Test Bank for Business Ethics: Decision Making for Personal Integrity & Social Responsi

Test Bank for Business Ethics: Decision Making

for Personal Integrity & Social Responsibility,
4th Edition, Laura Hartman Joseph DesJardins
Chris MacDonald
Full version at:
https://testbankbell.com/product/test-bank-for-business-ethics-decision-making-for-personal-
integrity-social-responsibility-4th-edition-laura-hartman-joseph-desjardins-chris-macdonald/

Description:
Business Ethics: Decision Making for Personal Integrity & Social Responsibility 4e provides a
comprehensive, accessible, and practical introduction to the ethical issues arising in
business. Hartman et al., focuses on real-world ethical decision making at both the personal
and policy levels and provides students with a decision-making process that can be used in any
situation.

Practical applications throughout the text show how theories relate to the real world. The 4th
edition features thoroughly updated statistics and coverage of timely issues and dilemmas
throughout the text.

 ISBN-10 : 1259417859
 ISBN-13 : 978-1259417856

Table of contents:
Cover
Business Ethics
About the Authors
Preface
New to the Fourth Edition
Acknowledgments
Brief Contents

Visit TestBankBell.com to get complete for all chapters

Table of Contents
Chapter 1 Ethics and Business
Opening Decision Point: Zika Virus and Olympic Sponsors
Introduction: Making the Case for Business Ethics
Business Ethics as Ethical Decision Making
Business Ethics as Personal Integrity and Social Responsibility
Ethics and the Law
Ethics as Practical Reason
Readings
1-1 Value Shift
1-2 The MBA Oath
1-3 The Oath Demands a Commitment to Bad Corporate Governance
1-4 The MBA Oath Helps Remind Graduates of Their Ethical Obligations
Chapter 2 Ethical Decision Making: Personal and Professional Contexts
Opening Decision Point: Found iPod: What Would You Do?
Introduction
A Decision-Making Process for Ethics
When Ethical Decision Making Goes Wrong: Why Do “Good” People Engage in “Bad” Acts?
Ethical Decision Making in Managerial Roles
Readings
2-1 When Good People Do Bad Things at Work: Rote Behavior, Distractions, and Moral
Exclusion Stymie Ethical Behavior on the Job
2-2 How Bad Management Leads to Bad Ethics: When Scandal Breaks, We Prefer Our Corporate
Villains Evil, but the Truth Is Usually More Complicated
Chapter 3 Philosophical Ethics and Business
Opening Decision Point: Are CEOs Paid Too Much, Compared to Their Employees?
Introduction: Ethical Frameworks—Consequences, Principles, Character
Utilitarianism: Making Decisions Based on Ethical Consequences
Utilitarianism and Business
Challenges to Utilitarian Ethics
An Ethics of Principles and Rights
Human Rights and Duties
Human Rights and Social Justice
Human Rights and Legal Rights
Challenges to an Ethics of Rights and Duties
Virtue Ethics: Making Decisions Based on Integrity and Character
A Decision-Making Model for Business Ethics Revisited
Readings
3-1 The U.N. Guiding Principles on Business and Human Rights: Analysis and Implementation
3-2 The Caux Principles for Responsible Business
3-3 It Seems Right in Theory but Does It Work in Practice?
3-4 Business Decisions Should Not Violate the Humanity of a Person
Chapter 4 The Corporate Culture—Impact and Implications
Opening Decision Point: Creating an Ethics Program
What Is Corporate Culture?
Culture and Ethics
Compliance and Value-Based Cultures
Ethical Leadership and Corporate Culture
Effective Leadership and Ethical, Effective Leadership
Building a Values-Based Corporate Culture
Mission Statements, Credos, Codes of Conduct, and Statements of Values
Developing the Mission and Code
Culture Integration: Ethics Hotlines, Ombudspersons, and Reporting
Assessing and Monitoring the Corporate Culture: Audits
Mandating and Enforcing Culture: The Federal Sentencing Guidelines for Organizations
 Another random document
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And oh! Who would my food provide,
And little errors gently chide,
And dress me with maternal pride?
My Mother.

Who would my young ideas hoard,

A tale of rapture to afford,
When guests assembled at the board?
My Mother.

Who taught my bosom to rejoice

In God alone, who hears my voice,
And makes His ways my pleasant choice?
My Mother.

Affection’s tear would gem her eye,

And who for me would heave the sigh,
Or wing a secret wish on high?
My Mother.

