Question

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Will play the tyrants to the very same, And that unfair which fairly doth excel; For never-resting time leads summer on To hideous winter and confounds him there, Sap checked with frost and lusty leaves quite gone, Beauty o'ersnowed and bareness every where: Then were not summer's distillation left A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass, Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft, Nor it nor no remembrance what it was. But flowers distilled, though they with winter meet, Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.

Answer 1

wɪl pleɪ ðə ˈtaɪərənts tuː ðə ˈvɛri seɪm, ænd ðæt ʌnˈfeə wɪʧ ˈfeəli dʌθ ɪkˈsɛl; fɔː ˈnɛvə ˈrɛstɪŋ taɪm liːdz ˈsʌmər ɒn tuː ˈhɪdɪəs ˈwɪntər ænd kənˈfaʊndz hɪm ðeə, sæp ʧɛkt wɪð frɒst ænd ˈlʌsti liːvz kwaɪt gɒn, ˈbjuːti o'ersnowed ænd ˈbeənɪs ˈɛvri weə: ðɛn wɜː nɒt ˈsʌməz ˌdɪstɪˈleɪʃən lɛft ə ˈlɪkwɪd ˈprɪznə pɛnt ɪn wɔːlz ɒv glɑːs, ˈbjuːtiz ɪˈfɛkt wɪð ˈbjuːti wɜː bɪˈrɛft, nɔːr ɪt nɔː nəʊ rɪˈmɛmbrəns wɒt ɪt wɒz. bʌt ˈflaʊəz dɪsˈtɪld, ðəʊ ðeɪ wɪð ˈwɪntə miːt, Leese bʌt ðeə ʃəʊ; ðeə ˈsʌbstəns stɪl laɪvz swiːt.