text_original: Will you regard the hawker's cries, Who in his titles always lies? Whate'er the noisy scoundrel says, It might be something in your praise; And praise bestow'd in Grub Street rhymes, Would vex one more a thousand times. Till critics blame, and judges praise, The poet cannot claim his bays. On me when dunces are satiric, I take it for a panegyric. Hated by fools, and fools to hate, Be that my motto, and my fate.
text_transcription: WILL YOU REGARD THE HAWKER'S CRIES WHO IN HIS TITLES ALWAYS LIES WHATE'ER THE NOISY SCOUNDREL SAYS IT MIGHT BE SOMETHING IN YOUR PRAISE AND PRAISE BESTOWED IN GRUB STREET RHYMES WOULD VEX ONE MORE A THOUSAND TIMES TILL CRITICS BLAME AND JUDGE'S PRAISE THE POET CANNOT CLAIM HIS BAYS ON ME WHEN DUNCES ARE SATIRIC I TAKE IT FOR A PANEGYRIC HATED BY FOOLS AND FOOLS TO HATE BE THAT MY MOTTO AND MY FATE
phonemes: wɪl juː ɹᵻɡˈɑːɹd ðə hˈɔːkɚz kɹˈaɪz, hˌuː ɪn hɪz tˈaɪɾəlz ˈɔːlweɪz lˈaɪz? wˈʌɾɛɹ ðə nˈɔɪzi skˈaʊndɹəl sˈɛz, ɪt mˌaɪt biː sˈʌmθɪŋ ɪn jʊɹ pɹˈeɪz; ænd pɹˈeɪz bᵻstˈoʊd ɪn ɡɹˈʌb stɹˈiːt ɹˈaɪmz, wʊd vˈɛks wˈʌn mˈɔːɹ ɐ θˈaʊzənd tˈaɪmz. tˈɪl kɹˈɪɾɪks blˈeɪm, ænd dʒˈʌdʒᵻz pɹˈeɪz, ðə pˈoʊɪt kænˈɑːt klˈeɪm hɪz bˈeɪz. ˌɔn mˌiː wɛn dˈʌnsᵻz ɑːɹ sɐtˈɪɹɪk, aɪ tˈeɪk ɪt fɚɹə peɪndʒˈɪɹɪk. hˈeɪɾᵻd baɪ fˈuːlz, ænd fˈuːlz tə hˈeɪt, biː ðæt maɪ mˈɑːɾoʊ, ænd maɪ fˈeɪt.