text_original: When we summon the shade of rude Raedwald, in his candor how king like he towers! Have the centuries, over his slumber, only borne sterile falsehoods for flowers? Pray you, what if Christ found him the nobler, having weighed his frank manhood with ours?
text_transcription: WHEN WE SUMMON THE SHADE OF RUDE RAIDWALD IN HIS CANDOUR HOW KING LIKE HE TOWERS HAVE THE CENTURIES OVER HIS SLUMBER ONLY BORNE STERILE FALSEHOODS FOR FLOWERS PRAY YOU WHAT IF CHRIST FOUND HIM THE NOBLER HAVING WEIGHED HIS FRANK MANHOOD WITH OURS
phonemes: wˌɛn wiː sˈʌmən ðə ʃˈeɪd ʌv ɹˈuːd ɹˈiːdwəld, ɪn hɪz kˈændɔːɹ hˌaʊ kˈɪŋ lˈaɪk hiː tˈaʊɚz! hæv ðə sˈɛntʃɚɹiz, ˌoʊvɚ hɪz slˈʌmbɚ, ˈoʊnli bˈɔːɹn stˈɛɹəl fˈɔlshʊdz fɔːɹ flˈaʊɚz? pɹˈeɪ juː, wˌʌt ɪf kɹˈaɪst fˈaʊnd hˌɪm ðə nˈoʊblɚ, hˌævɪŋ wˈeɪd hɪz fɹˈæŋk mˈænhʊd wɪð aʊɚz?