Sonnet III: The heavens beheld the beautie of my

The heavens beheld the beautie of my Queene.
And all amaz'd, to wonder thus began:
Why dotes not Iove, as erst we all have seene,
And shapes him selfe like to a seemely man?
Meane are the matches, which he sought before,
Like bloomelesse buddes, too base to make compate,
And she alone hath treasur'd beauties store:
In whome all giftes and princely graces are.
Cupid reyly'd: I posted with the Sunne,
To viewe the maydes that lived in those dayes,
And none there was, that might not well be wonne:
But she, most hard, most cold, made of delayes.
Heavens were deceiv'd, and wrong they doe esteeme,
She hath no heat, although she living seeme.