I own, and have read, the Barbara Reynolds translation, which I found done very thoroughly and solidly, and only occasionally in a bad way (I mean: in terms of capturing the lively sprightliness of the original). I also own a charity-shop edition of this prose version by Guido Waldman, which is perfectly fine. Both are unabridged, and both contain fascinating critical apparatuses. My interest in the poem has a lot to do with the way its uninhibited and often sparkling Fantasy blurs for long stretches into Science Fiction. Here's English knight Astolfo flying to the moon on the back of his Hippogriff from Canto 34, in Slavittspeak:
Having crossed the fiery sphere they arriveSprezzatura is one thing; this is just fucking slapdash, sprawly and spooly and loose and not in a good way. The whole thing is like this. Aristo is sparkly and lively; but he doesn't trample all over the line-endings in big boots like this; and Reynolds, thought a little old-school posh, has more of a sense for the rhythms and pacing of a line of verse than this. Slavitt foregrounds an often goofy sense of humour (“and in short order they approach Marseilles/and are happy after traveling all that weilles”); but whilst I've no objection to a goofy sense of humour, it's no substitute for doing the translation fundamentals properly.
at the realm of the moon, which looks like a steel plate,
entirely spotless, and about the same size, I've
been told, as the earth -- and that would include our great
oceans which add to our globe. After the drive,
which has not taken long I would estimate,
Astolfo expressed his astonishment and surprise
that the moon, which looks small fron the earth, is of such a size. [609-10]
Elsewhere on the internet: Valvular Aristo.