text_original: No more than doth the miller there, Shut in our several cells, do we Know with what waste of beauty rare Moves every day's machinery. Surely the wiser time shall come When this fine overplus of might, No longer sullen, slow, and dumb, Shall leap to music and to light.
text_transcription: NO MORE THAN DOTH THE MILLER THERE SHUT IN OUR SEVERAL CELLS DO WE KNOW WITH WHAT WASTE OF BEAUTY RARE MOVES EVERY DAY'S MACHINERY SURELY THE WISER TIME SHALL COME WHEN THIS FINE OVERPLUS OF MIGHT NO LONGER SULLEN SLOW AND DUMB SHALL LEAP TO MUSIC AND TO LIGHT
phonemes: nˈoʊmˌɔːɹ ðɐn dʌθ ðə mˈɪlɚ ðˈɛɹ, ʃˈʌt ɪn ˌaʊɚ sˈɛvɹəl sˈɛlz, dˈuː wiː nˈoʊ wɪð wʌt wˈeɪst ʌv bjˈuːɾi ɹˈɛɹ mˈuːvz ˈɛvɹi dˈeɪz məʃˈiːnɚɹi. ʃˈʊɹli ðə wˈaɪzɚ tˈaɪm ʃˌæl kˈʌm wɛn ðɪs fˈaɪn ˌoʊvɚplˈʌs ʌv mˈaɪt, nˌoʊ lˈɑːŋɡɚ sˈʌlən, slˈoʊ, ænd dˈʌm, ʃˌæl lˈiːp tə mjˈuːzɪk ænd tə lˈaɪt.