text_original: Your poets, Chloe's beauty height'ning, Compare her radiant eyes to lightning; And yet I hope 'twill be allow'd, That lightning comes but from a cloud. But gods like us have too much sense At poets' flights to take offence; Nor can hyperboles demean us; Each drab has been compared to Venus.
text_transcription: YOUR POET'S CHLOE'S BEAUTY HEIGHTENING COMPARE HER RADIANT EYES TO LIGHTNING AND YET I HOPE TWILL BE ALLOWED THAT LIGHTNING COMES BUT FROM A CLOUD BUT GODS LIKE US HAVE TOO MUCH SENSE AT POETS FLIGHTS TO TAKE OFFENCE NOR CAN I PURBOLES DEMEAN US EACH DRAB HAS BEEN COMPARED TO VENUS
phonemes: jʊɹ pˈoʊɪts, klˈoʊiz bjˈuːɾi hˈaɪtnɪŋ, kəmpˈɛɹ hɜː ɹˈeɪdiənt ˈaɪz tə lˈaɪtnɪŋ; ænd jˈɛt aɪ hˈoʊp twˈɪl biː ɐlˈaʊd, ðæt lˈaɪtnɪŋ kˈʌmz bˌʌt fɹʌm ɐ klˈaʊd. bˌʌt ɡˈɑːdz lˈaɪk ˌʌs hæv tˈuː mʌtʃ sˈɛns æt pˈoʊɪts flˈaɪts tə tˈeɪk əfˈɛns; nˈɔːɹ kæn haɪpˈɜːbəliz dᵻmˈiːn ˌʌs; ˈiːtʃ dɹˈæb hˈæzbiːn kəmpˈɛɹd tə vˈiːnəs.