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| Robert Bruce Inverarity Morris Graves and Malcolm Roberts ca. 1936 tricolor carbro print Archives of American Art, Washington DC |
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| Robert Bruce Inverarity Morris Graves 1938 gelatin silver print Archives of American Art, Washington DC |
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| Robert Bruce Inverarity Self Portrait 1938 gelatin silver print Archives of American Art, Washington DC |
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| Robert Bruce Inverarity Carl Morris 1939 gelatin silver print Archives of American Art, Washington DC |
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| Robert Bruce Inverarity Joe Knowles ca. 1940 gelatin silver print Archives of American Art, Washington DC |
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| Robert Bruce Inverarity Suzy Perit ca. 1940 gelatin silver print Archives of American Art, Washington DC |
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| Robert Bruce Inverarity Hilaire Hiler 1947 gelatin silver print Archives of American Art, Washington DC |
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| Robert Bruce Inverarity Howard Warshaw 1947 gelatin silver print Archives of American Art, Washington DC |
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| Robert Bruce Inverarity James Fitzsimmons 1948 gelatin silver print Archives of American Art, Washington DC |
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| Robert Bruce Inverarity Jane Inverarity 1948 gelatin silver print Archives of American Art, Washington DC |
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| Robert Bruce Inverarity Helen Lundberg 1948 gelatin silver print Archives of American Art, Washington DC |
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| Robert Bruce Inverarity Dorothea Tanning 1948 gelatin silver print Archives of American Art, Washington DC |
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| Robert Bruce Inverarity Man Ray 1948 gelatin silver print Archives of American Art, Washington DC |
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| Robert Bruce Inverarity Stanton Macdonald-Wright 1948 gelatin silver print Archives of American Art, Washington DC |
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| Robert Bruce Inverarity John Haley 1949 gelatin silver print Archives of American Art, Washington DC |
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| Robert Bruce Inverarity Dorothy Royer 1949 gelatin silver print Archives of American Art, Washington DC |
Chorus from Thyestes
'Tis not wealth that makes a king,
Nor the purple's colouring,
Nor a brow that's bound with gold,
Nor gates on mighty hinges rolled.
The king is he, who void of fear,
Looks abroad with bosom clear;
Who can tread ambition down,
Nor be sway'd by smile or frown;
Nor for all the treasure cares,
That mine conceals, or harvest wears,
Or that golden sands deliver,
Bosom'd in a glassy river.
What shall move his placid might?
Not the headlong thunderlight,
Nor the storm that rushes out
To snatch the shivering waves about,
Nor all the shapes of slaughter's trade
With forward lance or fiery blade.
Safe, with wisdom on his crown,
He looks on all things calmly down,
He welcomes fate, when fate is near,
Nor taints his dying breath with fear.
– Seneca (4 BC-AD 65), translated by Leigh Hunt (1814)