Tradefallen

[D]iſcarded, vniuſt ſeruingmen, yonger ſonnes to yonger brothers, reuolted tapſters, and Oſtlers, tradefalne, the cankers of a calme world, and a long peace, ten times more diſhonourable ragged then an olde fazd ancient, […]

In thee I defye all men, there worſt hates, / And their beſt flatteries, all their golden witchcrafts, / With which they intangle the poore ſpirits of fooles, / Diſtreſſed needlewomen and trade-fallne wiues. / Fiſh that muſt needs bite, or themſelues be bitten, / Such hungry things as theſe may ſoone be tooke / With a worme faſtned on a golden hooke.

It is depressing to watch the bitterness of the disinherited in these sorting-pens; the surliness of outcasts and tradefallen failures—yet no sooner do they step ashore at the Battery than they fill their lungs with American air, which has a marvellous effect.