text_original: IMITATED. No, no, my father, I will have no critic, (Miscalled a husband) since you still permit The innocent sweet pleasures of the stage; And shall I venture to exchange my lot? Then we have children folded in our arms To bring them to the play house; heavens! what troubles!
text_transcription: IMITATED NO NO MY FATHER I WILL HAVE NO CRITIC MISCALL THE HUSBAND SINCE YOU STILL PERMIT THE INNOCENT SWEET PLEASURES OF THE STAGE AND SHALL I VENTURE TO EXCHANGE MY LOT THEN WE HAVE CHILDREN FOLDED IN OUR ARMS TO BRING THEM TO THE PLAY HOUSE HEAVENS WHAT TROUBLES
phonemes: ˈɪmᵻtˌeɪɾᵻd. nˈoʊ, nˈoʊ, maɪ fˈɑːðɚ, aɪ wɪl hæv nˈoʊ kɹˈɪɾɪk, (mɪskˈɔːld ɐ hˈʌsbənd) sˈɪns juː stˈɪl pɚmˈɪt ðɪ ˈɪnəsənt swˈiːt plˈɛʒɚz ʌvðə stˈeɪdʒ; ænd ʃˌæl aɪ vˈɛntʃɚ tʊ ɛkstʃˈeɪndʒ maɪ lˈɑːt? ðˈɛn wiː hæv tʃˈɪldɹən fˈoʊldᵻd ɪn ˌaʊɚɹ ˈɑːɹmz tə bɹˈɪŋ ðˌɛm tə ðə plˈeɪ hˈaʊs; hˈɛvənz! wˌʌt tɹˈʌbəlz!