text_original: As for your friend the sage Euripides, I[1] believe you give him now the slip o' days; But mum for that  pray come a Saturday And dine with me, you can't a better day: I'll give you nothing but a mutton chop, Some nappy mellow'd ale with rotten hop, A pint of wine as good as Falern', Which we poor masters, God knows, all earn; We'll have a friend or two, sir, at table, Right honest men, for few're comeatable; Then when our liquor makes us talkative, We'll to the fields, and take a walk at eve.
text_transcription: AS FOR YOUR FRIEND THE SAGE EURIPPIDAYS I BELIEVE YOU GIVE HIM NOW THE SLIP OF DAYS BUT MUM FOR THAT PRAY COME A SATURDAY AND DINE WITH ME YOU CAN'T A BETTER DAY I'LL GIVE YOU NOTHING BUT A MUTTON CHOP SOME NAPPY MILL ORED ALE WITH ROTTENHOP A PINT OF WINE AS GOOD AS FELL LEARN WHICH WE POOR MASTERS GOD KNOWS I'LL EARN WE'LL HAVE A FRIEND OR TWO SIR AT TABLE WRITE HONEST MEN FOR FEUER COME AT TABLE THEN WHEN OUR LIQUOR MAKES US TALKATIVE WE'LL TO THE FIELDS AND TAKE A WALKATIVE
phonemes: æz fɔːɹ jʊɹ fɹˈɛnd ðə sˈeɪdʒ jˈuːɹɪpˌaɪdz, ˈaɪ[wˈʌn] bᵻlˈiːv juː ɡˈɪv hˌɪm nˈaʊ ðə slˈɪp ˈoʊ dˈeɪz; bˌʌt mˈʌm fɔːɹ ðæt pɹˈeɪ kˈʌm ɐ sˈæɾɚdˌeɪ ænd dˈaɪn wɪð mˌiː, juː kˈænt ɐ bˈɛɾɚ dˈeɪ: aɪl ɡˈɪv juː nˈʌθɪŋ bˌʌt ɐ mˈʌʔn̩ tʃˈɑːp, sˌʌm nˈæpi mˈɛloʊd ˈeɪl wɪð ɹˈɑːʔn̩ hˈɑːp, ɐ pˈaɪnt ʌv wˈaɪn æz ɡˈʊd æz fˈælɚn, wˌɪtʃ wiː pˈʊɹ mˈæstɚz, ɡˈɑːd nˈoʊz, ˈɔːl ˈɜːn; wiːl hæv ɐ fɹˈɛnd ɔːɹ tˈuː, sˌɜː, æt tˈeɪbəl, ɹˈaɪt ˈɑːnɪst mˈɛn, fɔːɹ fjˈuːɚ kəmˈiːɾəbəl; ðˈɛn wɛn ˌaʊɚ lˈɪkɚ mˌeɪks ˌʌs tˈɔːkətˌɪv, wiːl tə ðə fˈiːldz, ænd tˈeɪk ɐ wˈɔːk æɾ ˈiːv.