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.
I do hate a proud man, as I hate the engendering of toads.
My pride fell with my fortunes.
I will instruct my sorrows to be proud; for grief is proud and makes his owner stoop.
I see my reputation is at stake; my fame is shrewdly gored.
I am not only witty in myself, but the cause that wit is in other men.
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.
A lion among ladies, is a most dreadful thing.