The pressers drive thy sap through their arms, O Soma, for rapture's fire.
Etaśa doth storm like the swelling sea.

With set will we follow the skilled charioteer, who doth robe himself in water and stalk, the bringer of kine, where the fair wool tufts are spread.

Send thou the Soma, surging, into the strainer, he who outstrippeth all in the flood, though no maiden’s hand prepare him.
Cleanse him for Indra's draught.

With heed doth Soma haste into the strainer of the one being made pure; with firm intent, he hath taken his seat.

To thee, O Indra, the drops—
the Soma’s flow—have streamed in reverence, for the great share of the victorious one.

Made pure in the shape of the sheep, he rusheth unto all that is splendid;
like a champion, he taketh his stand among the kine.

Swollen like heaven’s broad back, the stream of the pressed knower of rites speedeth of its own will unto the strainer.

Thou, O Soma, hearkening to the voice of song, art cleansed in full among the Āyus; through the sheep’s wool thou runnest in strength.