Where Are Those Honours, Ida! Once Your Own, When Probus Fill'D Your Magisterial Throne? As Ancient Rome, Fast Falling To Disgrace, Hail'D A Barbarian In Her C'Sar'S Place, So You, Degenerate, Share As Hard A Fate, And Seat Pomposus Where Your Probus Sate. Of Narrow Brain, Yet Of A Narrower Soul, Pomposus Holds You In His Harsh Controul; Pomposus, By No Social Virtue Sway'D, With Florid Jargon, And With Vain Parade; With Noisy Nonsense, And New-Fangled Rules, (Such As Were Ne'er Before Enforc'D In Schools.) Mistaking Pedantry For Learning'S Laws, He Governs, Sanction'D But By Self-Applause; With Him The Same Dire Fate, Attending Rome, Ill-Fated Ida! Soon Must Stamp Your Doom: Like Her O'Erthrown, For Ever Lost To Fame, No Trace Of Science Left You, But The Name,