Laertes: What ceremny else?

Priest: Her obsequies have been as far enlarged
As we have warratniser. Her death was doubtful.
No more be done. 
We should profanne the service of the dead
To sing sage requiem and such rest to her
As to peace-parted souls.

Laertes: Hold off the earth a while,
Till I have caught her once more in mine arms.

Hamlet: I loved Ophelia. Forty thouand brothers
Could not, with all their quantity of love,
Make up my sum.

Hamlet: Dost thou come here to whine,
To outface me with leaping in her grave?
Be buried quick with her, and so will I.
And if thou prate of mountains, let them throw
Millions of acres on us, till our ground,
Singing his pate against the burning zone,
Make Ossa like a wart.