text_original: Never to wither though 'tis cropped, But when thy hand do touch the same, Then may the bloom that minute blast To bring to light my bitter shame.
text_transcription: NEVER TO WITHER THOUGH TIS CROPT BUT WHEN THY HAND DO TOUCH THE SAME THEN MAY THE BLOOM THAT MINUTE BLAST TO BRING TO LIGHT MY BITTER SHAME
phonemes: nˈɛvɚ tə wˈɪðɚ ðˌoʊ tˈɪz kɹˈɑːpt, bˌʌt wɛn ðˌaɪ hˈænd dˈuː tˈʌtʃ ðə sˈeɪm, ðˈɛn mˈeɪ ðə blˈuːm ðæt mˈɪnɪt blˈæst tə bɹˈɪŋ tə lˈaɪt maɪ bˈɪɾɚ ʃˈeɪm.