Quantitative Analysis for Management Render 12th Edition Test Bank

Quantitative Analysis for Management Render 12th

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For courses in Management Science or Decision Modeling

A solid foundation in quantitative methods and management science

This popular text gives students a genuine foundation in business analytics,

quantitative methods, and management science—and how to apply the concepts
and techniques in the real world—through a strong emphasis on model building,
computer applications, and examples. The authors’ approach presents
mathematical models, with all of the necessary assumptions, in clear, plain
English, and then applies the ensuing solution procedures to example problems
along with step-by-step, how-to instructions. In instances in which the
mathematical computations are intricate, the details are presented in a manner that
ensures flexibility, allowing instructors to omit these sections without interrupting
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algorithms. Computer output is provided for many examples throughout the text.

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  The text’s use of software allows instructors to focus on the managerial
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Product details

 Publisher : Pearson; 12th edition (January 18, 2014)

 Language : English

 Hardcover : 587 pages

 ISBN-10 : 0133507335

 ISBN-13 : 978-0133507331
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 UPROUSE YE THEN, MY MERRY MEN.
Gipsy Glee.
The chough and crow to roost are gone,
The owl sits on the tree,
The hush’d wind wails with feeble moan,
Like infant charity.
The wildfire dances on the fen,
The red star sheds its ray,
Uprouse ye, then, my merry men,
It is our op’ning day.
Uprouse ye, then, &c.

Both child and nurse are fast asleep,

And clos’d is every flower,
And waking tapers faintly peep
High from my lady’s bower;
Bewildered hinds, with shorten’d ken,
Shrink on their murky way,
Uprouse ye, then, my merry men,
It is our op’ning day.
Uprouse ye, then, &c.

Nor board nor garner own we now,

Nor roof, nor latched door,
Nor kind mate, bound by holy vow,
To bless a good man’s store;
Noon lulls us in a gloomy den,
And night is grown our day,
Uprouse ye, then, my merry men,
And use it as you may.
Uprouse ye, then, &c.
J B .
 AS G .
(To be sung in bed on any Frosty day.)
With Cough and Cold to bed I’ve gone,
My boot is on the tree;[28]
The weather out of doors this morn
(With a shiver.)
Is cold as charity.
(With several shivers.)
Is co-o-o-o-old as charity.
The bright fire sparkles sparkles o’er the fen-
-der with its steel array-ay-ay,
-der-with its steel array,
-der with it’s steel array.
(Shake with cold ad lib. Rings for the Servants.)
Uprouse ye then, my merry merry men,
I’ll not get up to-day;
Uprouse ye then, my merry merry men,
I’ll not get up to-day.

Beneath the blankets full three deep

All snuggled up I cower,
All snuggled up I cower,
Above the counter-pane I peep
To see what is the hour,
To see what is the hour.
My watch I find says half-past ten,
Then dow-ow-own myself I lay,
Then down myself I lay,
Then down myself I lay.
(To the Footman.)
Bring tea and toast, my merry merry men,
I don’t get up to-day;
Bring tea and toast, my merry merry men,
 I don’t get up to-day.

Some friends drop in to ask me “how

I am” (pray shut the door);
Drop in! Their frost is melting now,
And deluging the floor,
And de-lu-ging the floor!
“Get up!” No! no! I trust them when
They say ’tis an ice day,
They say ’tis an ice day.
They say ’tis an ice day.

I’ll house me then, my merry merry men,

Abuse me as you may;
I’ll house me then, my merry merry men,
Abuse me as you may!
(Turns in bed, and goes to sleep till dinner time.)

Punch. January 16, 1864.

There was a short political parody, of the same song, in Punch for
August 9, 1856, but it is now of no interest.
 C S C .
In the Royal Academy.
The Private Day and Feast are gone,
The public comes to see,
The poor Rejected grunt and groan.
Nor speak with charity.
The shillings flood the porter’s den,
The Red Star sheds its ray,[29]
Uprouse ye, then, my men of merry pen,
It is the Opening Day.

Now for the witticisms cheap,

That sting with knat-bite power:
The sentence based on hasty peep,
And visit of an hour:
Bewildered boobies (nine in ten)
Admire our sportive way:
Uprouse ye then, my men of merry pen,
It is the Opening Day.

