text_original: Now, should my praises owe their truth To beauty, dress, or paint, or youth, What stoics call without our power, They could not be ensured an hour; 'Twere grafting on an annual stock, That must our expectation mock, And, making one luxuriant shoot, Die the next year for want of root: Before I could my verses bring, Perhaps you're quite another thing.
text_transcription: NOW SHOULD MY PRAISES OWE THEIR TRUTH TO BEAUTY DRESS OR PAINT OR YOUTH WHAT STOICS CALL WITHOUT OUR POWER THEY COULD NOT BE INSURED AN HOUR TWERE GRAFTING ON AN ANNUAL STOCK THAT MUST OUR EXPECTATION MOCK AND MAKING ONE LUXURIANT SHOOT DIVEE NEXT YEAR FOR WANT OF ROOT BEFORE I COULD MY VERSES BRING PERHAPS YOUR QUITE ANOTHER THING
phonemes: nˈaʊ, ʃˌʊd maɪ pɹˈeɪzᵻz ˈoʊ ðɛɹ tɹˈuːθ tə bjˈuːɾi, dɹˈɛs, ɔːɹ pˈeɪnt, ɔːɹ jˈuːθ, wˌʌt stˈoʊɪks kˈɔːl wɪðˌaʊt ˌaʊɚ pˈaʊɚ, ðeɪ kʊd nˌɑːt biː ɛnʃˈʊɹd ɐn ˈaʊɚ; twˈɪɹ ɡɹˈæftɪŋ ˌɔn ɐn ˈænjuːəl stˈɑːk, ðæt mˈʌst ˌaʊɚɹ ɛkspɪktˈeɪʃən mˈɑːk, ænd, mˌeɪkɪŋ wˈʌn lʌɡʒˈʊɹɹiənt ʃˈuːt, dˈaɪ ðə nˈɛkst jˈɪɹ fɔːɹ wˈɔnt ʌv ɹˈuːt: bᵻfˌɔːɹ aɪ kʊd maɪ vˈɜːsᵻz bɹˈɪŋ, pɚhˈæps jʊɹ kwˈaɪt ɐnˈʌðɚ θˈɪŋ.