O! she was kind and good indeed,

Who gave me books that I might read,
And taught me all my Christian creed!
My Mother.

Then let my grateful voice proclaim,

(For else I should be much to blame)
How much I love thy honour’d name,
My Mother.

And should I live to see thee old,

O! may’st thou then in me behold,
Whate’er thy fondest hopes foretold,
My Mother.

And may that pow’r which rules above,

The wish record, thy pray’r approve,
That you may share my filial love,
 My Mother.

M B .
Who shar’d with me our parents’ love,
And when my tender limbs could move,
Would all my infant ways approve?
My Brother.

Who strove to give my heart delight,

Would blow for me balloons so bright,
And fly his flutt’ring paper kite?
My Brother.

For he was never rude or rough,

And who would make me laugh enough,
When we were playing blindman’s buff?
My Brother.

And if perchance he heard me cry,

O! who would to my succour fly,
And gently wipe my streaming eye?
My Brother.

And who would tell me pleasing tales,

How Vice the wrath of heaven assails,
And Virtue ev’ry where prevails?
My Brother.

He made me love my books indeed;

And who delighted heard me read
Those tales he could recite with speed?
My Brother.

And when a present he had got,

Oh! who was it that ne’er forgot
To share with me his happy lot?
My Brother.
Then I do love thee very well,
Yes, more than any words can tell;
Thy name shall in my bosom dwell,
My Brother.

For well I know thee void of guile,

When others frown’d thy soothing smile
Would many a little woe beguile,
My Brother.

For thou wert always good and kind,

And I could speak to thee my mind,
Sweet solace from thy lips to find,
My Brother.

O may I live to see thee rise

To man’s estate, revered and wise,
To glad your friends’ delighted eyes,
My Brother.

May virtue be thy constant guest,

And sweet contentment charm thy breast,
And ev’ry gen’rous wish be blest,
My Brother.

M S .
Who was it, when we both were young,
First prais’d me with her artless tongue,
And on my neck delighted hung?
My Sister.

For we would run about all day,

And when at hide-and-seek we’d play,
Who came to find me where I lay?
My Sister.

When I would read of Robin Hood,

Or little Children in the Wood,
Who was it call’d me kind and good?
My Sister.

And when one day (’twas wrong I know)

I trod on grandpapa’s sore toe,
Who strove to shelter me from woe?
My Sister.

For she would cry if I was beat,

And if she got a dainty treat,
Who gave me half of it to eat?
My Sister.

And when to school I went to stay,

(For boys must learn, as well as play,)
Who sobb’d to see me go away?
My Sister.

For it was ever our delight,

To love each other day and night,
Nor would I do a thing to spite
My Sister.

For naughty boys and girls, ’tis true,

Would pinch each other black and blue;
But they were not like me or you,
My Sister.

For thou wert always kind to me,

And it will my ambition be,
To prove a faithful friend to thee,
My Sister.

To guard from hurt thy tender frame,

To shield thy love and spotless name,
And be the champion of thy fame,
My Sister.
For well I know thou would’st disdain,
To be, or haughty, pert, or vain,
And good and modest wilt remain,
My Sister.

O! may it be thy precious choice,

Our aged parents to rejoice,
And soothe them with thy tender voice!
My Sister.

And may that sacred pow’r above,

Still fill thy heart with filial love,
And all thy virtuous ways approve,
My Sister.

“A .”
A Readers idea of the state of the Editor’s mind when surveying his
growing Pile of Parodies.
What gives me endless toil, no rest
As each subscriber sends with zest,
The Parody he thinks the best—?
Another!

When Tennyson was twice laid by,

Ere ink on final proof was dry,
There came to spoil the set, oh my!
Another!

I started them in mood so gay,

“Why this will be—not work—but play,”
For joyfully I then could say—
Another?

Nor ever dreamt would come a day,

That I should view, with grim dismay,
When frequent posts should each convey—
Another!

I said—when grouped all carefully,

And filled each Author’s set “sure he
Is now complete. There cannot be
Another!

And yet, e’en now, I cannot bear

To weed them out, and e’re I’d spare
One—this volume finished, I’ll prepare
Another!

I would not one kind friend repel,

Nor stay his help, for each may swell
My readers if he’ll only tell
Another!

For when I’m feeble, old, and grey,

And volumes stand in long array.
There’ll yet be “copy” to essay
Another!

For when these Parodies are read

And all the older poets bled,
The yet unwritten ones may head
Another!

