text_original: "Sister," said Progne, "I have not met you For nearly the space of a thousand years. Why are we parted? I cannot forget you, Nor banish our Thracian trials and tears. Come, leave this wood; it is dark and lonely." "What haunt could be pleasanter?" Philomel asked.
text_transcription: SISTER SAID PROGNE I HAVE NOT MET YOU FOR NEARLY THE SPACE OF A THOUSAND YEARS WHY ARE WE PARTED I CANNOT FORGET YOU NOR BANISH OUR TRACYAN TRIALS AND TEARS COME LEAVE THIS WOOD IT IS DARK AND LONELY WHAT HAUNT COULD BE PLEASANTER PHILOMEL ASKED
phonemes: "sˈɪstɚ," sˈɛd pɹˈɑːɡni, "aɪ hɐvnˌɑːt mˈɛt juː fɔːɹ nˌɪɹli ðə spˈeɪs əvə θˈaʊzənd jˈɪɹz. wˌaɪ ɑːɹ wiː pˈɑːɹɾᵻd? aɪ kænˈɑːt fɚɡˈɛt juː, nˈɔːɹ bˈænɪʃ ˌaʊɚ θɹˈeɪʃiən tɹˈaɪəlz ænd tˈɪɹz. kˈʌm, lˈiːv ðɪs wˈʊd; ɪɾ ɪz dˈɑːɹk ænd lˈoʊnli." "wˌʌt hˈɔːnt kʊd biː plˈɛzæntɚ?" fˈɪləməl ˈæskt.