text_original: Our own affection still at home to please Is a disease: To cross the seas to any foreign soil, Peril and toil: Wars with their noise affright us; when they cease, We are worse in peace;   What then remains, but that we still should cry For being born, or, being born, to die?
text_transcription: OUR OWN AFFECTION STILL AT HOME TO PLEASE IS A DISEASE TO CROSS THE SEAS TO ANY FOREIGN SOIL PERIL AND TOIL WARS WITH THEIR NOISE AFFRIGHT US WHEN THEY CEASE WE ARE WORSE IN PEACE WHAT THEN REMAINS BUT THAT WE STILL SHOULD CRY FOR BEING BORN OR BEING BORN TO DIE
phonemes: ˌaʊɚɹ ˈoʊn ɐfˈɛkʃən stˈɪl æt hˈoʊm tə plˈiːz ɪz ɐ dɪzˈiːz: tə kɹˈɔs ðə sˈiːz tʊ ˌɛni fˈɔːɹən sˈɔɪl, pˈɛɹəl ænd tˈɔɪl: wˈɔːɹz wɪð ðɛɹ nˈɔɪz ɐfɹˈaɪt ˌʌs; wˌɛn ðeɪ sˈiːs, wiː ɑːɹ wˈɜːs ɪn pˈiːs;   wˌʌt ðˈɛn ɹᵻmˈeɪnz, bˌʌt ðæt wiː stˈɪl ʃˌʊd kɹˈaɪ fɔːɹ bˌiːɪŋ bˈɔːɹn, ɔːɹ, bˌiːɪŋ bˈɔːɹn, tə dˈaɪ?