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. More she'd have said, but with his sword, He pierc'd her tender body through; Then threw her in the silent grave, Saying, now, there is an end of you.
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 MORE SHE'D HAVE SAID BUT WITH HIS SWORD HE PIERC'D HER TENDER BODY THROUGH THEN THREW HER IN THE SILENT GRAVE SAYING NOW THERE IS AN END OF YOU
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. mˈɔːɹ ʃiːd hæv sˈɛd, bˌʌt wɪð hɪz sˈɔːɹd, hiː pˈɪɹkd hɜː tˈɛndɚ bˈɑːdi θɹˈuː; ðˈɛn θɹˈuː hɜːɹ ɪnðə sˈaɪlənt ɡɹˈeɪv, sˈeɪɪŋ, nˈaʊ, ðɛɹ ɪz ɐn ˈɛnd ʌv juː.