He, the bullish Soma, pressed for the draught, doth rush into the sieve, shattering the fiends as he goeth, with longing set upon the gods.

He, the tawny one with far-seeing eye, rusheth onward without stay, ever neighing as toward his womb he turneth.

He, the prize-bearer, self-cleansing, fleeteth through the shining ways of heaven, through the fleece of the ewe, a smiter of fiends.

He, purging himself on the back of Trita, with Trita’s kin about him, hath made the sun to shine forth in glory.

He, the slayer of Vṛtra, the mighty bull, finding the wide stead when pressed, cannot be beguiled—Soma hath flowed as unto a crown.

He, the god urged on by the singer, hasteneth to the wooden bowls, a drop full of bounty for Indra.