Who are you, O men, the very best, who have approached one by
one, from the furthest distance?
Where are your horses, where the bridles? How could you, how did
you come?—the seat on the back, the rein in the nostrils?
Their goad is on the croup, the heroes stretch their legs apart …
Move along, heroes, young men, the sons of an excellent mother, so
that you may warm yourselves at our fire.

May the woman, if she stretched out her arm as a rest for the hero,
praised by Syavasva, gain cattle consisting of horses, cows, and a hundred sheep.
Many a woman is even more often kindlier than a godless and miserly
man,
A woman who finds out the weak, the thirsty, the needy, and is
mindful of the gods.
Even though many an unpraiseworthy miser is called a man, she is
worth as much in weregild.
Also the young woman joyfully whispered to me, to Syava, the
road—and the two bays went straight to Purumilha, the wise, the far-famed,
Who gave me a hundred cows, like Vaidadasvi, like Taranta, in magnificence.