Drink thou of this keen and life-giving draught— Here loose thy two pale bays, with chariot entire.

Let not the other sacrificers stay thee, O Indra; these pourings are thine, pressed here for thee alone.

Thine are the draughts that have flowed, and thine are those yet to flow.
The swelling songs summon thee hither.
Take joy in this pressing, O all-knowing one— drink thou the soma set before thee this day.

He who with ready soul, with whole heart, and godward longing, presseth soma for thee— such a man thou dost not strip of kine.
His draught thou makest beloved, and worthy of thy praise.

But he is found out—yea, marked by thine eye— the wealthy man who bringeth thee no pressings.

The free-handed god doth hold him far off.
The matchless smiter bringeth low all foes of holy speech.

We cry to thee—seeking steeds, seeking kine, seeking gifts— draw thou nigh unto us, O Indra.

Heeding thy new-found favor, we call thee now for blessing.