text_original: SHAKESPEARE. I seek not with a weak and untuned lyre To sound the praise of Cheop's mighty pile, Where toiling myriads, higher and still higher, In the dim past, beside the swirling Nile, Heaped up those giant masses to the sky, Upon whose hoary sides old Time's grim teeth Have spent their force in vain. From task so high My muse with trembling shrinks.
text_transcription: SHAKESPEARE I SEEK NOT WITH A WEAK AND UNTUNED LYRE TO SOUND THE PRAISE OF CHAOB'S MIGHTY PILE WHERE TOILING MYRIADS HIGHER AND STILL HIGHER IN THE DIM PAST BESIDE THE SWIRLING NILE HEAPED UP THOSE GIANT MASSES TO THE SKY UPON WHOSE HOARY SIDES OLD TIME'S GRIM TEETH HAVE SPENT THEIR FORCE IN VAIN FROM TASKS SO HIGH MY MUSE WITH TREMBLING SHRINKS
phonemes: ʃˈeɪkspɪɹ. aɪ sˈiːk nˌɑːt wɪð ɐ wˈiːk ænd ʌntˈuːnd lˈaɪɚ tə sˈaʊnd ðə pɹˈeɪz ʌv tʃɪˈɑːps mˈaɪɾi pˈaɪl, wˌɛɹ tˈɔɪlɪŋ mˈɪɹɪˌædz, hˈaɪɚɹ ænd stˈɪl hˈaɪɚ, ɪnðə dˈɪm pˈæst, bᵻsˌaɪd ðə swˈɜːlɪŋ nˈaɪl, hˈiːpt ˌʌp ðoʊz dʒˈaɪənt mˈæsᵻz tə ðə skˈaɪ, əpˌɑːn hˌuːz hˈɔːɹi sˈaɪdz ˈoʊld tˈaɪmz ɡɹˈɪm tˈiːθ hæv spˈɛnt ðɛɹ fˈɔːɹs ɪn vˈeɪn. fɹʌm tˈæsk sˌoʊ hˈaɪ maɪ mjˈuːz wɪð tɹˈɛmblɪŋ ʃɹˈɪŋks.