Shakespeare bragged about the immortality of his verse ALOT:
Sonnet 15 And all in war with Time for love of you, As he takes from you, I engraft you new.
Sonnet 17 But were some child of yours alive that time, You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.
Sonnet 18 So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this and this gives life to thee.
Sonnet 19 Yet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong, My love shall in my verse ever live young.
OK, so sometimes he plays humble:
Sonnet 38 If my slight Muse do please these curious days, The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.
But he comes roaring back
Sonnet 54 And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth, When that shall fade, my verse distills your truth.
And the entirety of the next sonnet is about his verses' longevity
Sonnet 55 Not marble, nor the gilded monuments Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme; But you shall shine more bright in these contents Than unswept stone besmear'd with sluttish time. When wasteful war shall statues overturn, And broils root out the work of masonry, Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall burn The living record of your memory. 'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room Even in the eyes of all posterity That wear this world out to the ending doom. So, till the judgment that yourself arise, You live in this, and dwell in lover's eyes.
Sonnet 60 And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand, Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
Sonnet 63 His beauty shall in these black lines be seen, And they shall live, and he in them still green.
Sonnet 71 O, if, I say, you look upon this verse When I perhaps compounded am with clay, Do not so much as my poor name rehearse. But let your love even with my life decay, Lest the wise world should look into your moan And mock you with me after I am gone.
Sonnet 81 When all the breathers of this world are dead; You still shall live--such virtue hath my pen - Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men.
Sonnet 107 My love looks fresh, and death to me subscribes, Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rhyme, While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes: And thou in this shalt find thy monument, When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.