This honeyed one hath cried aloud within the pail—Indra’s own mace, more wondrous than all marvels.
The fair milkers of truth, oozing with ghee, come lowing in haste unto him, as milk-cows come laden with their milk.

The first-born purifieth himself—he whom the falcon, driven through the airy vast, stole down from the heights of heaven.
Trembling, with heart afeared of Kṛśānu the bowman, it bindeth the sweetness upon its wing.

Let these drops—those that lead and those that lag—run swift toward a mighty meed of kine for us, these drops that are fair to behold, beloved as fruitful cows, delighting in each hallowed utterance, in each poured gift.

This one, with craft, shall overcome those who strive to overcome— the drop lauded of many with mind full-steeled, who hath conceived the seed within the seat of might, and hurtleth toward the wide-flung pen of kine.

The quick and potent draught of the sky doth cleanse himself, like great Varuṇa, who is not beguiled by any wanderer.

Pressed is he, meet for the rite, as Mitra in the sacred stead, forever neighing as a charger that playeth the bull among the herd.