NE’ER is he injured whom the Gods Varuṇa, Mitra, Aryaman, The excellently wise, protect.
He prospers ever, free from scathe, whom they, as with full hands, enrich, Whom they preserve from every foe.
The Kings drive far away from him his troubles and his enemies, And lead him safely o’er distress.
Thornless, Ādityas, is the path, easy for him who seeks the Law: With him is naught to anger you.
What sacrifice, Ādityas, ye Heroes guide by the path direct,— May that come nigh unto your thought.
That mortal, ever unsubdued, gains wealth and every precious thing, And children also of his own.
How, my friends, shall we prepare Aryaman's and Mitra's laud, Glorious food of Varuṇa?
I point not out to you a man who strikes the pious, or reviles: Only with hymns I call you nigh.
Let him not love to speak ill words: but fear the One who holds all four Within his hand, until they fall.
