I dreamt I were a butterfly,
then woke to who I am.
But, say, perhaps this butterfly’s
just dreaming he’s a man?

These arms, these wings,
the both I’ve seen,
but one cannot be real.
I cannot trust in what I see,
nor hear, nor taste, nor feel.

‘Tis prudent never trust too great
in they who’ve once deceived.
These wings can beat, yet arms can wave;
thus I cannot believe.

So if I wake, how will I know?
For now, I’ll take this stand:
I’m but a simple butterfly
just dreaming he’s a man.