text_original: You treat me like a boy that knocks down his foe, Who, ere t'other gets up, demands the rising blow. Yet I know a young rogue, that, thrown flat on the field, Would, as he lay under, cry out, Sirrah! yield.
text_transcription: YOU TREAT ME LIKE A BOY THAT KNOCKS DOWN HIS FOE WHO ERE T'OTHER GETS UP DEMANDS THE RISING BLOW YET I KNOW A YOUNG ROGUE THAT THROWN FLAT ON THE FIELD WOULD AS HE LAY UNDER CRY OUT SIRRAH YIELD
phonemes: juː tɹˈiːt mˌiː lˈaɪk ɐ bˈɔɪ ðæt nˈɑːks dˌaʊn hɪz fˈoʊ, hˈuː, ˈɛɹ tˈiːˈʌðɚ ɡˈɛts ˈʌp, dᵻmˈændz ðə ɹˈaɪzɪŋ blˈoʊ. jˈɛt aɪ nˈoʊ ɐ jˈʌŋ ɹˈoʊɡ, ðˈæt, θɹˈoʊn flˈæt ɔnðə fˈiːld, wˈʊd, æz hiː lˈeɪ ˈʌndɚ, kɹˈaɪ ˈaʊt, sˈɜːɹə! jˈiːld.