Epigram 12: Tumulteous thoughts within my breast doth struggle

Tumulteous thoughts within my breast doth struggle,
To thinke how finely popish Priests can iuggle:
And make the world beleeue, a wafer Cake
Is that Creator that did all things make:
Or that the sinne-polluted bald-crownd Priest,
With coniurations, can create his Christ,
When our beliefe doth plainely testify,
He sits at Gods right hand in maiesty,
From whence in humane forme he will not come,
Till quicke and dead shall all abide his dome,
What fooles are they then thinkes the priest & Baker,
With impious hands makes their immortall maker.