And murder and deceit, and every birth
Of damned sort, were progeny of pride.
Pollok.
What if his very virtues
Had pampered his swol’n heart, and made him proud?
And what if pride had duped him into guilt?
Coleridge.
If thou be one whose heart the holy form
Of young imagination hath kept pure,
Stranger! henceforth be warn’d, and know that pride,