Classic Poem

What though no fame the poet gains?
Does fame deserve his care?
Not unrewarded are his pains,
If he shall please the fair.

To Delia my lays belong,
Their constant theme is love;
Enough if she attend the song,
If she the theme approve.

'Twas love that made me first a bard,
From love my numbers flow,
Nor claim I ought, as my reward,
That Delia can't bestow.

How sweet from her a look a smile,
When once my labour's o'er;
It soothes the mem'ry of past toil,
And animates to more.

What would I do, what would I shun,
This sweet reward to gain?
For this can ought be toil that's done?
Can ought endur'd be pain?