Rig Veda
ka u śravat katamo yajñiyānāṃ vandāru devaḥ katamo juṣāte kasyemāṃ devīm amṛteṣu preṣṭhāṃ hṛdi śreṣāma suṣṭutiṃ suhavyām
Who will hear, who of those who merit worship, which of all Gods take pleasure in our homage? On whose heart shall we lay this laud celestial, rich with fair offerings, dearest to Immortals?
ko mṛﾱāti katama āgamiṣṭho devānām u katamaḥ śambhaviṣṭhaḥ rathaṃ kam āhur dravadaśvam āśuṃ yaṃ sūryasya duhitāvṛṇīta
Who will be gracious? Who will come most quickly of all the Gods? Who will bring bliss most largely? What car do they call swift with rapid coursers? That which the Daughter of the Sun elected.
makṣū hi ṣmā gacchatha īvato dyūn indro na śaktim paritakmyāyām diva ājātā divyā suparṇā kayā śacīnām bhavathaḥ śaciṣṭhā
So many days do ye come swiftly hither, as Indra to give help in stress of battle. Descended from the sky, divine, strong-pinioned, by which of all your powers are ye most mighty?
kā vām bhūd upamātiḥ kayā na āśvinā gamatho hūyamānā ko vām mahaś cit tyajaso abhīka uruṣyatam mādhvī dasrā na ūtī
What is the prayer that we should bring you, Asvins, whereby ye come to us when invocated? Whether of you confronts e'en great betrayal? Lovers of sweetness, Dasras, help and save us.
uru vāṃ rathaḥ pari nakṣati dyām ā yat samudrād abhi vartate vām madhvā mādhvī madhu vām pruṣāyan yat sīṃ vām pṛkṣo bhurajanta pakvāḥ
In the wide space your chariot reacheth heaven, what time it turneth hither from the ocean. Sweets from your sweet shall drop, lovers of sweetness! These have they dressed for you as dainty viands.
sindhur ha vāṃ rasayā siñcad aśvān ghṛṇā vayo 'ruṣāsaḥ pari gman tad ū ṣu vām ajiraṃ ceti yānaṃ yena patī bhavathaḥ sūryāyāḥ
Let Sindhu with his wave bedew your horses: in fiery glow have the red birds come hither. Observed of all was that your rapid going, whereby ye were the Lords of Siirya's Daughter.
iheha yad vāṃ samanā papṛkṣe seyam asme sumatir vājaratnā uruṣyataṃ jaritāraṃ yuvaṃ ha śritaḥ kāmo nāsatyā yuvadrik
Whene'er I gratified you here together, your grace was given us, O ye rich in booty. Protect, ye Twain, the singer of your praises: to you, Nasatyas, is my wish directed.