Asvins, what praise may win your grace? Who may be pleasing to you both?
How shall the ignorant worship you?
Here sprung to life, they both have sung together, with bodies free from stain, with signs that mark them;
One of you (is) Prince of Sacrifice, the Victor, the other counts as Heaven’s auspicious offspring.
We call the Asvins Twain, the Gods borne in a noble car, the best of charioteers, who reach the heavens.
Dropping with honey is your whip, Asvins, and full of pleasantness; sprinkle therewith the sacrifice.