text_original: Wine, what of thy delicate hue is become, That tinged our glasses with blue, like a plum? Those bottles, those bumpers, why do they not smile, While we sit carousing and drinking the while?
text_transcription: WHINE WHAT OF THY DELICATE HUE IS BECOME THAT TINGED OUR GLASSES WITH BLUE LIKE A PLUM THOSE BOTTLES THOSE BUMPERS WHY DO THEY NOT SMILE WHILE WE SIT CAROUSING AND DRINKING THE WHILE
phonemes: wˈaɪn, wˌʌt ʌv ðˌaɪ dˈɛlᵻkət hjˈuː ɪz bɪkˈʌm, ðæt tˈɪndʒd ˌaʊɚ ɡlˈæsᵻz wɪð blˈuː, lˈaɪk ɐ plˈʌm? ðoʊz bˈɑːɾəlz, ðoʊz bˈʌmpɚz, wˌaɪ dˈuː ðeɪ nˌɑːt smˈaɪl, wˌaɪl wiː sˈɪt kɚɹˈaʊzɪŋ ænd dɹˈɪŋkɪŋ ðə wˈaɪl?