text_original: "Prate not to me of my chamber! I am sick, yes, but it is a sickness of the soul. Thou dost not know all, I have not told thee; but hear now that my son, my son David, was crucified as a thief at the right hand of the Nazarene." His voice rose almost to a shriek at the last word and he tore at his hair as one in uncontrollable agony.
text_transcription: PRAT NOT TO ME OF MY CHAMBER I AM SICK YES BUT IT IS A SICKNESS OF THE SOUL THOU DOST NOT KNOW ALL I HAVE NOT TOLD THEE BUT HEAR NOW THAT MY SON MY SON DAVID WAS CRUCIFIED AS A THIEF AT THE RIGHT HAND OF THE NAZARENE HIS VOICE ROSE ALMOST TO A SHRIEK AT THE LAST WORD AND HE TORE AT HIS HAIR AS ONE IN UNCONTROLLABLE AGONY
phonemes: "pɹˈeɪt nˌɑːt tə mˌiː ʌv maɪ tʃˈeɪmbɚ! aɪɐm sˈɪk, jˈɛs, bˌʌt ɪɾ ɪz ɐ sˈɪknəs ʌvðə sˈoʊl. ðˈaʊ dˈɑːst nˌɑːt nˈoʊ ˈɔːl, aɪ hɐvnˌɑːt tˈoʊld ðˈiː; bˌʌt hˈɪɹ nˈaʊ ðæt maɪ sˈʌn, maɪ sˈʌn dˈeɪvɪd, wʌz kɹˈuːsᵻfˌaɪd æz ɐ θˈiːf æt ðə ɹˈaɪt hˈænd ʌvðə nˈæzɐɹˌɛn." hɪz vˈɔɪs ɹˈoʊz ˈɔːlmoʊst tʊ ɐ ʃɹˈiːk æt ðə lˈæst wˈɜːd ænd hiː tˈɔːɹ æt hɪz hˈɛɹ æz wˈʌn ɪn ʌŋkəntɹˈoʊləbəl ˈæɡəni.