In plain words
The poet, to the Lord: Planting the mountain in the white sea and winding round it the serpent with white teeth, he churned it till the waves ran thick, and that day he became a matchless tortoise to bear the mountain no one else could bear; and he gave the gods the medicine [the nectar, and the grace of Śrī] that cures the ills that beset them. Other than him, our generous one, would I esteem any god?