text_original: [_The sixth sings to a lute_.] And in his noblest work our God adore! God doth not will joy should to joy succeed, Nor ill shall be of other ill the seed; But in his hand the wheel of fate Turns, now depressed and now elate, Evolving day from night for evermore.
text_transcription: THE SIX SINGS TO ELUDE AND IN HIS NOBLEST WORK OUR GOD ADORE GOD DOES NOT WILL JOY SHOULD TO JOYCE SUCCEED NOR ILL SHALL BE OF OTHER ILL DECEIT BUT IN HIS HAND THE WHEEL OF FATE TURNS NOW DEPRESSED AND NOW ELATE EVOLVING DAY FROM NIGHT FOR EVERMORE
phonemes: [ðə sˈɪksθ sˈɪŋz tʊ ɐ lˈuːt.] ænd ɪn hɪz nˈoʊbəlɪst wˈɜːk ˌaʊɚ ɡˈɑːd ɐdˈɔːɹ! ɡˈɑːd dʌθ nˌɑːt wɪl dʒˈɔɪ ʃˌʊd tə dʒˈɔɪ səksˈiːd, nˈɔːɹ ˈɪl ʃˌæl biː ʌv ˈʌðɚɹ ˈɪl ðə sˈiːd; bˌʌt ɪn hɪz hˈænd ðə wˈiːl ʌv fˈeɪt tˈɜːnz, nˈaʊ dᵻpɹˈɛst ænd nˈaʊ ᵻlˈeɪt, ɪvˈɑːlvɪŋ dˈeɪ fɹʌm nˈaɪt fɔːɹ ˌɛvɚmˈɔːɹ.