Hence, Sores and Pustules, fly away even as the eagle from his
home.
Let Sūrya bring a remedy, the Moon shine forth and banish
you.
One bright with variegated tints, one white, one black, a couple
red:—
The'names of all have I declared. Begone, and injure not our
men.
Hence, childless, shall the Pustule flee, grand-daughter of the
dusky one.
The Boil shall fly away from us, the morbid growth shall vanish
hence.
Taste, happy in thy mind, thine own oblation, as I with Svāhā
with my heart present it.
