Classic Poem

Here, Hermes, says Jove, who with nectar was mellow,
Go fetch me some clay—I will make an odd fellow.
Right and wrong shall be jumbled, much gold and some dross.
Without cause be he pleased, without cause be he cross.
Be sure as I work to throw in contradictions—
A great love of truth, yet a mind turned to fictions.
Now mix these ingredients, which, warmed in the baking,
Turn to learning and gaming, religion and raking.
With the love of a wench, let his writings be chaste;
Tip his tongue with strange matter, his pen with fine taste;
That the rake and the poet o'er all may prevail,
Set fire to the head and set fire to the tail.
For the joy of each sex on the world I'll bestow it,
This scholar, rake, Christian, dupe, gamester and poet.
Though a mixture so odd, he shall merit great fame,
And among brother mortals be Goldsmith his name.
When on earth this strange meteor no more shall appear,
You, Hermes, shall fetch him to make us sport here.