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,