This, your three-wheeled car, well known to men, so oft-invoked and praiseworthy, that rideth again and again to the pressings of soma, that circlest the broad earth and deserveth the rite— we call it forth with tightly woven songs in the hush of dawning light.

O Nāsatyas, ye twain who mount the car that is yoked early, driven at first light, bringing honey in its wake, ye ride it forth to the clans who sacrifice— ye come, ye gods, even unto the hearth of the lowly, where the Hotar chants your name—O Aśvins, well-beloved.

Whether your course be drawn to an Adhvaryu with clean hands, with sweetness cupped in his palms, or to an Agnidh, steady in his craft, the keeper of hearth and home, or to the soma-flow of a poet touched by fire— from each of these, hasten ye hither to taste the honey, O Aśvins, swift of wheel and kind of heart.