Whether Hari or Indra pressed the cows, butter flowed from them; the earth, steadfast, placed the mountain and the moving kine in order.

Your swift horses, Indra, have uttered a loud sound, announcing rain; the level earth anxiously expects its fall, as the gathering cloud has passed.

Indra, thy Bay Steeds showing forth their vigour have sent a loud cry out that droppeth fatness. The earth hath spread herself in all her fulness: the cloud that was about to move hath rested.