Who heeds the painter’s saddened brow,

The wolf he keeps from door,
The pale wife’s timid trust that, now,
His work shall swell their store?
Let’s scare his hope and chance again,
As boys pelt boys in play:
Uprouse ye then, my men of merry pen,
And slang him as ye may.
S B . 1867.
 O O D .
(Trio and Chorus for the Political Huntsmen
at St. Stephen’s.)
The Ins and Outs from rest are back,
The Speaker’s in his chair.
The talk-mill now resumes its clack,
As birds begin to pair.
The wild-fire quickens tongue and pen,
Wit’s bow is strung to slay.
Uprouse ye then, my merry, merry men,
It is our op’ning day!
Chorus—Uprouse ye then, &c.

Both Whigs and Rads are wide awake,

Unclosed are Tory’s eyes;
The morning papers now will make
Less room for fads and lies.
Bewilder’d Cits through columns ten
Once more will plod their way;
Uprouse ye then, my merry, merry men,
It is our op’ning day.
Chorus—Uprouse ye then, &c.
The Cloture’s power own we now
To silence faction’s jaw;
Pat shall not raise eternal row,
In spite of taste and law.
Home-legislation looms in ken,
England shall have her day.
Uprouse ye then, my merry, merry men,
And use it as ye may!
Chorus:—
Uprouse ye then, my merry, merry men!
Uprouse ye then, I say!
Fill up your horns, and let the glen
 Resound with echoes gay!
The hunt is up,
Brim high the cup,
Big game we’ll bring to bay.
Uprouse ye then,
My merry, merry men,
It is our op’ning day!
Punch. February 17, 1883.
 TO BE THERE.
Parody of a well-known Salvation Army Song.
Now I have been a warm ’un in my time,
I have drank and been in rows by the score,
But now I’ve given it up and signed the pledge,
And vowed that I would do so never more.
’Tis true that I have joined a goodly crew,
That never, hardly ever, say sware;
The dark half-hours are nice, I’ve been in them once or twice,
So I know what it is to be there.

When first I saw this very happy band,

They were singing hymns and preaching in the street,
A lady came and shook me by the hand,
And whispered words of piety so sweet;
I squeezed her little fingers rather tight,
And tried to kiss her lovely face so fair,
But she said, if you will come to our sweet Salvation home,
You will know what it is to be there.
(Chorus.)—To be there, &c.
I very soon began to preach and prate,
And with the sisters played some funny pranks,
I was so good at nobbing with the plate,
They soon made me a Captain of the ranks;
And often when our meetings were dispersed,
With Sister Jane I’d offer up a prayer,
I’d such a jolly spree, when she took me home to tea,
For I knew what it was to be there.
(Chorus.)—To be there, &c.
I’m troubled with a vixen for a wife,
And often sigh for liberty once more,
She leads me such a very wretched life,
 And with the poker warms me on the floor;
She summoned me before the beak one day,
Who said I’d used her shamefully unfair,
Then he ordered me a spell, at the jail in Clerkenwell,
So I know what it is to be there!
(Chorus.)—To be there, &c.
Encore Verses.
I’m a most unlucky man, I am, indeed,
Misfortune’s cup I’ve emptied to the dregs,
I’ve tried my best, but find I can’t succeed,
And so at last I took to sucking eggs;
My uncle in the best friend that I’ve got,
He keeps a pawnshop close to Leicester Square,
And sometimes I drop in, when I’m rather short of tin,
For I know what it is to be there!
(Chorus.)—To be there, &c.
To Epsom I went down one Derby day,
And thought that I should have a jolly spree,
When a fellow came and wanted me to pay,
He said he backed the winning horse with me;
I told him I had never made a bet,
When a crowd got round and soon began to swear,
And when they tore my clothes, blacked my eyes, and broke my nose,
Oh, I knew what it was to be there!
(Chorus.)—To be there, &c.

Written by C. A. Page. Composed by J. Iliffe. Published by Messrs.

Francis Bros. & Day, 195, Oxford Street London.
——:o:——
 THE TAILOR’S HOLIDAY.
A Parody of Jack’s Yarn.
’Twas on a Monday morn, and the Tailor played the horn,
On which he’d been a blowing all the way;
He was sitting on a van, and out on the randan,
A going to Rye House to spend the day.
For a few hours free from strife, ’cos he’d got a nagging wife,
But his plan to keep it quiet was in vain,
For a pal just for a game, went and told the Tailor’s dame,
So she took her eighteenpenn’orth down by train.

