text_original: You tell me my verses disturb you at prayers; Oh, oh, Mr. Dean, are you there with your bears? You pray, I suppose, like a Heathen, to Phoebus, To give his assistance to make out my rebus: Which I don't think so fair; leave it off for the future; When the combat is equal, this God should be neuter.
text_transcription: YOU TELL ME MY VERSES DISTURB YOU AT PRAYERS OH OH MISTER DEANE ARE YOU THERE WITH YOUR BEARS YOU PRAY I SUPPOSE LIKE A HEATHEN TO PHOEBUS TO GIVE HIS ASSISTANCE TO MAKE OUT MY REBUS WHICH I DON'T THINK SO FAIR LEAVE IT OFF FOR THE FUTURE WHEN THE COMBAT IS EQUAL THIS GOD SHOULD BE NEUTER
phonemes: juː tˈɛl mˌiː maɪ vˈɜːsᵻz dɪstˈɜːb juː æt pɹˈɛɹz; ˈoʊ, ˈoʊ, mˈɪstɚ. dˈiːn, ɑːɹ juː ðɛɹ wɪð jʊɹ bˈɛɹz? juː pɹˈeɪ, aɪ səpˈoʊz, lˈaɪk ɐ hˈiːðən, tə fˈoʊbəs, tə ɡˈɪv hɪz ɐsˈɪstəns tə mˌeɪk ˈaʊt maɪ ɹᵻbjˈuːz: wˌɪtʃ aɪ dˈoʊnt θˈɪŋk sˌoʊ fˈɛɹ; lˈiːv ɪɾ ˈɔf fɚðə fjˈuːtʃɚ; wˌɛn ðə kˈɑːmbæt ɪz ˈiːkwəl, ðɪs ɡˈɑːd ʃˌʊd biː nˈuːɾɚ.