“O Hendel, whose fame extends from south to north, hear the paeani> which ascends to thine ears!  Thou bakest that which Gauls and Britons industriously seek, (thou bakest) with creative genius original cakes.  The ocean of coffee which pours itself out before thee is sweeter than the juice which flows from Hymettus.  Thy house, a monument, how we reward the arts, hung round with trophies, tells the nations:  ’Even without a diadem, Hendel formed his fortune here, and robbed the Cothurnus of many an eight-groschen-piece.’  When thy urn shines hereafter in majestic pomp, then will the patriot weep at thy catacomb.  But live! let thy bed (torus) be the nest of a noble brood, stand high as Olympus, and firm as Parnassus.  May no phalanx of Greece with Roman ballistoe be able to destroy Germania and Hendel.  Thy weal is our pride, thy woe our pain, and Hendel’s temple is the heart of the sons of the Muses."-TRANS.]

This poem had its place for a long time among many others which disfigured the walls of that room, without being noticed; and we, who had sufficiently amused ourselves with it, forgot it altogether amongst other things.  A long time afterwards, Clodius came out with his “Medon,” whose wisdom, magnanimity, and virtue we found infinitely ridiculous, much as the first representation of the piece was applauded.  That evening, when we met together in the wine-house, I made a prologue in doggerel verse, in which Harlequin steps out with two great sacks, places them on each side of the proscenium, and, after various preliminary jokes, tells the spectators in confidence, that in the two sacks moral aesthetic dust is to be found, which the actors will very frequently throw into their eyes.  One, to wit, was filled with good deeds, that cost nothing; and the other with splendidly expressed opinions, that had no meaning behind them.  He reluctantly withdrew, and sometimes came back, earnestly exhorted the spectators to attend to his warning and shut their eyes, reminded them that he had always been their friend, and meant well with them, with many more things of the kind.  This prologue was acted in the room, on the spot, by friend Horn:  but the jest remained quite among ourselves, not even a copy had been taken; and the paper was soon lost.  However, Horn, who had performed the Harlequin very prettily, took it into his head to enlarge my poem to Hendel by several verses, and then to make it refer to “Medon.”  He read it to us; but we could not take any pleasure in it, for we did not find the additions even ingenious:  while the first poem, being written for quite a different purpose, seemed to us disfigured.  Our friend, displeased with our indifference, or rather censure, may have shown it to others, who found it new and