text_original: o cherish, Though all our songs are sung And all the singers perish. SERENADE BY day my timid passions stand Like begging children at your gate, Each with a mute, appealing hand To ask a dole of Fate ; But when night comes, released from doubt, Like merry minstrels they appear, The stars ring out their hopeful shout, Beloved, can you hear
text_transcription: SERENADE BY RICHARD MIDDLETON DREADFULLY REVOXED AT ORCH BY SONYA SERENADE BY DAY MY TIMID PASSIONS STAND LIKE BEGGING CHILDREN AT YOUR GATE EACH WITH A MUTE APPEALING HAND TO ASK A DOLE OF FATE BUT WHEN NIGHT COMES RELEASED FROM DOUBT LIKE MERRY MINSTRELS THEY APPEAR THE STARS RING OUT THEIR HOPEFUL SHOUT BELOVED CAN YOU HEAR
phonemes: ˈoʊ tʃˈɛɹɪʃ, ðˌoʊ ˈɔːl ˌaʊɚ sˈɔŋz ɑːɹ sˈʌŋ ænd ˈɔːl ðə sˈɪŋɚz pˈɛɹɪʃ. sˌɛɹənˈeɪd baɪ dˈeɪ maɪ tˈɪmɪd pˈæʃənz stˈænd lˈaɪk bˈɛɡɪŋ tʃˈɪldɹən æt jʊɹ ɡˈeɪt, ˈiːtʃ wɪð ɐ mjˈuːt, ɐpˈiːlɪŋ hˈænd tʊ ˈæsk ɐ dˈoʊl ʌv fˈeɪt ; bˌʌt wɛn nˈaɪt kˈʌmz, ɹᵻlˈiːst fɹʌm dˈaʊt, lˈaɪk mˈɛɹi mˈɪnstɹəlz ðeɪ ɐpˈɪɹ, ðə stˈɑːɹz ɹˈɪŋ ˈaʊt ðɛɹ hˈoʊpfəl ʃˈaʊt, bᵻlˈʌvd, kæn juː hˈɪɹ