Yesterday I was reading Aristotle (dry) and Sappho (not dry). Here is Sir Philip Sidney's lovely, lovely translation of a Sappho fragment. This same fragment has also been translated by Catullus, Tennyson, T. S. Eliot, W. C. Williams, Robert Lowell, and many others. But I like Sidney's best.

Fragment 31

Sappho (c. 615–c. 550 b.c.e.), trans. Sir Philip Sidney (1554–86)

My muse, what ails this ardour?
Mine eys be dym, my lymbs shake,
My voice is hoarse, my throte scorcht,
My tong to this roofe cleaves,
My fancy amazde, my thoughtes dull’d,
My head doth ake, my life faints
My sowle begins to take leave,
So greate a passion all feele,
To think a soare so deadly
I should so rashly ripp up.