text_original: How oft am I for rhyme to seek! To dress a thought I toil a week: And then how thankful to the town, If all my pains will earn a crown! While every critic can devour My work and me in half an hour. Would men of genius cease to write, The rogues must die for want and spite; Must die for want of food and raiment, If scandal did not find them payment. How cheerfully the hawkers cry A satire, and the gentry buy!
text_transcription: HOW OFT AM I FOR RHYME TO SEEK TO DRESS A THOUGHT I TOIL A WEEK AND THEN HOW THANKFUL TO THE TOWN IF ALL MY PAINS WILL EARN A CROWN WHILE EVERY CRITIC CAN DEVOUR MY WORK AND ME IN HALF AN HOUR WHEN MEN OF GENIUS CEASE TO WRITE THE ROGUES MUST DIE FOR WANT AND SPITE MUST DIE FOR WANT OF FOOD AND RAIMENT IF SCANDAL DID NOT FIND THEM PAYMENT HOW CHEERFULLY THE HAWKERS CRY A SATIRE AND THE GENTRY BUY
phonemes: hˌaʊ ˈɔft æm aɪ fɔːɹ ɹˈaɪm tə sˈiːk! tə dɹˈɛs ɐ θˈɔːt aɪ tˈɔɪl ɐ wˈiːk: ænd ðˈɛn hˌaʊ θˈæŋkfəl tə ðə tˈaʊn, ɪf ˈɔːl maɪ pˈeɪnz wɪl ˈɜːn ɐ kɹˈaʊn! wˌaɪl ˈɛvɹi kɹˈɪɾɪk kæn dɪvˈaʊɚ maɪ wˈɜːk ænd mˌiː ɪn hˈæf ɐn ˈaʊɚ. wʊd mˈɛn ʌv dʒˈiːnɪəs sˈiːs tə ɹˈaɪt, ðə ɹˈoʊɡz mˈʌst dˈaɪ fɔːɹ wˈɔnt ænd spˈaɪt; mˈʌst dˈaɪ fɔːɹ wˈɔnt ʌv fˈuːd ænd ɹˈeɪmənt, ɪf skˈændəl dɪdnˌɑːt fˈaɪnd ðˌɛm pˈeɪmənt. hˌaʊ tʃˈɪɹfəli ðə hˈɔːkɚz kɹˈaɪ ɐ sˈæɾaɪɚ, ænd ðə dʒˈɛntɹi bˈaɪ!