text_original: These get with toile, they keepe with feare ; Such cares my minde could never beai No princely pompe nor well hie store, No force to win the victorie, No wylie wit to salve a sore, No shape to winne a lover's eye, — To none of these I yeeld ;i* thrall ; For why, my mind despiseth all.
text_transcription: THESE GET WITH TOIL THEY KEEP WITH FEAR SUCH CARES MY MIND COULD NEVER BEAR NO PRINCELY POMP NOR WEALTHY STORE NO FORCE TO WIN THE VICTORY NO WILY WIT TO SALVE A SORE NO SHAPE TO WIN A LOVER'S EYE TO NONE OF THESE I YIELD AS THRALL FOR WHY MY MIND DESPISTH ALL
phonemes: ðiːz ɡɛt wɪð tˈɔɪl, ðeɪ kˈiːp wɪð fˈɪɹ ; sˈʌtʃ kˈɛɹz maɪ mˈaɪnd kʊd nˈɛvɚ bˈiːi nˈoʊ pɹˈɪnsli pˈɑːmp nˈɔːɹ wˈɛl hˈaɪ stˈɔːɹ, nˈoʊ fˈɔːɹs tə wˈɪn ðə vˈɪktɚɹi, nˈoʊ wˈaɪli wˈɪt tə sˈælv ɐ sˈɔːɹ, nˈoʊ ʃˈeɪp tə wˈɪn ɐ lˈʌvɚz ˈaɪ, — tə nˈʌn ʌv ðiːz aɪ jˈiːld ;ˈaɪ ˈæstɚɹˌɪsk θɹˈɔːl ; fɔːɹ wˈaɪ, maɪ mˈaɪnd dᵻspˈaɪsəθ ˈɔːl.