So each fresh parody I’ll prize,

Nor look with sorrow in mine eyes
At growing piles, nor e’er despise
Another!
W. G. W. April, 1885.
 T V .
A E A P ’ “R .”
1.
I once, upon a summer’s day,
Strove to solve a solvent way
To escape from skulking sharks;—
For my heart was very sore,
And I ponder’d, ah, how sadly!
How I wanted money badly;
My salvation I’d sell gladly
For nimble notes, or gold galore,
To pay those damn’d and dastard duns,
And be, as I have been before,
Safe from duns for Evermore.
2.
While I ponder’d, nearly sleeping,
Sad at soul, and nigh on weeping,
I reckon’d up my many friends;—
Care corroding my heart’s core,
Those for years that I had known,
Those who truth and trust had shown,
And those, alas! who rich had grown
And forgot they once were poor,
And could not see a seedy chum,
But in his face would close the door.
And neigh or bray him—“Nevermore.”
3.
Yes, I’m like a dotless i,
And want and woe my wretched cry,
With stress of sad starvation,
Ah, me! it is a world of poor.
There’s not a little cur that barks,
Nor tiny birds, from wrens to larks,
Nor even skulking sheriff’s sharks,
Feel so sad, so sick and sore,
As I, most wretched, dotless I,
Doom’d for ever to be poor,
And dunn’d by tradesmen Evermore.
4.
Even while I thus was thinking,
All my soul within me sinking,
Fathoms deep in dark despair,
A knock I heard at my front door,
Which set my heart most wildly beating,
And my blood to fever heating,
As, coward-like, I kept retreating,
Retreating to the basement floor,
There I whisper’d to the slavey,
Aged, I fancy, twenty-four,
“Say I’ve left for—Evermore.”
5.
For my nerves received a shock,
I felt I knew that beastly knock,
The knock of man who takes possession;—
And it went to my heart’s core
To lose my little household gods,
My wear, my gear, and fishing-rods,
All, all my sacred ends and odds,
That cost at least of pounds a score,—
All to go at one fell swoop,
With tearful eyes I glanced them o’er,
And sadly murmur’d,—“Nevermore.”
6.
Yes, it was the sheriffs man;
Like all his ugly kith and clan—
 The seedy, dirty, beery lot,
Blood-shot eyes and red and sore.
Then this vile and venomous vulture,
Devoid of every civil culture,
And meanly meaning to insult yer,
Spits upon your carpet floor,
Lights his foul, ill-smelling pipe,—
Stuft’d with plug of negro core,—
Sits and spits for—Evermore.
7.
“Wretch!” I cry, with sudden start
“From this second let us part,
Get thee gone, possessing devil,
Let me never see thee more.”
My voice I raise as thus I cry,
And anger gleams within my eye;
Then the demon made reply,—
“’Tis only thirty pounds, not more,
So, sir, ’tis you, not I, must ‘part,’
If not, why then”—here he swore—
“I shall stay here—Evermore.”
8.
And that vulture, never soaring,
Still is sitting, still is snoring,
On my best Morocco chair,
That I shall sit on now no more;
And his visage is denoting,
As my furniture he’s noting,
A grim and ghastly gloating,
As he gloats my sadness o’er;
And my dreams by that vile vulture,
Who my sadness does ignore,
Will be nightmared—Evermore.
S B .
Under the Clock. March, 21, 1885.
 AW B .
Shortly after it was publicly announced that the Queen had given her
consent to the marriage of the Princess Beatrice with Prince Henry of
Battenberg, the following paragraph appeared in Funny Folks:
“Certain members of the Royal Family do not like the betrothed
of the Princess Beatrice. This may be; but, anyway, nobody will
deny that if we have a Poet Laureate, he ought now and again do
something for his salary. Whether any rumours have reached Lord
Tennyson on the subject, I can’t say; but it is a remarkable fact that
the day after such an opinion was expressed in this office the
following communication was dropped into the editorial box:
A New Welcome in an old Form.
Serenity’s son from over the sea,
Prince Henry!
English and Scotch and Welsh are we,
But we all shall pay taxes through welcoming thee,
Prince Henry!
Welcome him, thunders of fleet and of fort!
(It costs us five pounds or so, every report)
Welcome him, now let the joy bells begin!
(We shall pay forty pounds for that steamer he’s in)
Break, happy land, into earlier flower!
(Trixy, thank fate! ’s the last girl we’ve to dower)
Blazon your mottoes of blessing and prayer—
If it so be you are not a tax-payer!

Warble, O bugle! and trumpet, O blare!

