Fetches

Nor less Andromache, sore grieved to part, / rich raiment fetches, wrought with golden thread, / and Phrygian scarf, and still with bounteous heart / loads him with broideries. "Take these", she said, / "sole image of Astyanax now dead. / Thy kin's last gifts, my handiwork, to show / how Hector's widow loved the son she bred. / Such eyes had he, such very looks as thou, / such hands, and oh! like thine his age were ripening now!"

He fetches bread.

Hunger fetches the wolf out of the woods.