text_original: Sleep breathes at last from out thee, My little patient boy; And balmy rest about thee Smooths oil the day's anuoy. 1 sit me down, and think Of all thy winning ways; Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink, That I had less to praise.
text_transcription: SLEEP BREATHES AT LAST FROM OUT THEE MY LITTLE PATIENT BOY AND BALMY REST ABOUT THEE SMOOTH OF THE DAY'S ANNOY I SIT ME DOWN AND THINK OF ALL THY WINNING WAYS YET ALMOST WISH WITH SUDDEN SHRINK THAT I HAD LESS TO PRAISE
phonemes: slˈiːp bɹˈiːðz æt lˈæst fɹʌm ˈaʊt ðˈiː, maɪ lˈɪɾəl pˈeɪʃənt bˈɔɪ; ænd bˈɑːmi ɹˈɛst ɐbˌaʊt ðiː smˈuːðs ˈɔɪl ðə dˈeɪz ˈænɔɪ. wˈʌn sˈɪt mˌiː dˈaʊn, ænd θˈɪŋk ʌv ˈɔːl ðˌaɪ wˈɪnɪŋ wˈeɪz; jˈɛt ˈɔːlmoʊst wˈɪʃ, wɪð sˈʌdən ʃɹˈɪŋk, ðæt aɪ hæd lˈɛs tə pɹˈeɪz.