HITHERWARD have the drops while they are purified.

Like floods rushing down a precipice: They come to Indra, being cleansed.

O Indu, thou art flowing to be Indra's drink.

Victorious, to be hailed with joy, O Indu, flow, delighting men, to him who ruleth o’er mankind.

Thou, indu, when, effused by stones, thou runnest to the filter, art, Ready for Indra's high decree.

Flow on, flow meet to be hailed with joyful lauds.

Pure, purifying, wonderful.

Pure, purifying is he called Indu, dear to Devas.