text_original: Care sits in many a fashion, Grown gray on many a head, And lips are turned to ashen Whose years have right to red. Canst thou not rest, O city, That liest so wide, so fair; Shall never an hour bring pity. Nor end be found for care?
text_transcription: CARE SITS IN MANY A FASHION GROWN GREY ON MANY A HEAD AND LIPS ARE TURNED TO ASHEN WHOSE YEARS HAVE RIGHT TO READ CANST THOU NOT REST O CITY THAT LIES SO WIDE SO FAIR SHALL NEVER AN HOUR BRING PITY NOR END BE FOUND FOR CARE
phonemes: kˈɛɹ sˈɪts ɪn mˈɛni ɐ fˈæʃən, ɡɹˈoʊn ɡɹˈeɪ ˌɔn mˈɛni ɐ hˈɛd, ænd lˈɪps ɑːɹ tˈɜːnd tʊ ˈæʃən hˌuːz jˈɪɹz hæv ɹˈaɪt tə ɹˈɛd. kˈænst ðˈaʊ nˌɑːt ɹˈɛst, ˈoʊ sˈɪɾi, ðæt lˈiːst sˌoʊ wˈaɪd, sˌoʊ fˈɛɹ; ʃˌæl nˈɛvɚɹ ɐn ˈaʊɚ bɹˈɪŋ pˈɪɾi. nˈɔːɹ ˈɛnd biː fˈaʊnd fɔːɹ kˈɛɹ?