It is as natural to die as to be born; and to a little infant, perhaps, the one is as painful as the other.

-Bacon, Francis,Viscount St Albans
  Essays, no.2,'Of Death'.

Sooner murder an infant in its cradle than nurse unacted desires. 134

-Blake,William
  The Marriage of Heaven and Hell,'Proverbs of Hell'.

   Language was not powerful enough to describe the infant phenomenon.

-Dickens, CharlesJohn Huffam
^9  Nicholas Nickleby, ch.23.

This infant whose middle Is diapered still Will want to marry My daughter Jill. Oh sweet be his slumber and moist his middle! My dreams, I fear, are infanticiddle.

-Nash, (Frederic) Ogden
  The Face Is Familiar,'Song to be Sung by the Father of Infant Female Children'.

Here lies a lady of beauty and high degree. Of chills and fever she died, of fever and chills, The delight of her husband, her aunts, an infant of three, And of medicos marvelling sweetly on her ills.

-Ransom,John Crowe
  Chills and Fever,'Here Lies a Lady'.

La cruaute¤  , bien loin d'e"  tre un vice, est le premier sentiment qu'imprime en nous la nature; l'enfant brise son hochet, mord le te¤  ton de sa nourrice, e¤  trangle son oiseau, bien avant que d'avoir l'a"  ge de raison. Far from being a vice, cruelty is the primary feeling that nature imprints in us. The infant breaks its rattle, bites its nurse's nipple, and strangles a bird, well before reaching the age of reason.

-Sade, Donatien Alphonse Fran c° ois, Marquis de
  La Philosophie dans le boudoir.

With each generation the entire race passes through the body of its womanhood as through a mould, reappearing withtheindeliblemarks ofthat mould upon it, that as the os cervix of woman, through which the head of the human infant passes at birth, forms a ring, determining for ever the size at birth of the human head†so exactly the intellectual capacity, the physical vigour, the emotional depth of woman, forms also an untranscendable circle, circumscribing with each successive generation the limits of expansion of the human race. 720

-Iron
Women and Labour, ch.3.

Behold, we know not anything; I can but trust that good shall fall At lastöfar offöat last, to all, And every winter change to spring. So runs my dream: but what am I? An infant crying in the night: An infant crying for the light: And with no language but a cry.

-Tennyson
  In Memoriam A.H.H., canto 54, l.13^20.