Made pure, the boundless one hath risen against the scorners.
The poets adorn the seer with thoughts not their own, but breathed from above.

The red-hued one hath entered the womb; the mighty bull, when pressed, goeth unto Indra. He sitteth in the seat that moveth not.

Now for our sake, O drop—for all of us round about— O Soma, draw great treasure in thy cleansing. Treasure in thousands.

O self-cleansing Soma, O drop divine, bring hither all things that shine; thou shalt find delights in measureless number.

Being made pure, bring to us wealth, and a throng of valiant men for our singer’s praise; make strong the lays of him who singeth.

Cleansed art thou, O drop; now bring us a twin-towered wealth— O Soma, bull-born drop—bring us treasure fit for song.