My mother groaned, my father wept, into the dangerous world I leapt; helpless, naked, piping loud, like a fiend hid in a cloud. – William Blake

Then my verse I dishonor, my pictures despise, my person degrade and my temper chastise; and the pen is my terror, the pencil my shame; and my talents I bury, and dead is my fame. – William Blake
What a strange thing is the propagation of life! A bubble of seed which may be spilt in a whores lap, or in the orgasm of a voluptuous dream, might (for aught we know) have formed a Caesar or a Bonaparte — there is nothing remarkable recorded of their sires, that I know of. – Lord (George Gordon) Byron
Luckless is the country in which the symbols of procreation are the objects of shame, while the agents of destruction are honored! And yet you call that member your pudendum, or shameful part, as if there were anything more glorious than creating life, or anything more atrocious than taking it away. – Savinien Cyrano De Bergerac