text_original: Pearson had yet disdain'd to yield, But scarce his secret fears conceal'd, And thus was heard to cry   "With hell, not mortals, I contend; What art thou  human, or a fiend, That dost my force defy?
text_transcription: PEARSON HAD YET DISDAIN'D TO YIELD BUT SCARCE HIS SECRET FEARS CONCEAL'D AND THUS WAS HEARD TO CRY WITH HELL NOT MORTALS I CONTEND WHAT ART THOU HUMAN OR A FIEND THAT DOST MY FORCE DEFY
phonemes: pˈɪɹsən hæd jˈɛt dɪsdˈeɪnd tə jˈiːld, bˌʌt skˈɛɹs hɪz sˈiːkɹᵻt fˈɪɹz kənsˈiːld, ænd ðˈʌs wʌz hˈɜːd tə kɹˈaɪ   "wɪð hˈɛl, nˌɑːt mˈɔːɹɾəlz, aɪ kəntˈɛnd; wˌʌt ˈɑːɹt ðˈaʊ hjˈuːmən, ɔːɹ ɐ fˈiːnd, ðæt dˈɑːst maɪ fˈɔːɹs dᵻfˈaɪ?