O Adhvaryu, send forth the Soma, stone-pressed and surging, into the woven sieve; cleanse it well, that Indra may drink.

The choicest draught of heaven, the sweetest flow of Soma— press it forth for Indra, wielder of the mace.

From thy stalk, from thy sweetness, O bright drop, the gods do feed; from thee, O self-cleansing one, the Maruts take their share.

For thou, O Soma, when pressed with zeal, art strength itself— a rousing might to aid the singer, thou noble bull.

O thou far-seeing one, poured in a shining stream, hasten to the filter, to the meed of glory and the name that endureth.