text_original: AT VERONA HOW steep the stairs within King's houses are For exile wearied feet as mine to tread, And O how salt and bitter is the bread Which falls from this Hound's table,—better far That I had died in the red ways of war, Or that the gate of Florence bare my head, Than to live thus, by all things comraded Which seek the essence of my soul to mar. 'Curse God and die: what better hope than this?
text_transcription: AT VERONA HOW STEEP THE STAIRS WITHIN KINGS HOUSES ARE FOR EXILE WEARIED FEET AS MINE TO TREAD AND OH HOW SALT AND BITTER IS THE BREAD WHICH FALLS FROM THIS HOUND'S TABLE BETTER FAR THAT I HAD DIED IN THE RED WAYS OF WAR OR THAT THE GATE OF FLORENCE BARE MY HEAD THAN TO LIVE THUS BY ALL THINGS COMMERATED WHICH SEEK THE ESSENCE OF MY SOUL TO MAR CURSE GOD AND DIE WHAT BETTER HOPE THAN THIS
phonemes: æt vəɹˈoʊnə hˌaʊ stˈiːp ðə stˈɛɹz wɪðˌɪn kˈɪŋz hˈaʊzᵻz ɑːɹ fɔːɹ ˈɛɡzaɪl wˈɪɹid fˈiːt æz mˈaɪn tə tɹˈɛd, ænd ˈoʊ hˌaʊ sˈɔlt ænd bˈɪɾɚɹ ɪz ðə bɹˈɛd wˌɪtʃ fˈɔːlz fɹʌm ðɪs hˈaʊndz tˈeɪbəl,—bˈɛɾɚ fˈɑːɹ ðæt aɪ hæd dˈaɪd ɪnðə ɹˈɛd wˈeɪz ʌv wˈɔːɹ, ɔːɹ ðætðə ɡˈeɪt ʌv flˈɔːɹəns bˈɛɹ maɪ hˈɛd, ðɐn tə lˈɪv ðˈʌs, baɪ ˈɔːl θˈɪŋz kˈɑːmɹædᵻd wˌɪtʃ sˈiːk ðɪ ˈɛsəns ʌv maɪ sˈoʊl tə mˈɑːɹ. kˈɜːs ɡˈɑːd ænd dˈaɪ: wˌʌt bˈɛɾɚ hˈoʊp ðɐn ðˈɪs?