I do not hate a proud man, as I do hate the engendering of toads.

She bears a duke's revenues on her back, And in her heart she scorns our poverty.

It may do good; pride hath no other glass To show itself but pride, for supple knees Feed arrogance and are the proud man's fees.

O world, how apt the poor are to be proud.

I have ventured, Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, This many summers in a sea of glory, But far beyond my depth. My high-blown pride At length broke under me, and now has left me, Weary and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream that must for ever hide me.

He that is proud eats up himself. Pride is his own glass, his own trumpet, his own chronicle; and whatever praises itself but in the deed, devours the deed in the praise.