True, we must pay, but we won’t seem to care.
Welcome him, welcome him, then, to our stand!
Blow ye his praises, ye huge German band!
Penniless bridegroom, yet happy is he,
Knowing his bride will have much £ s. d.
So come to our heart, and accept, if you will,
Posts and positions our own sons might fill!
Come to us, love us, and make England your home,
Draw your pay quarterly, never more roam;
For English or Scotch or Irish we,
Taffys or Cockneys, whatever we be,
We shall all pay our share towards the keeping of thee,
Dear Prince Henry!
 Lord Tennyson.
THE FLEET.
(O R I .)
You—you—if you have fail’d to understand—
The Fleet of England is her all in all—
On you will come the curse of all the land,
If that Old England fall,
Which Nelson left so great—

This isle, the mightiest naval power on earth,

This one small isle, the lord of every sea—
Poor England, what would all these votes be worth,
And what avail thine ancient fame of “Free,”
Wert thou a fallen State?

You—you—who had the ordering of her Fleet,

If you have only compassed her disgrace,
When all men starve, the wild mob’s million feet
Will kick you from your place—
But then—too late, too late.
T .

The above lines appeared in large type, and a prominent position, in the
Times of Thursday, April 23rd, 1885. Many persons thought a hoax had
been played on the Times, refusing to believe that such a dismal appeal ad
captandum vulgus could have been penned by the Poet Laureate. Although
it is true that all his recent productions have given signs of failing powers,
both intellectual and poetical, nothing yet has been published so damaging
as this to the reputation of the author of “The Idylls of the King.” It is,
indeed, greatly to be regretted that he has no sincere and discriminating
friend who could kindly, but firmly, dissuade him from the publication of
 such lines, which pain his friends, and give rise to endless satires at his
expense. Journals representing all parties and every shade of opinion, at
once set to work to ridicule The Fleet, and numerous parodies of it have
already appeared, from which the following are selected:—
T B .
(On his reported imbecility.)
You—you—if you have failed to understand—
The bard of England is no bard at all—
And but a thumb on great St. Jingo’s hand.
See lines of his that sprawl
Across the Times so great.

That bard, the mightiest bard on all the earth,

That one great bard is very much at sea;
Poor England, what would poetry be worth
If thou could’st boast no wiser bards than he?
A pitiable state.

You—you—who wrote those verses indiscreet,

If you have only covered so much space
With lines as bad as these, or rather worse,
Why then we’ll take your place,
And not too soon—too soon.
he Weekly Echo, April 25, 1885.

——:o:——
AL .
You—you!—and neither He nor She nor It,
But if; if but, you fail to understand,
Oh! shaker of this tiny English land,
Eagle in war; in peace a mild tomtit—
That Runnymede and Ashmead are the same,
And blood is after all your little game,
And peace an endless heritage of shame!
 You—you—who watch the Baltic and the Belt,
Commingling verses to the whale and smelt.
Great Nelson’s heart would melt
If he could read’em.
For such a Hanwell Muse,
The public’s myriad shoes
Would kick themselves with freedom,
You—you!—if but a single soul would heed’em.
J. F T .
he Manchester Examiner and Times.

——:o:——
“W ” P -L .
On reading a (surely!) misreported insufficiency called “The Fleet.”
You—you!—we do not fail to understand—
You, Laureate, are not England’s all in all;
On you is poured the laughter of the land
For your wild Jingo call;
Although you once were great.

Wild jingo cry!—“We mightiest upon earth,

Our naval power supreme on every sea.”
Poor England! What are all these howlings worth
And what avails thy poet’s fame to thee?—
A drivelling Laureate!

You—you—possessed with such a dervish heat,

Spinning and raving to your own disgrace!
While all men laugh, the wild mob’s million feet
Shall kick you from your place.
Ah, then—too late, too late!
E. S. W .
he Christian Leader, April 30, 1885.

——:o:——
 T .
(On his reported Lunacy.)
You—you—if you have failed to understand
That England thought you knew the poet’s trick,
On you now comes the laughter of the land
For that mysterious kick
Which falls too late—too late.

Poet of perfect diction highly wrought,

Poet whom England loved in every sea,
Poor Baron, what shall million kicks be drought,
And what avails the ancient fame of thee
Whom once we called “the Great?”

You—you—who had the ear of all the world,

If you can compass only pathos, see!
When all men laugh, a million lips are curled,
To send a jeer at thee,
Our laughed-at Laureate!
he Liverpool Mercury.

