text_original: Should the bottom be split, our bishops would dread That the mitre would never stick fast on their head: And yet they have learnt the chief art of a sovereign, As Machiavel taught them, "divide and ye govern." But courage, my lords, though it cannot be said That one cloven tongue ever sat on your head; I'll hold you a groat (and I wish I could see't) If your stockings were off, you could show cloven feet. But hold, cry the bishops, and give us fair play; Before you condemn us, hear what we can say.
text_transcription: SHOULD THE BOTTOM BE SPLIT OUR BISHOPS WOULD DREAD THAT THE MITRE WOULD NEVER STICK FAST ON THEIR HEAD AND YET THEY HAVE LEARNT THE CHIEF ART OF A SOVEREIGN AS MACHIAVEL TAUGHT THEM DIVIDE AND YE GOVERN BUT COURAGE MY LORDS THOUGH IT CANNOT BE SAID THAT ONE CLOVEN TONGUE EVER SAT ON YOUR HEAD I'LL HOLD YOU A GROAT AND I WISH I COULD SEE IT IF YOUR STOCKINGS WERE OFF YOU COULD SHOW CLOVEN FEET BUT HOLD CRIED THE BISHOPS AND GIVE US FAIR PLAY BEFORE YOU CONDEMN US HEAR WHAT WE CAN SAY
phonemes: ʃˌʊd ðə bˈɑːɾəm biː splˈɪt, ˌaʊɚ bˈɪʃəps wʊd dɹˈɛd ðætðə mˈaɪɾɚ wʊd nˈɛvɚ stˈɪk fˈæst ˌɔn ðɛɹ hˈɛd: ænd jˈɛt ðeɪ hæv lˈɜːnt ðə tʃˈiːf ˈɑːɹt əvə sˈɑːvɚɹˌɪn, æz mˈækiəvəl tˈɔːt ðˌɛm, "dᵻvˈaɪd ænd jiː ɡˈʌvɚn." bˌʌt kˈɜːɹɪdʒ, maɪ lˈɔːɹdz, ðˌoʊ ɪt kænˈɑːt biː sˈɛd ðˈætwˌʌn klˈoʊvən tˈʌŋ ˈɛvɚ sˈæt ˌɔn jʊɹ hˈɛd; aɪl hˈoʊld juː ɐ ɡɹˈoʊt (ænd aɪ wˈɪʃ aɪ kʊd sˈiːt) ɪf jʊɹ stˈɑːkɪŋz wɜːɹ ˈɔf, juː kʊd ʃˈoʊ klˈoʊvən fˈiːt. bˌʌt hˈoʊld, kɹˈaɪ ðə bˈɪʃəps, ænd ɡˈɪv ˌʌs fˈɛɹ plˈeɪ; bᵻfˌɔːɹ juː kəndˈɛm ˌʌs, hˈɪɹ wʌt wiː kæn sˈeɪ.