text_original: Beauty and wit, too sad a truth! Have always been confined to youth; The god of wit and beauty's queen, He twenty one and she fifteen, No poet ever sweetly sung, Unless he were, like Phoebus, young; Nor ever nymph inspired to rhyme, Unless, like Venus, in her prime. At fifty six, if this be true, Am I a poet fit for you?
text_transcription: BEAUTY AND WIT TOO SAD A TRUTH HAVE ALWAYS BEEN CONFINED TO YOUTH THE GOD OF WIT AND BEAUTY'S QUEEN HE TWENTY ONE AND SHE FIFTEEN NO POET EVER SWEETLY SUNG UNLESS HE WERE LIKE PHOEBUS YOUNG NOR EVER NYMPH INSPIRED TO RHYME UNLESS LIKE VENUS IN HER PRIME AT FIFTY SIX IF THIS BE TRUE AM I A POET FIT FOR YOU
phonemes: bjˈuːɾi ænd wˈɪt, tˈuː sˈæd ɐ tɹˈuːθ! hæv ˈɔːlweɪz bˌɪn kənfˈaɪnd tə jˈuːθ; ðə ɡˈɑːd ʌv wˈɪt ænd bjˈuːɾiz kwˈiːn, hiː twˈɛnti wˈʌn ænd ʃiː fˈɪftiːn, nˈoʊ pˈoʊɪt ˈɛvɚ swˈiːtli sˈʌŋ, ʌnlˈɛs hiː wɜː, lˈaɪk fˈoʊbəs, jˈʌŋ; nˈɔːɹ ˈɛvɚ nˈɪmf ɪnspˈaɪɚd tə ɹˈaɪm, ʌnlˈɛs, lˈaɪk vˈiːnəs, ɪn hɜː pɹˈaɪm. æt fˈɪfti sˈɪks, ɪf ðɪs biː tɹˈuː, æm aɪ ɐ pˈoʊɪt fˈɪt fɔːɹ juː?