——:o:——
T T .
I.
T F !
Companion Poem to “The Fleet.” A Rejoinder.
You—you—if you have failed to understand
How ships are built on paper at Whitehall,
Have picked up from the Pall Mall, second-hand,
Facts which but after all
Make circulation great.

Your Isle—where you possess the snuggest berth,

The tangled lanes, clear stretches of the sea—
Might feed your Muse; of matter you’ve no dearth,
 So why this unprovoked attack on me,—
This—regular slate?

You—you—who, I admit, can write,

If you have talked of “kicking” to my face:—
Well, pr’aps I ought to seek the Isle of Wight,
And kick you at your place;
And may—though late, though late.
II.
T B .
Another Companion Poem. A Reply.
Yum-yum,[29]—if I have failed to understand
The tons, and guns, and “ends,” whereof they brawl,
At me, at least, can no man paint the hand,
For hypothetical
Purely, is all I state.

Yum-yum—if any man has starved the Fleet,

If any man has his head punched for this,
Kicked by a million boots along the street,
That sight I would not miss,
Nay, nor arrive too late!

And what, if flying collars and a face

Familiar once in Highland tour with me,
I saw thus pelted in the market-place?
Well, well, so might it be;
And, if deserved, First-rate!
unch, May 2, 1885.

——:o:——
O F .
You—you—if you have read the silly rhymes
About our Fleet just published in the Times—
Should raise your hands and righteously exclaim:
 “If this be poetry,
What the de’il is fame?”

“This isle the mightiest naval power on earth,

This one small isle—the land of every sea—
Poor England!”—what are Poets Laureate worth?
And what avail thy ancient fame, oh T.,
When thou art fallen from thy high estate?

You—you—who had the penning of those lines—

If you have compassed your own disgrace,
When all men laugh—“the wild mob’s million feet”
Will kick thee to a place—the name’s not long—
It’s called by the polite—“Hong Kong!”
Moonshine, May 9, 1885.

——:o:——
“I am informed by a perfectly unreliable correspondent that the
following poem—evidently composed by a dynamiter who reads his Times
and his Tennyson attentively—was picked up in Mr. Swainson’s room at the
Admiralty after the recent explosion.”
You—you—if you have failed to understand
The lesson taught by previous blow-ups,
Learn that on you the weight of Rossa’s hand—
When he’s not in his cups—
Still falls, despotic State!

This man, the noisiest Fenian on the earth,

Has sworn a swear to ne’er let Britain be.
Poor England! what are all thy bobbies worth,
And what avail detectives unto thee,
To guard thee from his hate?

You—you—who catch a Cunningham or so,

If you imagine that the danger’s o’er,
You’re much mistaken, as you’ll shortly know,
 So now to gain the door
And slope—ere it’s too late!
Funny Folks, May 9, 1885.

[This poem is founded upon two erroneous assumptions, namely that the
explosion at the Admiralty was caused by dynamite, and that it was of
Fenian origin. Colonel Majendie has expressed his confident opinion that
the explosion was caused by the firing of about 12-lbs. of gunpowder
enclosed in a metal pot; and the personal unpopularity of the unfortunate
Mr. Swainson is considered a far more likely cause for the outrage, than any
political motive.]
——:o:——
The eight following parodies of The Fleet, were published in The Weekly
Dispatch Prize Competition of May 10th, 1885, the First Prize of Two
Guineas was awarded to Mrs. Emily Lawrence, for the following:—
Whew! whew! if you are hailed the master-hand—
The Laureate of England over all—
On you will come the laugh of all the land
If you to bathos fall,
Who erst did things so great.

This verse—the veriest doggrel verse on earth—

For this small beer were you a lord to be?
Poor Tennyson! what is your purple worth?
And what avails thine ancient fame to thee,
Now in thy fallen state?

Whew! whew! with all your orders thus replete,

If you can only compass your disgrace,
When all men read these lines of halting feet.
They’ll hurl you from your place
As England’s Laureate!
 AC ,—(O L ’ R I .)
You—you—if you have failed to understand
That hope of office is our all in all—
On you will come the curse of all our band
If that old Party fall,
Which Beaconsfield made great—

This hope, our mightiest motive power on earth,

This one great hope, that fills our hearts with glee—
Poor Party, what would all thy votes be worth,
And what avail our love of place and fee,
Wert thou a fallen State?

You—you—who should have led to Downing-street

If you have been too laggard in the race,
Ere we all starve, our roused rebellious feet
Will kick you from your place—
But then—too late, too late!
H L. B .