Singing, Hilly holly ho, listen to my tale of woe,

Of this Tailor’s dinner anniversary,
When every jolly snip, was enjoying of his trip,
Singing, Hilly holly hilly holly ho!

When the Tailor ceased to play, he was looking far from gay.
He showed us where his face and neck were scored;
When we got to the Rye, the first thing we did spy,
Was his wife, and Holy Moses, how she jawed!
And then it was such fun, for to see the Tailor run,
Round the river bank, she in pursuit of he;
’Till at length she tripped and fell, in the water with a yell,
I reckon you’d a heard across the Lea.
(Chorus.)—Singing, &c.
Every man to this day brags, how long it took to find the drags,
Tho’ they hung near, and handy on a tree,
The drags not being found, of course the old girl drowned,
And so the poor old snip was free.
So here’s good luck and life, to the man what drowned his wife,
And so saved the heavy undertaker’s fee.
All the dragging was in vain, she ne’er was seen again,
That’s why there’s good eel fishing in the Lea.
Singing, Hilly holly ho, listen to my tale of woe,
Of this Tailor’s dinner anniversary,
When every jolly snip, was enjoying of his trip,
Singing, Hilly holly, hilly holly ho!
 THE GUNPOWDER PLOT
I sing a doleful tragedy,—
Guy Fawkes, the prince of sinisters,
Who once blew up the House of Lords,
The King, and all his Ministers;
That is, he would have blown them up,
(And folks will ne’er forget him,)
His will was good to do the deed,—
That is, if they’d have let him!
Tow, row, row! tol di ridy, tol di ridy, tow, row, row!
He straightway came from Lambeth side,
And wished the State was undone,
And crossing over Vauxhall Bridge,
That way came into London:
That is, he would have come that way,
To perpetrate his guilt, sirs,
But a little thing prevented him—the bridge it wasn’t built, sirs!

Then sneaking through the dreary vault,

With portable gas light, sirs,
About to touch the powder train
At witching hour of night, sirs;
That is, I mean, he would have used
The gas, but was prevented,
’Cause gas, you see, in James’s time,
It had not been invented!

Now, James, you know, was always thought

To be a very sly fox,
So, he bid ’em search th’ aforesaid vault,
And there they found poor Guy Fawkes;
For that he meant to blow them up,
I think there’s little doubt, sirs,
That is, I mean, provided he
 Had not been found out, sirs.

And when they caught him in the fact,

So very near the Crown’s end,
They straightway sent to Bow Street,
For that brave old runner, Townsend;
That is, they would have sent for him,
For fear he was no starter at,
But Townsend wasn’t living then—
He wasn’t born till after that!

So then they put poor Guy to death,

For ages to remember,
And boys now kill him once a year
In dreary dark November;
That is, I mean his effigy,
For truth is strong and steady,
Poor Guy, they cannot kill again,
Because he’s dead already!

Then bless her gracious Majesty

And bless her royal son, sirs,
And may he never get blown up
(That is, if she gets one, sirs)
And if she does, I’m sure he’ll reign,
So prophecies my song, sirs,
And if he don’t, why then he won’t,
And so I can’t be wrong, sirs!

(This version was written about 1840, but the original song is of a much
earlier date.)
 N L O O .
In the story of “Aladdin,” sir, that veritable history,
A certain downy dodger of a new Light made a mystery;
And all for Peoples good, of course, his words were very bold ones.
The cry he gulled the Public with, was “New lamps for Old ones.”
Buy—Buy—Buy, “New Lamps for Old Ones,”
Buy—Buy—Buy.

Now, it wasn’t out of love at all for darkness, poor humanity,

He offered them New Lamps for Old Ones, but only out of vanity;
That Arabian Mr. Cockrane, knew the value of the old one,
And he thought a sounding one of brass might bring him in a gold one.
Buy—Buy—Buy, &c.

So, even in the present day, in almost every nation,

Designing knaves can profit by a “Brummagem” imitation,
They cry out “Change, good people, change,” around your dwellings
hovering,
And many are so fond of change, they cannot keep a Sovereign.
Buy—Buy—Buy, &c.

Here, Agitators bawl “Free Trade,” while others shout “Protection.”

“The Suffrage,” and every week a General Election;
With many other Party cries, my metaphors are bold ones,
But the principle is all the same, it’s “New Lamps for Old ones.”
Buy—Buy—Buy, &c.

