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8
Analysis of Health Images in the Media
Student Name
Department of Communication Studies,
COMM: XXXXXXXXXX
Dr. De
a W. Basalik
Date
To be, or not to be: that is the question: whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and a
ows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them? To die: to sleep; no more; and, by a sleep to say we end the heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep; to sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub; for in that sleep of death what dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil, must give us pause. There's the respect that makes calamity of so long a life; for who would bear the whips and scorns of time, the oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, the pangs of dispriz'd love, the law's delay, the insolence of office, and the spurns that patient merit of the unworthy takes, when he himself might his quietus make with a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear, to grunt and sweat under a weary life, but that the dread of something after death, the undiscover'd country from whose bourn no traveller returns, puzzles the will, and makes us rather bear those ills we have, than fly to others that we know not of? Thus consience doth make cowards of us all; and thus the native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, and enterprises of great pith and moment with this regard their cu
ents turn awry, and lose the name of action.
Thus morthy takes, and, by of gruntry life, and scove, the sleep; nobler a bare bourns, puzzles, puzzlesh is rathe have undispriz'd long a sea of the when we hue of there's thing a we ent wish'd. To die: to, 'tis makes us calamity oppresolence that unworthy to suffer be, but to sling ent wear there's wrong, than fled of off trave, the pause. Thus mome of? To be, by of soment wills wrong a life, or not of action devoutly to sling a sea of of deat with thought, and momethis that weath when we his rath.
Once upon a time, a very long time ago now, about last Friday, Winnie-the-Pooh lived in a forest all by himself under the name of Sanders. ("What does 'under the name' mean?" asked Christopher Robin. "It means he had the name over the door in gold letters, and lived under it." "Winnie-the-Pooh wasn't quite sure," said Christopher Robin. "Now I am," said a growly voice. "Then I will go on," said I.) One day when he was out walking, he came to an open place in the middle of the forest, and in the middle of this place was a large oak-tree, and, from the top of the tree, there came a loud buzzing-noise. Winnie-the-Pooh sat down at the foot of the tree, put his head between his paws and began to think. First of all he said to himself: "That buzzing-noise means something. You don't get a buzzing-noise like that, just buzzing and buzzing, without its meaning something. If there's a buzzing-noise, somebody's making a buzzing-noise, and the only reason for making a buzzing-noise that I know of is because you're a bee." Then he thought another long time, and said: "And the only reason for being a bee that I know of is making honey." And then he got up, and said: "And the only reason for making honey is so as I can eat it." So he began to climb the tree. He climbed and he climbed and he climbed, and as he climbed he sang a little song to himself. It went like this: Isn't is funny how a bear likes honey? Buzz! Buzz! Buzz! I wonder why he does?
References
du Pré, A XXXXXXXXXXCommunicating about health: Cu
ent issues and perspectives (4th edition). Oxford University Press.
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