On which hye heart a hatefull name doth ryes:
It hath beene sayde of olde, and dayly will,
Pryde goes before, and shame coms after still.
53.
Pryde is a thing that God and man abores,
A swelling tode, that poysons euery place,
A stinking wounde, that breedeth many sores,
A priuy plague, found out in stately face,
A paynted byrd that keepes a pecock’s pace,
A lothsome lowt that lookes like tinker’s dog,