Conservatives “to the Country” cry out “New Lamps for Old Ones;”
They put the Whig small candles out, and introduced their mould ones;
But the blessed Lights in Downing Street don’t much improve the
business,
They only splutter, and waste away, with a dismal, dizzy dizziness.
Buy—Buy—Buy,
“New Lamps of Derby and Disraeli, buy—buy.”

In France long for a new Lamp they were in darkness plunging,

So they threw away a Louis[30] for a brass one from a dungeon.
But as for any Light it gives, more t’other, though aspiring,
It just serves the Bill Sykes Emperor[31] for Cooking and for Firing.
Buy—Buy—Buy,
The counterfeit, brass Strasburg Lamp out will soon die.

In Rome they rose en-masse one day, and Pious Nino goosed, too;
The wily Pontiff said such a mass he wasn’t used to;
He “stepped it,” and their New Lamp for awhile flared up quite
glittering,
But the French soon put it out, and the Pope’s old Lantern lit again.
Buy—Buy—Buy, &c.

About Australian “Diggins” Agitators they keep crying,

“New Lamps for Old Ones,” and thousands them are buying;
But oh, beware, or else you’ll find, as Jason did in Greece, Sir,
You’re ruined Muttons after all, all through the Golden fleece, Sir.
Buy—Buy—Buy, &c.

In a country which you all know well, close to the one that we’re in,
They bawled “New Lamps for Old Ones,” to all who were in hearing
(Erin);
They bought the Lamp up eagerly, from men so much distinguished.
But it only kept alight a week, and then it was extinguished.
Buy—Buy—Buy, &c.

Now, of course you’ve got a right to change your ancient gold for
glitter,
But which is best, a steady Light, or one that can but flitter,
And die away, till in the dark, you find you’re but a sold one?
So unless you’re sure it’s a better one, why, never change the old one.
Don’t—Buy—Buy,
“New Lamps for Old Ones” of Meddlers never buy.
J. A. H . About 1852.
 T U G F ; , W C .
(On the Marquis of Salisbury and the Franchise Bill.)
I sing a song of foolishness, of G F , chief of sinisters,
Who fain would blow the Commons up, the P and his Ministers:
That is, he piles combustibles as he were game to do it;
Let’s hope he’ll be prevented, or he’ll be the first to rue it.

A sort of G F pour rire he seems for all his swaggering,

Displaying boylike rashness that to thoughtful men is staggering,
That is, it would be staggering, and Statesmen wiser, truer rile,
But that he’s played so many games, and most of them so puerile.

Although he’s bearded like the pard, and looks all fierce virility,
At least as a Conspirator he shows some juvenility.
That is, the juvenility of urchins who complacently
Will let off squibs and crackers when combustibles adjacent lie.

If you should call him G F , he’d deny it quite indignantly.

None could regard the House of Lords more fondly and benignantly.
That is, whilst they will follow him; and any plans explosive
About them he’d repudiate with invective most corrosive.

But there’s a horrid Incubus, a Demogorgon hideous,

Who dominates the country by his blandishments perfidious.
That is, he artfully pretends that he the country dominates,
Though everybody—more or less—his rigid rule abominates.

His crafty head to blast from him and skyward swiftly send it sure,
Would justify, in gunpowder, a very large expenditure.
That is, if some perchance might shrink from sheer decapitation,
At least to blow him from his seat would gratify the Nation.

And so—and so, to mine below the Commons-swaying throne of him,

Might end at least in bursting up the power overblown of him.
That is, the game is worth a try, and—well—if not a bit of him.
Remain to tell the dreadful tale, the Commons are well quit of him.
 The stars in their calm courses may be confidently trusted
To fight against this Lucifer until his rule is “busted.”
That is, one might feel confidence in influences stellar,
But our poor unconscious Guy Faux has got into the wrong cellar!

It is the House of Lords, alas! that he is mining under,

And it and he will presently go up in flame and thunder,
That is, they may in flame go up, if Guy Faux do not falter;
But we’ll hope at the last moment his explosive plan he’ll alter.
Punch. November 8, 1884.

AB B .
I sing a comic-tragedy,
Of Bradlaugh, Anti-Royalist,
Who once dethroned Victoria,
And stamped out every loyalist;
That is, he would have changed our rule,
That folks might ne’er forget him,
His will was good to do the deed,
That is—if they’d have let him.
With his bow, wow, wow,
B. the Bashful at the helm,
The Queen B. at the prow.

