NE’ER is he injured whom the Gods Varuṇa, Mitra, Aryaman, The wisely wise, protect.
He prospers ever, free from harm, whom they, with full hands, enrich, Whom they preserve from every foe.
The Kings drive far away his troubles and his enemies, And lead him safely over distress.
Thornless, Ādityas, is the path, easy for him who seeks the Law: With him there’s nothing to anger you.
What sacrifice, Ādityas, do you Heroes guide by the path direct— May that come near to your thought.
That mortal, ever unyielding, gains wealth and every precious thing, And children also of his own.
How, my friends, shall we prepare Aryaman’s and Mitra’s praise, Glorious food of Varuṇa?
I point not out to you a man who strikes the pious, or reviles: Only with hymns I call you near.
Let him not love to speak ill words: but fear the One who holds all four Within his hand, until they fall.