"Thou wouldst brave the snow naked, and never complain," Laertes laughs. It's more fun than he'd thought it would be, after the first textural surprise; the resistance of the clay makes his muscles burn in a satisfying way that's quite unlike running or fencing or swimming. He rakes Sagramore with a glance--green really does suit him, bringing out the warm tones in his skin and eyes--and says, like a menace, "Now I'm imagining thee naked in the snow. It's a fine thought."