He marched his mob to Palace Yard,

Stalked right up to the Speaker,
Prostrated all the Treasury Bench,
Turned Brand into a squeaker;
That is, he fully meant to make
This brilliant coup de grace, sir,
But Bobbies don’t like rowdies,
So they wouldn’t let him pass, sir,
With his row, row, row.

He laid about him with the mace,

Sent statesmen sprawling left and right,
Then rushed and popped beneath the Throne
 A ha’pennyworth of dynamite;
That is, he would have blown ’em up
(In metaphor, I mean, sir)
If Northcote had helped Gladstone’s trick,
But he wasn’t quite so green, sir.
Not just now—ow—ow.

When he’d made the Peerage disappear,

The Queen an abdicator,
He made the Chanc’llor his cashier,
And dubbed himself Dictator;
Thought he, if Dilke or Chamberlain,
Or Bright can turn “Court flunkey,”
There’s something in’t,—but hopelessness
Of winning made him funky.
Bow—ow—ow.

He gave himself the Church’s spoils,

Crown lands to the Residuum,
Re-named our loved Victorian Realm,
The Republic of Besantium;
That is, he would this tribute pay,
To woman’s worth and station,
But the People’s will did sore confound
This moral combination.
Somehow—ow—ow.

And as for those Allegiance Oaths,

Let them remain he wouldn’t;
The poor must have no children,
Because Malthus said they shouldn’t;—
That is, he thought it just as well
The Statute Books to wipe out,
But Gladstone’s lot cold-shouldered him,
And Juries put his pipe out,
And his yow—ow—ow.

He confiscated all the wealth,

 That spoiled the upper classes,
But did not share it with his mob,
Whom he somehow called “the-m-asses;”
That is, he feared that lucre might
Pollute the people’s mind, sir,
But then he never got the power,
Pooh! nothing of the kind, sir.
Bow—ow—ow.

And so, of ill-got property,

The rich he’d disencumber,
To secure the greatest benefit
For the greatest number;
That is, he’d thus have ruled the folk,
If they hadn’t said “Begone, sir!”
For they guessed his greatest number might
Perhaps, be Number One, sir,
With his bow, wow, wow, sirs.
You can’t make silken purses from
The best ears of a sow, sirs.

Blasts from Bradlaugh’s own Trumpet, by I . London: Houlston &

Sons.
 AD W P .
I sing a doleful tragedy that gives one quite a shiver, sir,
All of a water party that once sail’d upon a river, sir,
That is, they would have sailed on it, if there they’d chanced to get, sir;
But the rain came down in torrents, and the river was quite wet, sir!
Oh! dear, oh!
Now, wasn’t this a stop to all their row, row, row?

At Where-was-it this party was, and there, at many tea-tables,

The guests were gathered in a tent, intent upon the eatables;
That is, they would all have been out on the verdant grass, sir,
But al-fresco luncheons ain’t the thing when the rain comes in your
glass, sir!
Oh! dear, oh! &c.

Upon the table there was set each kind of cake and custard,
And every dish that cooks have e’er invented there was mustered;
That is, there would have been had they been laid within the house, sir,
But the rain converted every dish, and turned it into “souse,” sir!
Oh! dear, oh &c.

Good things abounded on all sides, and every kind of wine was there,
And empty bottles prov’d that many a votary of the vine was there;
That is, they would have proved so if the wine they’d chanced to get,
sir,
But Teetotallers got water, the rest had “heavy wet,” sir!
Oh! dear, oh! &c.

And when champagne had brought real joy, and all the lunch was
ended,
They look’d up at the bright blue sky, and said, “The weather’s
splendid!”
That is, they would have said so, but—to use a vulgar name, sir—
The blue was all a “blue look out,” and the weather was the same, sir!
Oh! dear, oh! &c.
* * * * *
 (Three verses omitted.)

And so all things were turned to fun, and dancing closed the night, sir,
And music played, and hearts were light, and eyes were shining bright,
sir;
So long may water parties reign, and always have fine weather, sir,
To shine upon the company that there have met together, sir,
So, be it so,
For then they may take boats and barge, and Row, row, row!
From Medley; by Cuthbert Bede, author of Verdant Green. London: J.
Blackwood.