice, now and then, of a steamer out at sea. What he could do he did. Watching him, it seemed as if a fibre, very thin but pure, of the enormous energy of the world had been thrust into his frail and diminutive body. As often as he crossed the pane, I could fancy that a thread of vital light became visible. He was little or nothing but life.Yet, because he was so small, and so simple a form of the energy that was rolling in at the open window and driving its way through so many narrow and intricate corridors in my own brain and in those of other human beings, there was something marvellous as well as pathetic about him. It was as if someone had taken a tiny bead of pure life and decking it as lightly as possible with down and feathers, had set it dancing and zig-zagging to show us the true nature of life. Thus displayed one could not get over the strangeness of it. One is apt to forget all about life, seeing it humped and bossed and garnished and cumbered so that it has to move with the greatest circumspection and dignity. Again, the thought of all that life might have been had he been born in any other shape caused one to view his simple activities with a kind of pity.After a time, tired by his dancing apparently, he settled on the window ledge in the sun, and, the queer spectacle being at an end, I forgot about him. Then, looking up, my eye was caught by him. He was trying to resume his dancing, but seemed either so stiff or so awkward that he could only flutter to the bottom of the window-pane; and when he tried to fly across it he failed. Being intent on other matters I watched these futile attempts for a time without thinking, unconsciously waiting for him to resume his flight, as one waits for a machine, that has stopped momentarily, to start again without considering the reason of its failure. After perhaps a seventh attempt he slipped from the wooden ledge and fell, fluttering his wings, on to his back on the window sill. The helplessness of his attitude roused me. It flashed upon me that he was in difficulties; he could no longer raise himself; his legs struggled vainly. But, as I stretched out a pencil, meaning to help him to right himself, it came over me that the failure and awkwardness were the approach of death. I laid the pencil down again.The legs agitated themselves once more. I looked as if for the enemy against which he struggled. I looked out of doors. What had happened there? Presumably it was midday, and work in the fields had stopped. Stillness and quiet had replaced the previous animation. The birds had taken themselves off to feed in the brooks. The horses stood still. Yet the power was there all the same, massed outside indifferent, impersonal, not attending to anything in particular. Somehow it was opposed to the little hay-coloured moth. It was useless to try to do anything. One could only watch the extraordinary efforts made by those tiny legs against an oncoming doom which could, had it chosen, have submerged an entire city, not merely a city, but masses of human beings; nothing, I knew, had any chance against death. Nevertheless after a pause of exhaustion the legs fluttered again. It was superb this last protest, and so frantic that he succeeded at last in righting himself. One’s sympathies, of course, were all on the side of life. Also, when there was nobody to care or to know, this gigantic effort on the part of an insignificant little moth, against a power of such magnitude, to retain what no one else valued or desired to keep, moved one strangely. Again, somehow, one saw life, a pure bead. I lifted the pencil again, useless though I knew it to be. But even as I did so, the unmistakable tokens of death showed themselves. The body relaxed, and instantly grew stiff. The struggle was over. The insignificant little creature now knew death. As I looked at the dead moth, this minute wayside triumph of so great a force over so mean an antagonist filled me with wonder. Just as life had been strange a few minutes before, so death was now as strange. The moth having righted himself now lay most decently and uncomplainingly composed. O yes, he seemed to say, death is stronger than I am.Virginia Woolf，美国文学史上最重要的女作家。这篇文章就是真正的“抒情散文”了，从一只飞蛾的死亡联想到了人生的重大问题，但是文章讨论的不仅限于此，你应该能看到 Woolf 极强的驾驭语言的能力，这才是写作啊。这篇文章词汇也不算难，除了第一段以外剩下随便挑两段读出来就有三分钟了，每一段都有独特的思考。