John Milton: another lost translation

I'm starting to wonder when these lost translations will end. I mean, this is what, the 11th or something? Let's see… Ciapa la galeina… the six Alcæus translations… the two old ones here, and that's 9 already… Yeats… Catullus carmen 70… and now Milton sonnet 19, When I consider how my light is spent, thus number 12. And actually there's Do you really love me, original version, more tesina stuff related to Sappho's Hymn to Aphrodite and Sappho 16, lost corrected versions of Chinese translations like Bulan menjadi saksi Chinese version, the lost partial original Hakka-English here and perhaps more of the translations from the English notebook (I'm trying to count as many as possible as improvements rather than lost translations remade in August)… what else? Will the mysterious Ovid translation mentioned in the index versionum poeticarum (index of poetic translations) finally show up one day, or was it just a plan that was then scrapped?
Anyway, today we have a sonnet by Milton, sonnet 19, When I consider how my light is spent, which emerged in an Italian translation dated «16/5 nct» (16/5/2011 at night) from the English notebook from the fourth year of High School. Let's get to it!

When I consider how my light is spent, Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one Talent which is death to hide Lodged with me useless, though my Soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest he returning chide; “Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?” I fondly ask. But patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, “God doth not need Either man’s work or his own gifts; who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed And post o’er Land and Ocean without rest: They also serve who only stand and wait.”

Se penso a come la mia luce è spenta A mezza vita, in buio ed ampio mondo, E quel talento, ch'è morir s'ascondo, Sta in me senz'uso, l'anima contenta Di più a servirci Iddio, ché io non senta Suo biasmo ché l' mio acconto non è pronto, "Pur senza lume chiede dei dì conto Dio?", sciocco, chiedo; la Pazienza, intenta A zittirmi risponde: "Non bisogna A Dio opra od offerte d'uom; chi meglio Porta il suo mite giogo, meglio 'L serve; Suo stato è real; migliaia fanno pugna Per correr terra e mare miglio a miglio; Chi solo aspetta e sta, anch'esso il serve".