BEDEWED with holy oil and meetly worshipped, the Swift One vies with Sūrya's beam in splendour.

For hi. May mornings dawn without cessation who saith, Let us press Soma out for Indra.

With kindled fire and strewn grass let him worship, and sing with stones adjusted: And let the Monk whose press-stones ring forth loudly, go down with his oblation to the river.

This wife is coming near who loves her husband who carries to his home a vigorous consort. Her. May his car seek fame, here loudly thunder, and his wheel make a thousand revolutions.

No troubles vex that King in whose home Indra drinks the sharp Soma juice with milk commingled. With heroes he drives near, he subdues the foeman: Blest, cherishing that name, he guards his people.

May he support in peace and win in battle: he masters both the hosts that meet together. Dear shall he be to Sūrya, dear to Agni, who with pressed Soma offers gifts to India.