Hastes

He stops, and from Achates hastes to seize / his chance-brought arms, the arrows and the bow, / the branching antlers smites, and lays the leader low. / Next fall the herd; and through the leafy glade / in mingled rout he drives the scattered train, / plying his shafts.

"Now learn, how best to compass my design. / To Tyrian Carthage hastes the princely boy, / prompt at the summons of his sire divine, / my prime solicitude, my chiefest joy, / fraught with brave store of gifts, saved from the flames of Troy."