text_original: Oft have I been by poets told, That, poor Jonathan, thou grow'st old. Alas, thy numbers failing all, Poor Jonathan, how they do fall! Thy rhymes, which whilom made thy pride swell, Now jingle like a rusty bridle: Thy verse, which ran both smooth and sweet, Now limp upon their gouty feet: Thy thoughts, which were the true sublime, Are humbled by the tyrant, Time: Alas! what cannot Time subdue?
text_transcription: OFT HAVE I BEEN BY POETS TOLD THAT POOR JONATHAN THOU GROWEST OLD ALAS THY NUMBERS FAILING ALL POOR JONATHAN HOW DO THEY FALL THY RHYMES WHICH WILL UN MADE THY PRIDE SWELL NOW JINGLE LIKE A RUSTY BRIDAL THY VERSE WHICH RAN BOTH SMOOTH AND SWEET NOW LIMP UPON THEIR GOUTY FEET THY THOUGHTS WHICH WERE THE TRUE SUBLIME ARE HUMBLED BY THE TYRANT TIME ALAS WHAT CANNOT TIME SUBDUE
phonemes: ˈɔft hæv aɪ bˌɪn baɪ pˈoʊɪts tˈoʊld, ðˈæt, pˈʊɹ dʒˈɑːnəθən, ðˈaʊ ɡɹˈoʊst ˈoʊld. ɐlˈæs, ðˌaɪ nˈʌmbɚz fˈeɪlɪŋ ˈɔːl, pˈʊɹ dʒˈɑːnəθən, hˌaʊ ðeɪ dˈuː fˈɔːl! ðˌaɪ ɹˈaɪmz, wˌɪtʃ wˈɪləm mˌeɪd ðˌaɪ pɹˈaɪd swˈɛl, nˈaʊ dʒˈɪŋɡəl lˈaɪk ɐ ɹˈʌsti bɹˈaɪdəl: ðˌaɪ vˈɜːs, wˌɪtʃ ɹˈæn bˈoʊθ smˈuːð ænd swˈiːt, nˈaʊ lˈɪmp əpˌɑːn ðɛɹ ɡˈaʊɾi fˈiːt: ðˌaɪ θˈɔːts, wˌɪtʃ wɜː ðə tɹˈuː sʌblˈaɪm, ɑːɹ hˈʌmbəld baɪ ðə tˈaɪɹənt, tˈaɪm: ɐlˈæs! wˌʌt kænˈɑːt tˈaɪm sʌbdˈuː?